At Winterfell…
Sansa emerged from her guest room in Winterfell; already the Wolf Queen learned she was pregnant with her third child… but any chance at celebrating had to be put on hold when she heard a rather loud ruckus emanating from beyond the castle walls. Lucius, Brienne and Olyvar accompanied Sansa to the source of the noise, where she found representatives from the Northern houses engaged in a heated argument with the Free Folk, who have marched all the way down from the Wall.
"Invaders!" one Northmen yelled, wielding a sword.
"Wildling scum!" another shouted.
One of the Free Folk stepped forward. "Keep your pointy toys of yours to yourself, southerner!" she yelled.
Greatjon Umber nearly towered over all in attendance, second only to Wun Wun. "This is Stark territory, wildling invaders!" he bellowed. "Turn around and go back where you came from right now or I'll cut you up into tiny little pieces!"
"We didn't invade! We were invited," Tormund shouted.
"Not by me!" Robett Glover said.
"Not by any of us," protested Cerwyn.
Robb found himself struggling to be the mediator. "How did 17,000 wildlings even get through the Wall?" he pressed. "On who's authority did the Night's Watch permit this debacle to happen?"
"I made the call, Robb," Jon stepped forward from the crowd.
"Jon?"
The Young Wolf couldn't believe his eyes; he hadn't seen his bastard half-brother for almost six years since Jon left Winterfell to join the Night's Watch with their uncle Benjen. Both had grown in their own right, though that didn't stop whatever sense of emotion they had been feeling for the first time since they went their separate ways and immediately embraced one another.
"Next time I see you, you'll be all in black."
"It was always my color."
"Farewell, Snow."
"And you, Stark."
Robb and Jon were overwhelmed; both were visibly happy to see each other again. Sansa noticed and rushes out to see them; her trueborn and baseborn brothers. Rickon charged from the crowd, pushing his way past the Northern lords and clutched Jon's leg. Both the Stark children exclaimed how surprised they were at seeing each other again—even their direwolves Grey Wind, Shaggydog and Ghost barked and whined at the reunion.
"Your Grace, is that you're…?" Olyvar asked.
Sansa nodded. "My half-brother, Jon Snow," she confirmed.
The Northern lords noticed their Queen's presence and stood aside, acknowledging her presence. Jon slowly spins around until he sees Sansa. Both stare at each other before embracing.
"You've changed last time we saw you," she noticed.
"Well, you're still taller than me," Jon remarked.
"Still spent a lot of time thinking about what an ass I was to you. Sounds childish, I know."
"We were all children once."
"I was awful, just admit it," Sansa pressed.
"You were occasionally awful," Jon chuckled. "I'm sure I couldn't have been great fun. Always sulking in the corner while the rest of you played."
"Can you forgive me?"
"There's nothing to forgive."
"Jon, forgive me."
"All right. All right, I forgive you."
"Remember the time we built a great mountain of snow on top a gate?" Robb reminisced. "Pushed it off on whoever passed us by."
"Fat Tom chased us all around the yard."
The Starks were enjoying their family reunion until the Greatjon again bellowed loudly. "Touching as your reunion might be, but we still got a problem here," he pointed towards the Free Folk. "For thousands of years, the wildlings have been harassing us and for thousands of years House Umber always had to drive them back."
"We were permitted to come here," emerged Mance Rayder. "Ned Stark's bastard showed himself to be just as honorable. An intelligent sense of honor; yet adapted his mindset in the face of new circumstances in a rapidly changing world. He's seen the things the Free Folk have seen after spending much time in our company."
Robb looked at Jon. "Care to explain?" he asked seriously.
"I was Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, Robb. It was my decision to make," he explained. "
"But deserting the Night's Watch—"
"They murdered me, Robb! My own brothers shoved their knives in my heart! I couldn't stay at Castle Black, not after what they did to me." Jon shook his head. "I'm tired of fighting. It's all I've ever done since I left home. I've killed brothers of the Night's Watch, I've killed wildlings, I've killed men that I admire, I hanged a boy younger than Bran! I fought and I lost. I did what I thought was right and they killed me for it."
Robb was stunned at Jon's sudden outburst. He hadn't seen this side of him before, neither did Sansa or Rickon.
"But you're still here, Lord Commander," the youngest Stark pointed out.
Jon shook his head. "Rickon, I'm not the Lord Commander anymore. My watch has ended."
Sansa hummed quietly and gave a small frown; Jon's outburst reminded her of the time when Daveth was so very sick it cost him his life. Despite her efforts, she couldn't save him. But when the mysterious red priestess Varaeleah intervened—whatever magic she used—brought her husband back from the land of the dead. To this day, Sansa couldn't explain how it should've been possible—but suspected Jon's fate and Daveth's fate were somehow linked to each other.
Before either Robb or any of the Northern lords could respond, Ser Rodrik Cassel moves his way towards the front of the gathering with a letter partly crumpled into his hand. The old knight's face was stern as it was serious.
"Robb! Lord Stark," he corrected himself. "A messenger raven just came in from the Dreadfort."
Sansa and Robb were serious. "Show me," the Young Wolf insisted.
As Rodrik handed the paper over to Robb, Sansa and Jon all leaned over their brother's shoulder to read the content. The wax seal was black and red depicting the sigil of House Bolton, which the Young Wolf breaks before opening the scroll.
"'To the Young Wolf Robb Stark'," he reads. "'Because of your gross incompetence and negligence at ruling the North, the many lords you have angered to get your way, it has come to my attention that the traitor and bastard Jon Snow allowed thousands of wildlings past the Wall. By ignoring this you have betrayed your own kind. You have betrayed your house. You have betrayed the North. And you had the audacity to send soldiers into my keep to murder my father, Lord Roose Bolton, his wife Walda and her newborn son. Due to the list of crimes House Stark has committed, it's time for new blood to rule the North. The Dreadfort is mine, Stark. Come and see. The men you sent into my halls have been flayed living. Come and see.'"
Sansa, along with the gathered Northern lords and wildlings, slowly felt themselves growing increasingly offended and appalled when Robb continued reading the letter. The Wolf Queen still had not forgotten what Theon told her about what Ramsay Snow did to her best childhood friend Jeyne; she will never forgive him for that.
"'What's more, you have stolen my bride from me. Return her to me or I will ride to your keep and slaughter every Stark man, woman and babe living under your protection as well as every single wildling your bastard brother let loose into our lands. You will watch as I skin them living. You—'"
Sansa maintained her composure, but frowned deeply as Robb read on. This man, this monster – had the audacity to threaten her family and her home? Emotionless, she took the opportunity and snatched up the letter from Robb's hands and read it out loud.
"'You will watch as my soldiers take turns raping both your foreign whore of a wife and your royal sister'," she read. "'You will watch as my dogs devour both your brat and all three of your brothers. Then I will spoon your eyes out from their sockets and let my dogs do the rest. Come and see. When the day is done, House Stark will disappear from the history books. No one will mourn you; no one will even mention you. Come and see. Ramsay Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort and the Red King.'"
The Wolf Queen watched as the Northern lords and wildlings alike shout in anger and outrage; demanding that blood be spilled, shouts of 'treason' and 'traitor' being hurled at the bastard Ramsay Snow. Sansa dropped the letter, looking at her brothers – a fierce, determined look in her eyes pierced them.
"That… piece of shit… murdered Walda?" Olyvar seethed with fury at the realization, "He killed my niece?! OH, THAT SON OF A BITCH! I'M GONNA KILL THAT BASTARD! I'LL DRIVE A SWORD THROUGH THAT BASTARD'S EVIL FACE!"
"Olyvar, calm yourself!" Lucius scolded. "You march in there acting like that, you'll end up doing exactly what Ramsay wants you to do."
"I—!"
"That's enough, Ser Olyvar. Stand down," Sansa called out.
