A/N: After I finished Season 6 of Game of Thrones, this idea kept distracting me from Bloody Arc, so I decided to jot this down. If you all like it, I've got a few ideas for more of these.
Also, tactically, Battle of the Bastards was a train wreck, and they only pulled it off due to sheer luck and a last minute save. It could have been better.
SHOWTIME!
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XXXX Stark Camp, War Council XXXX
Sansa Stark might as well have been standing in the corner as her brother, Jon Snow, made plans and strategies with the other two men, Ser Davos Seaworth and Tormund Giantsbane, as if they knew the monster in the skin of a man who called her wife. It wasn't being ignored that irritated her, it was that her allies, family in one instance, were ignoring her.
"We should all get some sleep." Davos said, drawing their war council to a close.
"Rest well, Jon Snow." Tormund added in his low, grizzled voice. "We need you sharp tomorrow."
As the two men began to leave the tent, Jon sitting down, rubbing between his eyes in fatigue, she could no longer hold back her displeasure of being so casually dismissed. "So, you've met the enemy, drawn up your battle plans." Those three words, spoken in a tone as cold as the winds outside the tents, stopped the three in their tracks as they looked to the fourth member in the tent, who had previously remained silent.
"Aye, for what they're worth." Jon answered her, though she did not ask a question.
"You've known him for the space of a single conversation, you and your trusted advisors." Glancing at the two other men in mild disapproval, with it beginning to seep into her voice "and you all sit here drawing plans on how to beat a man you don't know."
"Do you?" Tormund asked, not knowing much about the girl in front of him, besides that she was Jon Snow's sister and a Stark.
She did not look back to the large man, as she kept staring at Jon Snow as she spoke. "I lived with him. I know the way his mind works, and how he likes to hurt people. Did it ever once occur to you that I might some insight?"
Davos and Tormund were no longer standing at the threshold of the tent, but instead back at the large map table, looking back and forth between the two siblings.
"She's right." Davos spoke in apologetic tone for ignoring her, and a valuable source of information. He, having experienced war and all that came with it, knew how important knowing the mind of the enemy was. Now, she had his undivided attention.
"I may not know anything about war, but I know him, better than anyone, and he won't fall for your trap. He's the one that lays traps."
"He's overconfident." Jaune argued.
"He's plays with people." Sansa rebutted. "He's far better at it than you; he's been doing it all his life."
"And what have I been doing, playing with broomsticks? I've fought against worse than Ramsay Bolton." He countermanded, with his annoyance heard loud and clear.
"You don't know him."
"But you do, my lady." Davos cut into their argument. Gaining their attention, "You said that he lays traps. I'm not much of a trapper, but from what I gather, it's the same as fishing, and both need bait."
Silent for a few seconds, Jon's eyes widened as he stated, "Rickon. We can't just give up on him. We need to get him back."
Restraining a sigh at her brother's naivety, "We'll never get him back" she said despondently. "He's the trueborn son of Ned Stark, which means he's a greater threat to Ramsay than you, a bastard, or me, a girl. As long as he lives, Ramsay's claim to Winterfell will be contested, so… he won't live long."
"We can't just give up on our brother."
After a moment of silent thought, Davos asked for further insight. "So how does he make his traps? Now that we know the bait, now we just need to know the hook."
"I've seen this kind of thing before." Tormund said solemnly. "Before Mance rallied all the tribes together, my clan was fighting with this… cannibal tribe that lived near the Frostbacks."
Relatively familiar with the general territories of the Free Folk, at least before the White Walkers came, Jon asked, "I thought the Thenn were further north, next to the Lands of Always Winter."
"Hm, I wish it were the Thenn. We outnumbered them three to one, so they never fought us man to man, the craven cunts. One thing they liked to do was capture one of us when we went hunting. Hurt him, and leave them there, hid and wait. When more of us came by to help carry him, they ambush us."
"How'd you stop them, then?" Davos asked.
"They got careless, and one of mine escaped. So the next time they tried it, we were ready." His grin, visible even through his thick beard, showed how well that went for them.