Taking a few moments to breathe in and out, Olyvar reluctantly stormed off into Winterfell to calm himself down. Sansa knew that it became just as personal for him as it was for the rest of her family, but the Wolf Queen understood that they had to play it smart if they were to ever come out of this and enforce the King's Justice.
"Ramsay killed his own father and declaring himself a Bolton," she said. An angry frown formed on Sansa's face. "Robb, how many men do you believe he has at his disposal?"
Her brother was equally angry. "The Dreadfort should muster around 5,000 infantry and over 2,000 cavalry. House Karstark and the Smalljon contributed 1,000 troops."
"The Karstarks sided with our enemy of their own volition, they can hang," Sansa denounced them.
The Greatjon huffed in agreement, holding up his left hand – revealing three missing fingers. "That bastard boy of mine betrayed my house and fled Last Hearth as a turncoat! I denounce Smalljon and no longer consider him an Umber."
Robb turned to his bannermen. He knew they'd fight for him again, but truth be told, he knew they were tired of fighting and wanted to gather the crops now that winter is here. "Lord Umber, how many of your men can still fight?" he asked.
"I've got 500 marauders," the Greatjon informed him.
"House Glover can muster 3,500 men," Robett chimed in.
"House Mazin offers 143 troops."
"Hornwood only has 200 to spare."
"My son will command 2,500 Manderly cavalry."
Dacey stepped forward with her sisters. "House Mormont has kept faith with House Stark for 1,000 years and will lend 62 men," she said.
"62?" asked Jon.
"We're not a large house, but we're a proud one," Lyanna explained with a fiery tone. "And every man from Bear Island fights with the strength of 10 mainlanders."
Lucius chuckled. "Well, if they're half as ferocious as their Mormont ladies then Ramsay Snow is doomed from the start."
Dacey, Alyanne and Lyanna smile and nod in agreement. "Clearly not a lot of men can handle a Mormont woman," Alyanne remarked proudly. "We'll show the bastard Ramsay what the men and women of Bear Island are capable of."
Jon turned to Mance. "How many Free Folk can fight?"
"The ones that can march and fight? 12,000 warriors, not to mention Wun Wun," the former King-Beyond-the-Wall said. "The rest are children and old people. They'll be kept furthest away from the battle when it does come."
Sansa and Robb nodded.
"Then in addition to our own, together we'll have almost 34,000 troops," Ser Rodrik theorized. "That alone should be more than enough to put down the upstart Ramsay."
"So long as we ourselves don't become too overconfident," Ser Lucius mentioned. "In a war, the side with the greater numbers wins nine times out of ten. But in a real war, victory in battle is not always one through superior numbers. Take a look at Blackwater Bay for instance. Some of you fought alongside us that day. We held out for as long as we could before reinforcements arrived. So we must not let Ramsay Snow be that one out of 10. Be mindful of tactical strategies and cruel but effective traps, my lords. They could do a lot more harm than his soldiers."
"Then it's best we mobilize our soldiers as fast as possible."
A Stark messenger soon arrived towards the center. "Pardon me, Lord Stark," he apologized. "But Ramsay's close by demanding a parley."
"He's here already?" Sansa said surprised.
Robb readied himself and called for his horse. Once mounting, the Young Wolf prepped to leave when he noticed Jon and Sansa joining him with Brienne and Lucius and a dozen Stark loyalists.
"Sansa, you don't have to come with me if you don't want to," he suggested.
Sansa shook her head no. "I'll be kept at a safe distance when the battle actually starts, Robb, don't you worry about me. But Ramsay hurt my friend Jeyne terribly. I'll never forgive him for that. So I only have one request for you. All of you."
"And that is?"
The Wolf Queen sat tall on her horse, her voice firm and attentive. "Ramsay Snow abducted and brutalized one of our own, a cherished friend whom I consider a sister. He skinned our own people alive for his sick, twisted amusement; and thereafter had the nerve to raise his banners in rebellion and declare himself a King—titles that do not belong to him. So long as Ramsay lives, the North will never be safe." She turned to face her fellow Northmen. "When the time for battle comes, we will fight as one. The North is at its strongest when we are united. The North and its people are family. In the winter, we protect and look after one another. When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. In the name of King Daveth of the House Baratheon, the First of His Name and the good lords you serve, I call upon you to summon your banners and ready yourselves for the coming battle. Should we win the day, I ask that you seize Ramsay Snow to await the King's justice."
The Northern lords hollered in agreement and immediately moved to gather their forces; Robb and Jon both observed Sansa closely, noticing how far she's come since moving south to become Queen. Ser Lucius and Brienne mounted their horses and strode out with Sansa, Robb and a few Stark-loyalist delegates.
Nearby, a hooded individual observed from a distance—polishing her longsword Dawn with a wet stone.
"So it will come to this," she said. "I must prepare for battle then."
Beyond the outskirts…
Sansa sat mounted atop a gray palfrey beside Robb, Jon, the Greatjon, Mance, Tormund, Olyvar, Brienne, Podrik, Lucius and the Mormont sisters Dacey and Lyanna with several Stark bannermen sitting on horseback behind them. All of them were waiting. It was a risky move for the Wolf Queen herself, but even she knew that no one is to attack the other during a parley—though Sansa had carefully planned her options beforehand. After a few minutes of waiting, they notice a group of Bolton soldiers approaching on horseback behind Ramsay, Harald and Smalljon.
"You don't have to be here," Robb said to his sister.
"Yes, I do," Sansa reiterates her stance.
Ramsay wickedly gave a vile grin. "Ah, so you're Queen Sansa Stark. Wonderful! It seems the rumors about you weren't entirely exaggerated. You are the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms," he turned to Robb. "Now, dismount and step down before me. Admit your shortcomings and surrender your army, your claim to Winterfell and your rights to all the North to the Red Kings of the Dreadfort." He turned to Jon. "In return, I will pardon you for deserting the Night's Watch," he turned to the gathering lords. "I will pardon your lords for turning their backs on their own kin."
Sansa felt her skin crawl with disgust. Lucius and Brienne all rode to their Queen's side in a defensive stance, readying themselves for anything.
'Turns your eyes elsewhere, cur,' Brienne thought viciously.
Grey Wind, Shaggydog and Ghost growled and snarled angrily at the Bolton bastard as he continued issuing more ultimatums; Robb and Jon continued staring at Ramsay.
"Come, Young Wolf. Come, bastard," he continued. "Why lead those pour souls into senseless slaughter? There's no need for a battle. Get off your horses and kneel. I'm a man of mercy."
"'Mercy'? Like you were 'merciful' to my men? To Jeyne Poole, the daughter of our father's steward?" Robb spat back. "Don't kid yourself thinking yourself in the right, bastard. You're not even a Bolton, just a Snow."
"We know all about you, Snow," Olyvar suggested. "I might be of the North, but even Northmen hasn't forgotten that stunt you pulled back at Winterfell. We, on the other hand, still haven't forgotten nor forgiven how you sent your lackey Locke to try to kill the King, bastard."
Ramsay grew angry at being again reminded of his baseborn origins; feeling himself insulted at not being given the respect he felt he deserves. Ramsay considers himself a true Bolton despite his birth and still remains highly resentful of his bastardy. There was a tone in their voices Ramsay did not like, no more than he liked being unable to escape the unfortunate truth.
Jon stepped forward. "There's no need for a battle," he suggested. "Thousands of men don't need to die. Only one of us. Let's end this the old way. One-on-one combat."
Ramsay chuckled. "I keep hearing stories about you, bastard," he pointed at him. "The way people in the North talk about Jon Snow, one of the greatest swordsmen who ever walked." He turned to Robb. "And of course everyone knows about the legend of Robb Stark, the Young Wolf; how he wins every single battle he's ever fought in, how he can't be killed. Oh, let's not forget the stories of him riding into battle on the back of a giant direwolf or turn into one. Ahoooo~!" he laughs mocking the howling of a wolf.
The Starks did not appreciate snide jabs or the mockery of one of their own flesh and blood from those they deem a threat.
"Maybe you are that good like the rumors suggest you are, maybe not," he continued. "I don't know if I'd beat you conventionally. But your adherence to honor and noble nature are what hold you back. Easy to taunt, easy to trick. They are your biggest weaknesses. House Bolton has none of these things. We don't care about appearing noble or honorable nor do we care about the rules of decency. Sure, you have the larger army – there are other ways to win a battle."
"Will your men want to fight for you when they hear you won't fight for them?" Jon rebuked him.
The humor left Ramsay's face before recomposing himself, waving a finger at him. "Oooh, he's good. He's very good." He says turning to Robb. "Tell me, will you let your house die because you're too proud to back down?"
"Who says this has anything to do with pride?" Sansa countered. "The North who remembers who united it even if some don't. The North remembers who defended it and the North remembers who wrong us. Torture, rape, murder… the North has no place for people like you, not after what you've done to Jeyne."
"Ooh, did I hurt your friend's precious little feelings?" he mocked. "Now, if you want to—"
Sansa abruptly cut him off. "You're going to die tomorrow, Snow. Sleep well," she says with such conviction, such certainty, that even Ramsay himself is momentarily silenced.
"Just you wait because I'm gonna take your head myself, you rat-fuck son of a bitch," Olyvar hissed.
And like that, Sansa turns her horse and galloped away with Lucius, Brienne and Olyvar in tow behind her. Robb and Jon both stared directly at Ramsay, the Smalljon and Harald; the air filled with overwhelming intensity at being face-to-face with each other.
"Hah-hah, she's a fine woman – your sister," Ramsay remarked. "I look forward to having her in my bed when the day is done."
That was it. Robb was done. "You're going to wish you never said that, Snow," he warned threateningly. "We will fight, but you will die. Winter is coming for all of you."
Grey Wind, Shaggydog and Ghost growled and snapped their jaws shut before turning around with Robb, Jon and the other Stark loyalists back to Winterfell. This was it; the gloves were off. The North would fight another battle, but on their own turf.
Back on the ride to Winterfell, Lucius and Olyvar spoke with one another about strategy.
"If he was smart, he'd stay inside the walls of the Dreadfort and wait us out," Olyvar said.
Lucius shook his head. "Even a sane man knows if the other Northern houses sense weakness on his part, they'll have nothing to fear from him. But still we mustn't let our guard down for a split second and again be mindful of whatever traps he has in store. Fear is his power."
"It's not his men that worry me," Tormund added. "It's his horses. I know what mounted knights can do to us. Stannis cut through us like piss through snow."
"Then we'll dig trenches all along our flanks so Ramsay's cavalry won't hit us from the sides."
"Good."
Mance chimed in. "It's crucial that we let him charge at us. If we let him buckle our center, he'll give chase. Then we'll have him surrounded on three sides."
Brienne noticed Sansa unveiling a rolled piece of paper. "Your Grace?" she asked.
"So you've all met the enemy and drawn up your battle plans in a short span of time," Sansa observed. "Olyvar, you mentioned Ramsay isn't the one who falls into traps but lays them? He's done this before during the Second Greyjoy Rebellion?"
"Yes, Your Grace," he nodded. "He's good at playing with people's minds. I don't know your brothers that well, but I believe Ramsay will want to make Lord Stark and Jon to make a mistake. That alone will give him an opportunity, one that could decide the outcome."
"Then I'll need you and Ser Lucius to go with my brothers. Make sure they don't do anything stupid."
Lucius and Olyvar looked at each other and nodded. "We understand, Your Grace," they acknowledge.
Brienne rode alongside Sansa with Pod. "Your Grace, I don't like leaving you alone at Winterfell. Should the fighting ever reach us, I'll protect you. We all will."
Sansa nodded. "I understand. And thank you, Brienne. All of you." She said calmly. 'Now… let's do what needs to be done, and correct my ancestor's mistake.'
Chapter EndIn the North…
Ser Lucius and Tormund observe a large yet strange mix of wildlings and Stark loyalists marching downrange carrying the sigil of various northern houses they represent. Within a few moments, the battle for control of the North was about to begin. The Old Bull calculatingly determined that with the addition of the Free Folk, the Starks culminated a near 34,000 host – including three direwolves and one giant. Under the command of Robb Stark and his half-brother Jon Snow, Lucius oversaw efforts to not overextend their supply lines and helped strategize a series of battle plans with the Young Wolf.
Although not from the North, the Old Bull understood that both House Stark and House Bolton knew every inch of the terrain; and with the heavy snow battering against his armor, the winter cold would not slow them down.
"Our scouts report that morale is high," Lucius informed the wildling. "So long as we have the momentum on our side, the Bolton forces will have no choice but to surrender – provided of course Her Grace's brothers stick to the plan. What of the wildlings?"
"I've never seen these Bolton fuckers fight. And they've never seen the Free Folk fight," Tormund replied. "So yes, I think we've got a strong chance. This many fighters against that measly little band? Give me a few dozen and we'll have more steel."
"That Mance Rayder of yours had a big speech ready?"
"Him? Ha! Nah, no that's not how Mance approaches a battle. We followed him because we believed in him. At first I thought he was the man to lead us through the Long Night. But I was wrong. He gave up his title as King-Beyond-the-Wall after Jon Snow stood up for us and let us through the Wall. He believed we could somehow not only defeat the Long Night, but coexist? Hard to believe it when I say it out loud like that."
"Even though Jon is a bastard?"
"Who cares if he's a bastard or not?" Tormund remarked as he drank a swill of goat's milk. "Bah, I need a good drink before a fight. You want some? I have a jug of sour goat's milk stronger than any of that grape water you southern twats like sucking on."
"Sounds good, but I prefer to keep a clear head."
"So what do you do all night?"
"I formulate strategies and tactics; been doing so for more than 40 years. Best be sure nothing is left amiss."
*AHooooooooooooooooooooooo!*
The Old Bull heard the blasts of the war horns echoing throughout the war camp; this was the signal for the Stark loyalists to begin the march on the Dreadfort. Although the skies were dark and vision was intensely limited due to the icy cold blizzards, the Northern soldiers emerged from their tents—gripping the handles of their swords and lit flaming torches to light their way.
Robb rode atop his horse with Grey Wind at his side.
"Lord Stark," Lucius greeted.
The Young Wolf nodded in acknowledgment. "Prepare to form up. It's time," he said. "Jon and I will go on ahead with our personal vanguard. Ser Lucius, you and Ser Olyvar will both command our flanks. Have your archers provide cover fire and light our way. Remember, the North can be a very dangerous place to any southerner."
"So we've been made keenly aware several times already. Stay alert and keep an eye out for traps."
Robb nodded; Jon had already retrieved Ghost and fastened Longclaw to his waist. Not too far behind was the Greatjon Umber, who was already bellowing out commands to his troops.
"All right, on me boys! We're moving out!" he hollered.
At the battlefield…
The field lay before the large Northern host which was about 400 meters long with a small valley bordered by two hills peaked with trees. At one end is a forest of high trees; at the other is a ridge with a reasonably soft incline that plateaus and stretches out to the Hornwood forest in the distance. It was still dark out and the blizzard was making things a bit harder for any of the Stark armies to see.
It would take time for them to make it to the Dreadfort; the horses neighed and some of the men's feet sank in the snow banks. Olyvar felt his teeth chatter. He wasn't used to this kind of weather, though Ser Lucius remained focused on the primary objective. House Stark was always right in the end: 'Winter is Coming' was more than just a noble house motto, it served as a warning to the rest of the Seven Kingdoms.
The Old Bull oversees the longbow archers on the flanks, standing within a defensive caltrop-shaped structure. Thousands of archers and infantrymen are each divided into different battalions with only cavalry standing guard on both left and right flanks. Mance and Tormund strode atop their horses at the ready, overseeing the 17,000 Free Folk infantry force that is one of the largest contingency. Wun Wun, however, remains as the centerpiece of the wildling infantry formation due to his massive height.