Pondering for a moment, "Yes, that sounds like something he'd do. He'll taunt you by bringing Rickon out, and he'll kill him in front of us. If that were to happen, and be honest Jon, what would you do?"
Based on the reproaching look on her face, he knew exactly what she thought he would do. Upon seeing Rickon, family he hadn't seen in several years, on the verge of being killed, he'd rush off by himself towards the battlefield in some foolhardy effort to rescue him. Now that he was given the time to think about it before such a thing happened, he sounded like a complete idiot, and he frowned at the thought, and at being played for a fool.
"Well, best way to avoid a trap is to know it's there, and spring it on them. Would he expect that?"
Sansa took a moment to think, "No, like you said, he's overconfident. Now that he's been legitimized and in power, he looks down on everyone around him, likely even more so since he killed his father."
After that, they took another hour to discuss a new battle plan, debating how to use the strengths and weaknesses of both sides to their advantage.
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XXXX Late Morning, Field near Winterfell XXXX
The armies had been assembled, battle lines were drawn, and the men on both sides stood ready. The two forces stood idle, watching the other in the distance. On the side with the ancient fortress of Winterfell stood four thousand Bolton men at arms and levies, two thousand of Karstark, and another thousand of Umber. Half of their forces were mounted on horses, flying banners of a white sunburst on a black field, and a flayed man. There were a few ranks of archers under the Bolton and Umber sigils.
The remaining infantry was divided between the orderly regiments of the Boltons, looking identical in their armor and spears and behind tower shields with a flayed man painted on the face, and the Umbers, looking almost as savage as the Wildlings. Leading them was Smalljon Umber, distinguished by the chains crossing his leather armor.
On the other side, with the Wolfswood behind them, were the forces assembled to fight for the Starks under the direwolf banner. There were a few other banner strewn about, including the moose on an orange field of the Hornwoods. Their army looked nowhere near as large, or as organized, because they were not. Coming to a total of three thousand men, over half of that comprised of Free Folk, the organization of their forces was more of a grouping of cavalry, a crowd of infantry, and a few units of archers that almost looked out of place with their rank and file arrangement.
Mounted on horseback, the commander of these outnumbered forced, Jon Snow, approached the front. He stared at the men he and those who had come to fight for the Stark name would battle against. Scanning the ranks of the easily larger army, he saw a rider come to the front. Focusing on this individual, he recognized him as Ramsay Bolton. Now at the forefront of his army, Jon could see that he was not alone.
With him, looking like his wrists were bound was a boy. Jon guessed that that must be Rickon, and anger surged through him. Next to him, Davos laid a hand on his shoulder, a reaffirming gesture to hold fast and stick to the plan. He grimaced, feeling helpless as Ramsay, formerly Snow, Bolton held a dagger above his head, taunting him. But he did not slit the boy's throat, or stab him, or harm him at all really.
XXXX Ramsay XXXX
It would be much too quick, and too easy to just kill the little wolf now, and he had acquired a taste for playing with Starks. The smallest of the Starks looked at him with confusion and no small amount of fear as he cut the ropes binding him, leaving him unharmed, for the time being at least.
"Do you like games, little man?" He asked calmly, with a ghost of a smile on his face. "Let's play a game." Grabbing the Stark boy's shoulders firmly, he pulled him in close.
Pointing to the army on the other side of the field, "Run to your brother." Ramsay talked in a friendly tone as he explained the simple rules of the game they were all about to play. "The faster you run, the sooner you get to see him again."
"That's it." He added lightly. "Easy! … Ready?" He asked, a predatory glint in his eyes, missed by Rickon who refused to look at him, instead staring off into the distance, towards his freedom. With a whispered go, Ramsay gave him a light shove and sent him on his way.
Rickon started walking, prodding Ramsay to admonish him for not following instructions as he turned his head around to look at him. "No, you have to run. Those are the rules."
Understanding finally dawned on the boy as one of Ramsay's men came beside his lord with his hunting bow and a full quiver. Panicking, the boy finally started to run as he slowly nocked an arrow. Letting him run a bit, he drew and quickly loosed, aiming just ahead and to the boy's right, making the boy run a bit faster.
'But that's all right, I've hit more elusive prey before.' If there was one skill he was proud of, more than his good looks, more than his games, it was his skill with a bow. If he were lowborn like his mother, he would have made a good hunter and would've never gone hungry.
But today, he was not hunting, but instead he was fishing, and the little wolf was the worm to draw in the fish, and draw him in he did. Jon Snow was galloping towards his half-brother, thinking that he could save him. The thought gave him a light chuckle, as if he had a chance. It would still be all too easy to kill the boy now and enrage the bastard, but not as much if he were closer. Casually firing another arrow with a carefree smile, this one landed to the bait's left, a few paces closer than the first arrow.
For this game to finish, the bastard would be well within his archer's range, and when the boy died so close to freedom, practically in his arms… well, he knew his type. Honorable, dutiful, and loving his family, almost like the Tully words, from what he remembered from his lessons, and the words of his lovely wife's mother's family. He'd see his family die in front of him and he'd go charging in, his ragtag army forced to charge in right behind him. It would all lead to a spectacular ending of despair.
But outside the range of his archers, he stopped. 'Perhaps he does have some sense. No matter, this last arrow is the one that mattered anyway. Time to haul in the net.' Taking aim, the arrow flew high into the air, but he did not watch it anymore, as he was more interested in where it would land. 'I hope the little wolf's pelt stays in decent condition.'
Boltons of ancient times would wear cloaks of human skin, and what better time then the complete annihilation of their greatest enemy to revitalize that tradition.
Distantly, he could hear the bastard shouting something, but he didn't care enough to strain to hear what was being said. No matter, it was time for the hook. Taking aim, Ramsay fired an arrow, aiming right through the boy's chest.
The shouting from Snow continued, even louder this time. A few seconds were left until the arrow landed on its target, so Ramsay put a hand next to his hear him to better hear the screams that were sure to come.
"LEFT, NOW!" Which seemed to snap the boy out of his panicked run and follow the instruction, still running towards his half-brother, but no longer in danger, as Ramsay's arrow landed harmlessly in the dirt.
"LOOSE!" He shouted his order with a hint of panic and haste to the archers, who as one fired into the air, laying down a volley of arrows in the general vicinity of the fleeing boy. He may have been confident in his own skill, but it was too easy to dodge a single arrow over such a long distance, especially if you were prepared for it like he now was. It was much harder to dodge a whole volley aimed at you. He may not have the satisfaction of killing a Stark himself, but perhaps the bastard might play as an acceptable substitute, eventually.
But it was not to be, as the only injury sustained was an arrow embedding into his shoulder, but it was merely a flesh wound. The boy must have had the luck of the old gods as he fell to the ground in surprise from the pain, rolling as he came to a stop, but he stood back up and kept running. The bastard picked the boy up onto his horse, calling back to him and they ran back to their army, with their cheers, taunts, and jeers echoing in the chilling air.
You played your games, and now they're gone.' He could still hear his soft-spoken father's cold words, castigating him from beyond the grave. Ramsay stared at his lost prey with shock and anger, and that once again another toy slipped from his clutches. Clenching his fists tightly, his bow creaking under the strain, he roughly handed it off to a squire before getting on his horse and ordering the cavalry to charge.
As the bastard retreated, the wildlings charged in response, leaving the cavalry and any sense of tactics behind them as they spread out. It might be how they fought beyond the wall, but they didn't seem to have a clue on how to fight cavalry. 'It looks like the former lord commander can only lead a handful of farm boys and thieves' he thought, chortling with amusement as he was about to witness well over half of his enemies be crushed under hooves and lances. Lacking any familiarity with the term discipline, the wildlings had easily passed the range of their archers, so this couldn't be an attempt to lure them into their range, as feeble-minded as an attempt would have been.
Looking past them to their 'commander', he wasn't even paying attention. It appears that he considers the rescue of his family more important than the battle he was about to lose, and Ramsay couldn't help but laugh.