"Can't see a blasted thing in this weather," Olyvar complained.
Dacey stood her ground. "None of us can see, Ser Olyvar, but we Northmen know every inch of the terrain better than anyone else. So stay close if you wish to survive."
Olyvar felt three direwolves scouting on ahead; he hadn't seen Grey Wind in a battle since the Second Greyjoy Rebellion, but he hasn't seen Ghost or Shaggydog either. Ahead of him Robb, Jon, the Greatjon and Robett stood side-by-side with their own cavalry—each holding the banners of Mormont, Mazin, Hornwood, Manderly, Glover, Stark and Umber. Olyvar narrowed his eyes and moved his hand in front of his face to keep the harsh blizzard out of his sight—even the horses' muzzles had steam coming out from them. If it weren't for the Stark army sentries holding up lit torches, he would've easily gotten himself lost and freeze to death.
"Brrr! Now I see why northerners sometimes wear fur cloaks."
"With food and resources so scarce, it's only natural for our people to stick together to brave the winter," the Lady of Mormont explained.
Further ahead, Robb and Jon noticed something wrong in the distance and stopped abruptly, prompting the Greatjon to do the same.
"All units halt!" he bellowed at the forces behind him.
The Stark army ceased their march upon exiting the Hornwood forest, but what they saw in front of them would be forever burned into their brains for many years to come. Everyone stands stock-still, staring across the battlefield as Robb and Jon rode their destriers through to stand out in front. Although the Dreadfort was in sight, they saw X-shaped pyres resembling the sigil of House Bolton are burning. Attached to each of them are several bodies of flayed men, strapped upside down.
Dozens of Stark men stood still and look unnerved at the gruesome sight; such a fearsome, inhuman cruelty elevating to a satanic myth invoking dread. This was a whole other level of evil, psychological taunting. All of was designed to invoke terror. One of the Hornwood troops began to slowly back away before Dacey placed her hand on him – stopping him in his tracks.
"Steady now," she said calmly.
Olyvar narrowed his eyes, peering into the distance trying to see beyond the blizzard and the X-shaped pyres lighting up.
"Crucified flayed bodies roasting over eight large bonfires. Such twisted form of intimidation is something only Ramsay could have possibly thought of," Robb speculated.
"Been knockin' down enemy strongholds for 35 years, but this is by far the worst I've ever seen," the Greatjon implied.
"Try the massacre at Hardhome," Jon interjected.
Ser Lucuis rode forth cautiously, hand grappling the handle of his spiked mace. Grey Wind, Shaggydog and Ghost sniffed the air in near perfect unison and began emanating a low, menacing growl; the three direwolves tucked their ears back and displayed their teeth with their tails pointing straight.
'Something's wrong…' Lucius suspected.
"What's going on up there?" a Mazin soldier shouts.
"Storm's messing with— I can't see!" complained a Manderly mounted knight.
Robb rode a bit further until his horse stepped in a rather strange black sticky substance and began rearing itself back in surprise. The Young Wolf hushed his destrier and dismounted to investigate. He knelt down in the snow and pressed three fingers into the substance—hot, sticky viscous maternal… but when Robb smelled it he immediately turned his head away in disgust.
"Pitch," he called out.
Theon approached and leaned over to investigate. "Why would pitch be doin'—"
"Arrow!" shouted a Free Folk, pointing towards the sky.
Robb and Jon looked up and saw a faint, orange-tinted arrow flying through the air from the right flank nearly two-hundred meters away. Ser Lucius and Olyvar noticed it too, though the Old Bull's mind rapidly analyzed the situation as the arrow got closer and closer.
"Pitch…. No, fire!" he realized before shouting "AMBUSH!"
*SHUBOOOO!*
It was revealed to be a flaming-tipped arrow which landed within close vicinity of the black viscous liquid which immediately went up in flames—startling the Stark loyalists, the Free Folk and the horses. As a wall of flames went up all around them consuming the trees, confusion and panic spread throughout the mobilized army as they were taken by surprise by the sudden fire attack. The blizzard winds didn't help much either and only helped to further fan the flames and spread everywhere.
Further away, off in the distance, banners for the Boltons, Karstarks, Whitehills, Smalljon Umber's and all the other quisling houses abound—watching the Hornwood forest go up in flames. Lord Harald of House Karstark sat on his horse at the front of the cavalry, war lance in hand. The Bolton cavalry weren't as large as the Starks', but what they lacked in numbers they made up for in clever tactical strategy and deceitful traps.
On the ground level, Smalljon of House Umber—long after having been banished from Last Hearth—stood with the infantrymen eager to separate some people from their limbs. He takes a huge pull off a leather-covered flask of something very alcoholic. Nearby was a set of horse hooves walking through the Bolton ranks, past infantry, past cavalry. The winds were blinding to the Starks, but with the Boltons on the opposite end they could clearly see them. None of them had lit torches so they were able to easily disguise themselves.
Sitting atop his horse with glee, Ramsay Snow watched from afar as the Hornwood forest—now completely on fire—and observed with grim satisfaction of the Stark forces scattering throughout the area upon being taken completely by surprise.
Smalljon and Harald grin. They like this surprise attack.
"If this keeps up, the fire will soon engulf our entire army!" Theon exclaimed. "Robb, we can't stay here! We have to get out now!"
Robb coughed. "Move out! Everyone, get out of the forest!" he ordered.
The Stark loyalist infantry, cavalry and Free Folk scattered to get out of the raging inferno – a great charge across a vast, snow-filled field wolf banners flapping, but the flames were quick to spread and consume whatever nearby dry tree and leaves it came into contact to. Dozens of men either fell to the flames or were crushed when the enflamed trees collapsed and fell on top of them.
Mance and Tormund weren't going to go out like this. With a rebel yell, they signal their wildling forces to converge on them. The Free Folk were just as startled as they were angry. Wun Wun runs forward and knocks over branches and dead oak.
During the escape into the open field, the Stark armies felt their feet sinking into deep snowbanks and tripped over each other before sliding down the hills. Manderly cavalry had a hard time keeping their horses from slipping; Dacey yanked back the reins of her horse harness, the stallion neighed and steered its legs up to keep itself from falling. The scene was just pure pandemonium; dark skies, a raging blizzard storm and a wall of fire surrounding them. Within the first hour, more than 800 Stark loyalists were killed and 500 either wounded or missing.
Ser Lucius and Olyvar both recover from their spill in the snow, their faces covered with ash and soot during the escape. When Robb and Jon get back on their feet and sprint back towards their horses as Theon and the Greatjon both convened on their location. Grey Wind, Shaggydog and Ghost shook off the snow and ash, turning their heads towards their attackers and snarling—the direwolves had keen eyesight that worked effectively in the darkness due to keen night vision, but their sense of hearing was just as sharp.
Lucius turns towards Dacey.
"Lady Mormont!" he called out.
Dacey noticed him in the snow. "We're scattered pretty badly, but there's bound to be more of us! Don't worry about us, old man! We're tougher than we look!"
Nodding, the Old Bull turned with his mace drawn as Olyvar unsheathed his blade. Then it got even darker again. Looking straight up, Lucius noticed several thin, dark objects being repeatedly shot into the sky. Once the clouds moved aside the give room to the bright, full moon did it provide enough light for the Old Bull to see what would soon be raining down on them.
"Tuck tail!" he warned.
A few nearby Northmen were lucky enough to hear Ser Lucius's warning. 'Tuck tail' was another warning for 'incoming arrows.' Raising whatever shields or defenses they could hide behind, a hail of arrows came raining down against them. Those who were furthest away or weren't able to react in time felled by the dozens. Arrows planted themselves into the ground a few yards apart from each other.
"Bolton cowards," Tormund growled in frustration.
On the other side, the Smalljon smiles as he drinks, finding the scene to be quite entertaining with Ramsay smiling beside him.
'Perfect. Right where I want them to be,' he thought with arrogant confidence. He walks back to his horse in no hurry and then nods towards the Bolton archers.