His laughter died as quickly as the front ranks of his cavalry, who were quickly followed by the second rank tripping, crashing, and vaulting over them. Due to having the high ground, Ramsay had an unobstructed view of all two thousand or so wildlings pull out a short bow previously hidden behind their backs and start firing at will. The loud neighs and screams of the dying, horses and men alike, reverberated throughout the battlefield. The wildlings quickly swept in, slaughtering whoever survived the initial onslaught and silencing their cries.
In most circumstances, the cacophony of their brutality would have brought the Bolton a wistful smile, but now it only brought him frustration, and he was inches away from losing the composure expected of a commander and lord.
'No. How is this possible? It was… a trap? I AM THE ONE WHO LAYS THE TRAPS!' Ramsay was fuming at the thought of having been outplayed.
XXXX Flashback, Stark War Tent, The Night Before XXXX
"Maybe I didn't hear you right, Davos, but you want us to what?" Tormund asked the Onion Knight in disbelief.
"You heard me clearly. You should all charge towards the cavalry." Davos answered with a stern voice.
"I'm not familiar with battle strategy like you southerners, but that sounds a lot like suicide. Shall we cut our throats and save them the trouble?"
"No, and it isn't." Taking a moment to ponder the best way to present his idea, "What is the opinion of the Free Folk in the eyes of, as you say, us southerners?"
Not even taking a moment, "That were wild savages, it's why you call us wildlings after all. Why?" Tormund frowned, not seeing the older man's point.
"I'm getting to it, but what's life like beyond the wall?"
"Harsh, cold…"
Davos interrupted, "No, I don't mean what's it like beyond the wall, I mean what do you do?"
"Move around, fight other clans, hunt…"
"And how do you hunt?"
"How else? With traps, bows, and arrows, get to the point." Tormund felt a bit irritated with these seemingly pointless questions, so Davos obliged him.
"I'm going to make a guess and say that everyone of your men knows how to hunt?" He asked, his final question. Jon picked up on the idea he was leading to.
"That means we have two thousand archers that they don't know about. So when you all charge, they'll think you all merely lack an army's discipline. Instead, you spread out and go hunting." He was surprised by the simplicity of the plan. It was a bit risky, but it was much better than what they had before. But one question came to the forefront of his mind.
"Tormund, what was Mance's plan once he passed the Wall? He must have been expecting a lot of fighting."
He shrugged, "Don't know, but he was having a lot of us make arrowheads."
"Just arrowheads?" That didn't make much sense to Davos. Arrows, sure, but just one part wouldn't do much good.
"Yeah, we were making so much I was starting to get worried we'd trip over them all." Tormund quipped.
"…Caltrops." Jon whispered in mild disgust.
"What are those?" He asked, not having heard of them before.
"They're small, pointy objects fashioned to fight cavalry. Place them on the ground, and when horses charge over them… they can be quite effective if used right, but they've been frowned upon for centuries."
Frowning at the idea of honor on the battlefield, Sansa rebutted, "Jon, we're outnumbered at least 2 to 1. I would rather have us win with a dirty trick than die with honor." 'Like Father.' She silently added.
Seeing Jon still uneasy about the idea, Davos told a story of a past battle. "When I served Stannis, we laid siege to King's Landing. As our fleet entered Blackwater Bay, only one of their ships was sent in response. Over fifty of our ships were destroyed by that one ship, and that formed a blockade that forced us to land further away than we wanted to, leading to even more casualties and delayed our siege enough for Lannister and Tyrell forces to arrive."
"As I later found out, Tyrion Lannister had filled it with Wildfire, and we discovered that only too late." He stopped, briefly haunted by the images of bright green fire consuming his son. "Dirty tricks are expected in war, and only looked down on by those who didn't think of it themselves. Ignoring, of course, that those same people would have done the if given the opportunity."
Taking a moment of thought, Jon nodded. "All right, but we'll have to be quick and quiet. No doubt they have scouts watching the camp. Which brings me to ask something you and the Free Folk probably won't like."
XXXX End Flashback XXXX
Thinking of the conversation that followed put a small smile on Jon's face, reminiscing on Tormund's initial reaction for having some of his stealthiest men dress in black to hide crudely constructed caltrops across the field, leaving a small gap for him to ride across to lure them out with Rickon's rescue. Usually, they would have been made with metal, but they would have easily been spotted glinting in the daylight due to how short the grass was. Stone, on the other hand, was much more difficult to notice.
It had gone much better than Jon Snow, Ser Davos, or anyone else had expected. Still, it wasn't flawless, as a few dozen had been killed putting down the remains of the cavalrymen who had fought to the last. However, expecting to win without having death on both sides is a fool's idea. All negatives aside, this was still a great victory, but the battle was not yet over.
Except for one problem. The boy that he had rescued was not Rickon Stark. He had not seen his youngest brother in over six years, but he remembered that the young lad had bright blue eyes like his mother. Looking into this one's nervous gaze, he had hazel eyes. He had risked his life for an innocent, yes, and there was honor in that. But the action wasn't even for family like he had thought before.
"What's your real name, boy?" He asked in a calm tone. It wasn't this boy's fault, after all.
"J-Jarvas, m'lord." The boy stuttered, fearing for his life, even after his rescue.
"I'm no lord, Jarvas." Jon corrected the boy. "My name is Jon Snow. Tell me, did they know that you were not Rickon Stark?"
"Only Lord Umber, m'lo-…" He stopped, not wanting to be corrected again.
His mind raced through the implications of this revelation as he gently set Jarvas down on the ground. "On the other side of those woods is our camp. Tell them I sent you, and they'll feed you. I swear that no harm will come to you."
"T-thank you." Jarvas rushed off, quickly fleeing the battle.
Putting aside all thought but the battle, he turned his horse about. The Bolton infantry were advancing, practically charging. He knew that Ramsay Bolton could not and would not give up. He ruled with fear, and if he were to retreat, than that would be gone. The coward didn't advance himself, content with remaining in the rear with a reserve comprised mostly of Umber men, which was another strange thing. He had heard stories of Umber men, and how they had always fought to be in the vanguard. Combined with the Rickon imposter, these facts didn't add up.
Out of their archers' range, half of the Bolton infantry packed together into box-like formations, layering their shields to completely surround the men, leaving only a thin gap under the 'roof' for vision and spears poking out between the shields. There were over a dozen of these boxes before they started to move. The other half remained behind, coming together in an impressive shield wall.
Their plan was clear. Get close enough to his forces with relative safety behind their tower shield formation, and while the men were distracted fighting, the other half would close in. In all honesty, it was a good strategy, and likely had been successful many times in wars past.
With the boxes slow pace and hard shell, they reminded Jon Snow of turtles when he had visited White Harbor with Father and Robb. On a whim, he had gone to the kitchens, as he was barred from the lords' solar during the meeting due to his status. There, he had seen the cooks making turtle soup. He had asked how they had gotten the animal out of its hard shell, and the head cook simply replied, "With a hammer."
Smiling with fondness in memory of those easier days, Jon watched as the turtles approached. Some of the men loosed arrows, but their shells did their job for the most part, with an occasional lucky shaft falling through the gaps, as shown by some corpses being left behind, trampled by the rest of the men as they continued their gradual pace.
This time however, neither the Free Folk, nor the rest of his army charged. Their weapons were brandished, and they were ready to fight, but they awaited orders, his orders. That still took him aback for a moment, though he did not show it. He hid his moment of doubt through his stoic expression, a 'lord face' as his father had called it. Up until a few hours ago, it all seemed so abstract, leading an army to take back his home, our home, he reminded himself.
The cavalry also stood ready, for they would do more harm than good crashing into those formations. What they needed was a very large hammer.
Turning his head back and whistling loudly, his hammer charged out of the woods, taking the form of the roaring giant Wun Wun, now holding a large club fashioned out of a tree trunk.