"Nock arrows!" the captain yells.
The Bolton archers nock arrows.
"Draw!"
*STRETCHING!*
They draw. Ramsay swings back into the saddle of his horse in time to watch. Harald looks to Ramsay, with an expression on his face wondering when they'd get a chance to fight. But Ramsay is still holding a psychotic look, watching the Starks getting picked off one by one as more waves of arrows flying through the air.
"Loose!"
*THWANG!*
*SCHHWAFF!*
Robb and Jon duck for cover as a wave of Bolton arrows land all around them; an arrow drills through the neck of both their horses. Both animals whine in agony and quickly go down, nearly crushing both the Young and White Wolves beneath them. Ramsay turns to the Karstark host and nods at them.
"Now," he orders.
"Cavalry! Charge!"
Out goes the joint Karstark-Bolton cavalry down the hill towards the Stark loyalists. They had lost much of their ground forces—infantry and cavalry—but still retained a formidable host. Robb looked up just in time to see the enemy cavalry unit descending from their vantage point and turns to the Manderly commander.
"Ser Wendel, incoming cavalry on the horizon!" the Young Wolf shouted.
The heir of White Harbor, Ser Wendel, rallied his unit and lowered his lance. "Cavalry, converge on my location!" he ordered. "Spears out! Ready? Charge!"
Ser Lucius calls the charge. "Go! Go! Go! Follow your commander!"
What consisted of the Stark cavalry rushed to get back on their horses and pushed forward – a great charge across the field. Now that they were back on their feet, the Free Folk were ready and eager to shed some blood.
"Free Folk!" Mance ordered. "Run and fight! Show 'em how we wage war!"
"Rrrraahhh!" Wun Wun roared and runs forward to join his wildlings. Despite his size, the giant is fast.
The bulk of the Stark loyalists then forced a charge across the field towards the Bolton cavalry. Robb, Theon and Jon each stagger to their feet and traded glances with each other; thousands of Bolton cavalry galloped towards them, lances leveled. All three of them readied themselves for the bloodiest battle the North had ever seen.
"Am I your brother? Now and always?" Theon asks.
Robb nods. "Now and always."
"Then let's take as many fuckers down with us," Jon boldly declared.
Robb unsheathes his sword from his scabbard, Jon draws Longclaw and readies himself while Theon drew his bowstring back—aiming his arrow straight at the enemy. The sound of pounding hooves and war cries is so loud that the Stark cavalry swoops past all three, colliding with the Bolton cavalry. The impact was massive: horse on horse, rider on rider. Grey Wind, Shaggydog and Ghost all lunged at their targets, knocking them off their horses and tearing into their throats.
Olyvar held his own in the snow, swinging his blade to decapitate a dislodged Bolton rider. "Yaaah!" he shouted. "Come on, you fucks! Bring it on!"
Ser Lucius fought off a dozen men, bashing his mace into one's skull until it caved into the bone with a sickening crack/crunch. Despite his old age, the Old Bull was still as agile and maneuverable.
"We may as well be taking shits here," he panted. "No way do we plan on letting the young'uns have all the fun!"
As more die the pile of dead men and horses is becoming a feature of battlefield geography, blocking forward motion.
At one of Stannis's camps…
Stannis knew his forces were trapped in an icy blizzard; Davos observed his Lord of Dragonstone's men as they cough and huddle around each other as the violent snowstorm battered the cold, weary Baratheon soldiers. Icicles form on several tent flaps, solidifying the encampment. The Onion Knight knew it would be quite some time before the storm finally subsided, but by that time chances are they'd run out of food and the horses would freeze to death before everyone did.
Davos stepped inside Stannis's tent; the Lord of Dragonstone stood next to a lit brazier. He didn't acknowledge his presence, just continued glancing down at a detailed geographical map of the North.
"Our food storages are running low," he informed Stannis. "We can't open the supply line until the snow clears."
Stannis huffed. "What else?" he asks.
"We still have a hard march and we won't be marching anywhere in this weather?"
"And?"
"We should head back to Castle Black when the snow clears."
Stannis shook his head and turned around. "Winter is coming, Ser Davos. Those aren't just Stark words, it's a fact. If we march back to Castle Black, we winter at Castle Black. And who can say how many years this winter will last."
"It's better to wait for an opening to present itself rather than risk everything."
"I will risk everything. And the only way we go is forward and only forward, whether we march to victory or we march to defeat."
Melisandre soon enters the tent. "I just received a vision, my lord; a great battle in the snow, one that is underway as we speak."
Stannis didn't look at her. "I've trusted in the visions and prophecies you see in the flames for years."
"You saw it yourself," she insisted. "Trust yourself."
"And you, do you trust yourself?"
This is a much more problematic question for the red priestess than it once was, to be sure. She is not a supremely confident seer she used to be. Melisandre did not budge, but she refused to allow Stannis to see how much her faith's wavering at this moment.
"I trust in the Lord," she answered. "I… interpret His signs." 'As well as I can.'
Stannis sensed her hesitation. "Are you sure?" he pressed.
The red priestess brushed her fingertips along the map. "I have seen myself walking along the battlements of Winterfell. I have seen the flayed men banners lowered to the ground of the Dreadfort," she flips the Bolton pieces on the board. "I have shown you the power of King's blood. The Usurper Renly Baratheon. The Usurper Balon Greyjoy."
Davos felt suspicious. "Trying to sacrifice another soul to this fire god of yours again?" he said sarcastically.
"You think that's all we do, Ser Davos?" she countered. "The High Priestess of Asshai has… contacted me."
"How recent?"
"Just now."
"What did she say?"
Melisandre glanced outside the tent. "There is another way to melt the snow and move Stannis' army forward… one that requires no sacrifice. But basic instructions that were provided to me in High Valyrian—a language only I understand and can translate."
"Then why didn't you tell us sooner?" the Onion Knight asked frustrated.
"If I knew this when we first met, then I wouldn't have said anything. Do you still doubt me? After all that you've seen?" She was in no mood to argue. "You wanted another way, Ser Davos? Here it is. It must be done before the Long Night begins. Only the Lord's destined ones can lead the living against the dead."
As the red priestess stepped out of Stannis' tent, only Davos and Stannis followed close behind her – curious as to her earlier plural statement of 'the Lord's destined ones.' The Onion Knight still had his reservations, but the look on Stannis' face was one of confusion and inner frustrations; the last few years since he converted to the Lord of Light, Stannis believed he himself was the destined Chosen One as per the Lord of Light's prophecy. To hear now that there could be more than one other than himself, it threw him off balance.
Melisandre knelt before the snow, unmoved by the freezing temperatures as more of Stannis' men gathered around her still cold.
"Āeksiot Ōño, dohaeragon aōha tikor se aōhos ōñoso īlōn jehikās! (Lord of Light, aid your servant and cast your light upon us!)" she recited. "Āeksiot Ōño, se ñuhoso gō īlva iksis kelitan. Ōños se ñuhoso se dohaeragon jemagon īlva naejot mēre hen aōha Iderēbagon Mēre. Kesrio syt bantis zōbrie issa se ossȳngnoti lēdys! (Lord of Light, the path before us is blocked. Light the way and help lead us to one of your Chosen Ones. For the night is dark and full of terrors!)"
*SHUBOOOO!*
In that instant, flames shot up from beneath the ground and began to quickly melt the snow impeding their path forward. A couple of soldiers were startled and backed up in surprise; the horses were startled and couldn't back away. Stannis and Davos both watched as the flames began to quickly move downwards to create a pathway to the south.
Icicles quickly melted down from the tents, refracting the flame's intense heat. Much of a rivulet of snow had melted away. Once the way forward was clear, Melisandre stood back up and the flames dissipated. She was somewhat pleased, somewhat perplexed.
"See? The Lord of Light has made good on his promise," she demonstrated. "His fires have melted the snows away. The way ahead is clear."
Stannis does not look at her, but rather tightens the straps on his epaulets, puts on two gauntlets and straps on his sword belt—pulling his sword partway from his scabbard, checks its edge before returning it to its scabbard.
"What else has your God shown you?" he asks simply.
Melisandre's eye contact broke momentarily. "The Lord has shown me a forest burning, a castle besieged, Bolton banners burning. But as we speak one of the Lord's favored candidates are fighting in the battle. Should this one be ignored, it would bring great misfortune in the long-term."
Stannis marches through his camp; although the way forward was cleared, it was still cold but didn't let it get to him. Melisandre and Davos are by his side.
"General," Stannis orders, "prepare to form up. I want the men on the march at once."
The Baratheon General nodded. "Understood, my lord. Where do you want us to go?" he asked.
"We march on the Dreadfort. It's time for us to join the fray."
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Trials and Tribulations of the Oathkeeper by DeadlyMaelstrom711
 TV » Game of Thrones Rated: M, English, Drama & Romance, [OC, Sansa S.] Daenerys T., Jon S., Words: 859k+, Favs: 1k+, Follows: 1k+, Published: Apr 16, 2018 Updated: Feb 11, 2020 2,418Chapter 117: Battle for the North (Part 2)
At the battlefield…
The Stark and Bolton forces continue littering the snowy fields with more piles of bodies; as the Hornwood forests continued burning, the snowstorm winds began steadily dying down. The winds were not blowing as fiercely as they once were, finally allowing the Starks to gain greater visibility. But Robb and Jon still mustered every fiber of their being to dodge, weave and survive the chaos surrounding them as panicked horses careen from every angle and barrage of arrows fell from the sky. Grey Wind, Shaggydog and Ghost continue lunging through the battlefield taking down as many Bolton soldiers as they could.
From out of nowhere four Bolton soldiers run at them. Robb and Jon make short work of them before another frenzied soldier, only for them to be picked off by Theon's arrows; Ser Lucius and Olyvar stand shoulder-to-shoulder fending off waves of Bolton soldiers.
"There's no end to them!" Olyvar exclaimed.
Ser Lucius bashed one with his mace. "The fire attack, the storm, Ramsay's archers on the vantage point… That bastard came prepared."
Through the smoke from the fires Lucius swings at the men trying to kill him. Takes a hit, kills the man who landed it and uses another as a human shield before tossing him to the ground. The Old Bull turns to see a Bolton infantryman lunging at him and readies for the inevitable impact, but someone jumps in front of him and thrusts forward sword in hand—driving their blade through the Bolton's neck.
Lucius recognized the flowing long dark hair and the pommel of the sword and the pale as milkglass metalwork.
"You," he acknowledged.
Ariyana herself had arrived to the battlefield wielding two swords and intercepted the Bolton soldier bound for Lucius. "I swore I'd make amends, Ser Lucius, and I intend to make up for the mistakes I made," she said.
"We'll worry about that later, child. More inbound!"
Redirecting her attention towards the fight, the Sword of the Morning danced and maneuvered through waves of Bolton soldiers. Theon raised his bow and took aim, pulling back on the bowstring and released, sending one of his arrows soaring through the air with such velocity and hit a Bolton soldier in the eye. He drew another arrow and pulled back and released again. Without a doubt, when it comes to archery Theon Greyjoy was an expert marksman.
Tormund and Mance each engage at Bolton infantry at the battle line and pressed their advantage, swinging hard once, twice, three times before finally running them through. Wun Wun swats a mounted Bolton and his horse out of the way, and is quickly followed by Free Folk hunters, shooting arrows as they keep a firm footing on the snowy hillside.
Ramsay watches as the Stark forces adapting to their situation and decided to begin the next phase. He turns to Smalljon and gives him his approval.
"It's time. Go," he said.
'About fucking time,' Smalljon grins, eager and yearning to join the fray. He turns to his infantry. "Who owns the North?" he calls out.
"We do!" his men answer.
"I can't hear you! Who owns the North?"
"We do!"
"Show me!"
With that, Smalljon raises his sword in the air and turns running towards the battlefield leading by example. The infantry howls and follows after him. Robb swings his sword and slices through a Bolton's throat before noticing the Smalljon's rush. The Young Wolf turns to Greatjon.
"Lord Umber," he calls out. "Take most of our men and retreat deep into the woods! I'll have a smaller contingent make the enemy chase us!"
The Greatjon drove his blade deep into a Bolton soldier's chest cavity and withdrew it to look back at the Young Wolf. He grinned as he realized what the Stark lord was up to and loudly bellowed at his marauders.
"Fall back to the trees, boys!" the Greatjon roared.
In droves, a much larger fraction of the Stark loyalist army fled into the Hornwood forest—taking special care to avoid the burning trees and intense flames. Ser Lucius, Olyvar and Ariyana looked behind them as the larger host seemingly fled; the Frey knight and Sword of the Morning were wondering what the Young Wolf was thinking by deciding to send most of his forces fleeing into the woods—leaving only a smaller host behind as Smalljon began using the body pile as a natural divider in the center of the field, diverting half his men to one side and half to the other.
Smalljon himself, along with a bodyguard of 10 men, felt very confident in himself and charged up the hill of bodies. Covered from head to toe in mud and blood, Robb and Jon fought off their attackers and steadily took several steps backwards for more leeway. Wun Wun howls a warning at what he sees: hundreds and hundreds of Bolton infantry carrying a six-foot tall rectangular shield. The Young Wolf saw they were attempting a lethal double envelopment maneuver and ordered at his men.
"Fall back into the woods!" Robb shouted. "Make them chase us!"
Thousands broke from the safety of their defensive caltrops and move back up the hill towards the Hornwood forest. Stark archers on the upper snow banks take some of them out before the Bolton infantry could set up their circle formation – one-by-one they hauled ass keeping them from creating an impenetrable wall. Jon, Mance, Tormund and Wun Wun move towards the hill and climb, though they had noticed Smalljon's men were quickly catching up with them.
"Ghost! Come to me, Ghost!" Jon called out.
The albino direwolf tore a Bolton troop's throat out before perking its ears up at the sound of its master's call. Ghost hoped off and dug its claws into the snow and climbed up the hill after Jon Snow before Smalljon could reach the animal.
"With me, lads! Break their lines!" shouted Ser Lucius.
Ramsay watches on his slope; his face curling with displeasure at the envelopment being hindered by the Stark archers. The shields from the attempted pincer movement kept hitting the hill and were forced to be curved upwards to be dragged, briefly exposing their legs to arrows or small kicks to send them back down the hill. That didn't deter Smalljon from frustratingly carving his way through with his greatsword. He's a badass of the first order, the strongest man on the field who isn't Wun Wun or Greatjon, and he's in his element.
Tormund sees this beast cutting down his people. "That all you got, fucker?" he taunted. "My grandma hits harder than you!"
Smalljon saw red and gave chase, prompting Jon, Mance, Tormund and the remaining forces to flee deeper into the woods—the bearded wildling hurling vicious insults and degenerative taunts at the bearded Northmen. At the epicenter of the feigned retreat, Robb and Jon made sure the opposing army pursued them deep into the Hornwood forest. The flames were still hot and consumed almost everything in its path, but because the winds stopped the fire did not spread.
Outside, Ramsay felt himself smirk in triumph—believing he had emerged victorious over the much larger Stark armies. However, once the smaller Stark contingent was in the center – Robb glanced at his left and right side.
"Lord Umber, Lady Mormont! Now!" he shouted.
That was the signal for the hidden Northmen to strike. That was a hush in the night, moonlight and a thick carpet of snow and ash underfoot. Grey Wind threw its head back and howled; the sound seemed to go right through the pursuing Bolton infantry and they froze midway in their chase. It was a terrible sound, a frightening sound.
*HAAroooooooooooooo!*
To the east, the trumpets of the Umbers roared with vengeance. To the west, the Mormonts leapt from the underbrush. To the north, the Stark host quickly turned around to face their pursuers and hit back. Men were shouting and horses rearing in the snow, ash and soot beneath them. The Hornwood forest let out its breath all at once as the bowmen, cavalry, infantrymen and spearmen Greatjon and Dacey hid in the trees let loose and the forest erupted with screams of men and horses. All around Smalljon, Manderly lancers routed his men behind him. A heartbeat, two, four and suddenly the Greatjon's riders emerge from the darkness beneath the trees.
Tormund took advantage of the distraction and manages to plunge his sword into the Smalljon's belly. This really pisses him off—causing him to grab Tormund and lift him off the ground and head-butts so hard Tormund's nose bursts open bloodily; and then again and again and again. The red-bearded wildling fights back as best he can, repeatedly punching at Smalljon's face but the big man took a sword through the belly, and punches aren't fazing him.
Fighting his way through Bolton soldiers, Jon bypassed their red X shields and pressed the counterattack. Wun Wun brushes off the Bolton soldiers armed with spears and rips off a Bolton shield to use it to swing at them—ignoring bearing speared like a woolly-mammoth by a select few. Yet the woods rang with echoes. The crack of a broken lance, the clash of swords, the cries of "Bolton" and "Stark" and "Red King!" and "Warden of the North!" rang throughout the area. Iron boots crunched in the snow, the woody sounds of swords clashed against oak shields and steel scrapped against steel.
The Bolton soldiers were taken completely off-guard by their situation; now they were in a giant problem. Wun Wun rose his foot and stomped down hard on one of them before grabbing one and smacking him against a tree. They knew it was only a matter of time now. The battle is lost.
Outside the forests, Ramsay could barely see what was going on but he could faintly hear the screams and shouts—whether from his own army or the Starks, he couldn't tell. He was busy having a moment of deep contentment, and in his contentment a war horn sounds in the distance which breaks him into a state of confusion.
*AHooooooooooooooooooooooo!*
Back in the forest, Smalljon continues beating down Tormund until the war horn broke his concentration. The instant of distraction is all Tormund needs to sink his teeth into Smalljon's ear.
"Gnnaaah!" Smalljon roars in pain.
Tormund quickly pulled back and ripped his ear off, causing Smalljon to release his grip on the wildling who grabs a dagger from his belt and stabs Smalljon's eyes like eggs before stabbing him repeatedly in the throat.
"Rrraah!" Tormund roars. "Die! Die! Die! Die!"
"To me! To me!" Mance shouted.
Ariyana and Lucius swing their weapons and cut down more Bolton soldiers, pleased that the feigned retreat/pincer movement pulled off in their favor. The Old Bull again hears war horns sounding off in the distance.
*AHooooooooooooooooooooooo!*
Robb and Jon turn to see the source of the war horn through the Hornwood forest: in the distance, charging down near the woods was a well-formed column of heavy cavalry. As they approached the middle of the battlefield, each mounted knight carried banners depicting a crowned black stag of Baratheon enclosed within a fiery red heart; an estimated 20,000 strong, galloping against the night sky as the flames lit their way forward.
Ramsay sees the Baratheon cavalry riding in to ruin his day and his face twisted with disgust, anger and frustration. High above the battlefield from the safety of the Lonely Hills, two spectators watch from horseback: Queen Sansa Stark and Ser Davos Seaworth.
Below them, the Baratheon cavalry rushes towards the Bolton rear as the Starks pushed them back out into the open, dissolving as if by centrifugal force as the Baratheon cavalry approaches, driving implacably forward. Once out into the open, Mance recognized the Baratheon knights and the same tactics used against him moments before; they're cutting down more Bolton troops until there was nothing left.
Ramsay sees everything unfolding before him from his vantage point. He might be furious, but he's smart: he knows when it's all falling apart. He turns and looks at both Robb and Jon, atop the body pile—both sides staring at each other from a distance. Both Stark and Snow glare at Ramsay. The Bolton bastard doesn't sit around and instead whistles to his two remaining generals before riding for the Dreadfort.
"Lord Stark!" Olyvar hollered. "Ramsay's getting away!" he points to the Bolton bastard.
Robb huffed. "I can see that. He knows his days are numbered, but wolves hunt in packs and look out for one another."
"Continue the pursuit!" Dacey shouted to her allies. "Don't let that bastard escape!"
Ramsay might have gotten a head start, but the Stark loyalists—despite having lost around 6,000 troops—gave chase with Robb, Jon, Theon, Olyvar, Lucius, Mance, Tormund and Wun Wun hot on his heels along with Grey Wind, Ghost and Shaggydog. By the looks of it, the giant was ahead of the pack.
The remaining Stark and Baratheon hosts finished what remained of the Bolton forces before joining in the pursuit.
At the Dreadfort…
Fleeing behind the walls of the Dreadfort, a reserve force of Bolton men remained behind. Once Ramsay and his generals entered, three guardsmen close and bar the gates behind them. Immediately Bolton archers man the walls and prepare their bows and arrows. Little by little, it became apparent their forces were utterly wiped out as the sounds dwindled and died. The Bolton men-at-arms knew they were next and planned to make their last stand.
Despite suffering a devastatingly major setback, Ramsay dismounts as a squire takes his horse's reins and leads it away just beyond the courtyard arch.
"Our army is gone," one of the Bolton generals exclaimed, looking around at the relatively few troops remaining.
Ramsay rolled his eyes and annoyingly shook his head. "It doesn't matter," he scoffed. "We have the Dreadfort. They don't have siege weapons to mount such an attempt. All we have to do is wait and—"
*BAM!*
*BAM!*
"We've got hostiles on the parameter!" one of the Bolton archer captains warned.
With a loud boom, something begins hitting the gate. Some commotion on the walls draws Ramsay's attention. Bolton archers nocked their arrows and started firing downwards from the battlements. Others manning the top signaled for more archers to come and help them.
*BAM!*
*BAM!*
*BAM!*
Ramsay watched the gate and understood what was coming next. One final bam later, a giant fist broke through the gate—made by Wun Wun's enormous hand. Seeing the giant's fist, Ramsay suspected the Stark army was not too far behind him and slowly backs away, leaving his increasingly terrified garrison to defend the gates alone. All the Bolton archers come around the battlements overlooking the main gate and fired down at the giant.
Despite the pain and discomfort, it didn't deter Wun Wun. The giant continued ramming against the gate with all his might, splintering its ancient wood and rattling with every impact. As the sun started to rise, everyone again heard the howling of Grey Wind, Ghost and Shaggydog. More holes appear as Wun Wun rammed through the gates with one final charge; his face is bloody through the shattered boards—but there was still some fight left in him. A series of thunderous footsteps entered through the gate into the courtyard.
Covered in dust and arrows, Wun Wun lets out a loud roar – causing Free Folk, Northern and Baratheon archers and infantrymen steaming in around him. The Bolton garrison realized they have no more cover to hide behind and the wildlings are renowned marksmen. Although the Bolton archers get a few Stark loyalists, the Bolton archers themselves are taken out by the Mormont troops.
Robb, Jon, Theon, Olyvar, Lucius, Mance, Tormund, Ghost, Shaggydog and Grey Wind enter the courtyard. As the Stark armies clean up the Dreadfort from inside, the Baratheons encircle the castle to prevent any attempts at escaping from the Boltons. They've got the ancestral seat of House Bolton completely surrounded on all sides. Even Myranda, Ramsay's psychotic lover, shot an arrow aimed at Dacey—narrowly missing the Lady of Bear Island's head before Dacey quickly closed the gap and bashed her head in with her Morningstar.
"Here I stand," she spat.
With no more archers remaining, Ramsay stands beneath the archway with the defaced slayed man relief. Bow in hand, quiver on his back. Robb and Jon are exhausted, with only hate keeping them standing. Theon raises his bow and points it at Ramsay, but his hand is stayed by Robb.
"I'll take him alone," he said menacingly. "Grey Wind, stay back."
The direwolf remained motionless as it still kept snarling at the Bolton bastard in front of it. Its litter siblings Ghost and Shaggydog did the same thing. Ramsay examined the men surrounding him, bow and arrows aimed directly at him, and with swords, axes and spears gripped tightly ready to attack on command.
Regardless, he continued smirking. "Your bastard brother suggested one-on-one combat, didn't he?" Ramsay said referring to Jon. "Well… I've reconsidered, Young Wolf. I think that sounds like a wonderful idea."
Robb takes an uneasy step towards Ramsay; not hearing or listening to Olyvar or Ser Lucius. He grips his longsword tightly before seeing Ramsay pulling his bow back; Robb quickly scoops up a nearby Mormont shield and pulls it up in the nick of time. Ramsay aims his arrow, nocks, draws and shoots. Robb catches the arrow with his shield, lowering the shield and kept his approach and gains focus as he goes.
"You terrorize my people for your own amusement…"
Ramsay pulls another arrow, more hurried this time. He nocks, draws, shoots. Robb blocks; the arrow punches through the shield, its point an inch from his face.
"You murdered my father's steward…"
Ramsay's breathing becomes more frantic. He pulls the arrow, nocks and shoots but misses as the Young Wolf continues to close the gap.
"Then you kidnap, brutalize and raped a friend you masqueraded as one of my sisters…"
Ramsay pulls another arrow, fumbling the nock and draws the bowstring back but by then Robb has advanced close enough.
*WHAM!*
"Winter has come for House Bolton," he said catching the shield upside Ramsay's head with the shield, sending his shot wide and dropping him to the ground.
Robb stands over Ramsay and pins him to the ground before physically beating him with the shield, tearing open his forehead, breaking his nose and a few ribs. Ramsay tasted bile and blood in his mouth as Robb continued pummeling him mercilessly. His face becomes mangled and covered in blood and mud.
But Sansa, Brienne, Stannis and Davos arrive through the broken gate. Hearing their horses, Robb and everyone turns to see them. He doesn't care about Stannis or Davos in this moment. He only looks at his sister. Sansa looks back at him and at Ramsay. Ramsay looks up at the blurry, silhouetted form of the Starks, breathing heavily from the exertion of the beating, staring down at him. Robb walks away as Ramsay blacks out.
By the day's end, some Stark men throw the Bolton banners off the Dreadfort. Stannis remained atop his horse eyeing the situation closely. Melisandre watches it happen from the walkway. One of her prophecies, fulfilled. Sansa, however, never took her eyes off the unconscious Ramsay Snow.
The following morning…
"You don't have to be here if you don't want to be, Your Grace," Brienne said to Sansa.
The Wolf Queen remained calm and composed. "No, I do," she replied.
Ramsay's battered head lolled on his neck, covered in blood from his beating. His hands were strapped tightly behind his back and his legs bound, meaning he could not flee nor could he avoid the fate in store for him. Twitching, coughing and groaning slightly, Ramsay slowly comes to. It takes a moment, but Ramsay realizes he is positioned on a tree limb used as a block. He briefly looks up to see Robb, Jon, Theon, Sansa and Stannis all staring down at him.
"Well," he coughed in a painful daze, "I suppose this is how it all comes to an end now?"
Sansa does not react or respond. She just watches him.
"Still sore over how I treated your little friend? Ooh, I know. Should've listened at how loud her screams were whenever I pushed myself inside her tight little cunt. Heh, no one at the Dreadfort slept a wink those nights."
Sansa still says nothing; Ramsay's attempts at making her lose control, to break her composure are a failure. Instead, she speaks with the calm of total certain.
"You brought this on yourself," Sansa said. "House Bolton is already gone. Their words, their name… Soon all memory of you will disappear."
Ramsay smiles weakly. "My house. My words, my name," he replied defiantly.
"You're not a Bolton, you're a Snow," Olyvar was tempted to kick him in the face. "Now you won't escape justice this time."
"My legacy has already been cemented—"
"You murdered my niece, Walda. You killed her babe. Now you'll answer for your crimes."
The blood on Ramsay's face has not dried yet, not entirely. Some of it still glistens in the sunlight.
"Ramsay Snow, bastard of House Bolton," Sansa says with regal authority in her tone, "in the sight of Gods and men, the heinous crimes you've committed occurred on the North's soil. You will answer for a great deal. The North and its people will deal with your punish accordingly as per the traditions of the First Men." She turned to her older brother. "Robb?"
Robb motions a squire to bring him his wolf pelt/scabbard and draws his family's ancestral Valyrian greatsword Ice from it and bows his head over Ice. Dacey leans over to whisper in Olyvar's ear.
"Pay close attention," she whispers. "Here in the North, we hold dear our ancestors' tenants. 'He who passes the sentence should swing the sword'."
Olyvar nodded as Robb began the sentencing.
"In the name of Daveth of the House Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, I, Robb of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, sentence you to die."
'That monster doesn't even deserve to have a final word,' Olyvar cursed.
Taking a step backwards, Robb swung Ice with all his might through the air and brought the Valyrian greatsword down – cutting off Ramsay's head in a single blow. His body fell to the ground spraying the snow with the man's blood pouring all over the place, his fell rolled across the hill.
Ser Rodrik picked up Ramsay's severed head by his haggard hair and disgustedly handed it over to one of his men. "Put his head on a spike," he said dismissively.
As the gathered Northmen and Free Folk cheered in celebration over their triumphant victory for control of the North, relieved that House Bolton is permanently gone… only two individuals retained their composure: Sansa and Stannis.
Stannis watched the execution ceremony; and like he did with Jon Snow at Castle Black, he gave a small nod of approval. Sansa, meanwhile, placed a hand on her stomach. The bastard traitor Ramsay Snow has been punished for what he did to her best childhood friend, Jeyne Poole. With the Boltons extinct, the North would finally breathe a sigh of relief. She calmly massages her pregnant belly before turning around and looking in the direction of the sun shining upon Winterfell.
"I hope this brings you a sense of closure, Jeyne," Sansa says quietly to herself. "No doubt it'll take time for such wounds to heal, but you're not alone. I'll always protect you."
Chapter End
Author's Note: And so ends Part 2 of the Battle for the North (aka the new Battle of the Bastards). The Starks lose only 6,000 but the Boltons were absolutely demolished. Robb introduces the feigned retreat and Stannis' cavalry the pincer maneuver strategies. With House Bolton extinct, the North is better off without them. Think how this battle was played out with the Starks having had the much larger numbers? Was the fight at least good? Let me know.
GREAT-CELESTIAL DRAGON: Great chapter, after seeing the final season I hope you can avoid the mistakes they made for the characters
―Here's hoping.
Tohka123: Really enjoyed the battle scenes was well written. Can't wait for more keep up the hard work
―Thanks.
ABEBOABDU: awesome update can't wait for the next one
kyrasaige16: This chapter was awesome! I wonder how Sansa will deal with the return of Ariyana. I love that Dacey was teaching Olyvar the ways of the North. And I cannot express how pleased I was to learn that Ice was still in tact and hadn't been melted down.
DJ Wolfenstien: A fantastic chapter. I am excited to read the next one and see what comes after the Battle For The North.
designtechdk: Love the fast updates, great chapter.
―Thanks.
jgs237: The end of the Bolton House.
Great chapter! Cant wait for the next!
MrKristoffer1994: But now two greater threats are rapidly approaching the North and Westeros: the Long Night and the army of the dead, and Daenerys "Stormborn" Targaryen and her army. How will Daveth deal with this? :O
Hear My Fury: Well this is the Whispering Wood of your story and I loved it. Glad to see Ramsay pay for all he's done. I was also listening to the season 5 track, "The Wars to Come" when Stannis arrived. It made the moment even better. Now let's get back to Daveth and see how he deals with the Sparrows.
10868letsgo: Great! Thou i did like the part where Sansa feed him to the dogs. Let's see how the people take the news in Kingslanding.
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