XXXX Bolton infantryman XXXX
Giants were only in the stories, everybody knew that. So to have one pop out of the woods, thundering towards them, and more specifically his group, with a 'club' that looked like a tree ripped out of the ground was a frightening image. The giant roared and raised his club, ignoring the spear that carved a shallow gash into its leg and swung it in a low sweep, demolishing everything in its path.
No one on that side had survived the blow, and they became little more than pulp after being crushed like grapes. But they did cushion the blow enough to have him, who was on the other side of the shell, to only have been flung back a few feet. Landing on his back, he turned his head and saw the giant stride right next to him, paying the other men sprawled out on the ground no mind as it repeated his attack on the other shells with equal effect. Slowly getting up, he felt a sharp pain in his neck as an arrow pierced right through his throat. The last thing that the man saw as his vision darkened, choking on his own blood, were the fur-clad wildlings, following the charge of a black-haired man in Stark leathers.
XXXX Ramsay XXXX
To say that this battle was not going as expected was an understatement for the Bolton boiling with fury. All his plans were less than smoke in the wind as he was being played for a fool, as his army was being massacred.
"Archers, advance and focus on that giant. BRING IT DOWN!" He yelled, all sense of composure gone. They scrambled to follow his orders, hearing the fury in his command.
"They're better than we thought." He heard Smalljon comment beside him on foot, his ancestral greatsword planted in the ground. He barely restrained the urge to snarl at the man like one of his hounds, and slowly brought his rage down to a simmer.
However, ho could not resist the urge to comment, "Here I thought you relished killing the wildlings, but here you are, hiding in the rear." He sought to tug on Umber's famed pride and lust for battle, leading him to charge and rally his men.
Instead, the large man responded in kind, "You're one to talk, Bolton. From where I stand, you're back here too." He chuckled, "Seems that Lord Snow had the right idea, after all."
"And what is that, Lord Umber?" Ramsay hissed through his gritting teeth.
Picking up his sword to rest the blade over his shoulder, Smalljon asked accusatorily, "Why should we fight for you, when you won't fight for us?" He raised his blade, and cleaved through both legs on the horse's right side with a loud battle cry. With a loud whinny of pain, it toppled to the ground, bringing Ramsay down with it. Landing on his leg, he felt more than heard the wet snap of his shin, crushed under the horse's weight.
He bit his tongue harshly due to the shock of the tumble. The taste of copper filled his mouth, but it helped focus his mind and prevent him from rightfully screaming from the pain. As he looked outward, he could see the other Umber men springing into action, cutting down his men with powerful blows. Smalljon wasted no time in attacking the previously silent Lord Karstark, decapitating him with ease. Taken by surprise, they stood no chance against the heavily-armed berserkers.
The dim sunlight, which passed through the sky heavy with clouds, was further obscured by the large figure of Smalljon Umber standing next to him, his blade planted again into the ground next to his face.
"Do you know the words of House Umber, bastard?" He calmly asked, as if he didn't just attack his 'liege lord'.
Grunting and lightly groaning through the pain to clear his head, it took a few moments to recall. Spitting out the blood that was filling his mouth, "All chains but one, broken." The wound on his tongue caused his words to adopt a small slur, but he was still intelligible.
"Very good, Lord Bolton." He responded mockingly. "That 'one chain' is loyalty. Loyalty to House Stark."
His eyes widened even further, "But you brought Rickon, and the head of his direwolf."
The lord of Last Hearth laughed at his confusion. "I didn't bring Rickon Stark, nor his direwolf neither. They're both safe at Last Hearth. That boy was a farmer's son named Jarvas that looked close enough to Rickon. Also, have you ever seen a direwolf before?" He asked incredulously. "They're massive beasts. What I brought was just a plain wolf. Shaggydog, I think its name is, is about the size of a small horse." Seeing that direwolf reminded him of seeing Grey Wind in their campaign south.
Mulling those thoughts in head as well as he could, even after a fresh wave of agony as the horse squirmed above him, "We had a deal, an alliance, Umber."
"HA! I never bent the knee to you, Bolton. As much as I would like to kill you now, I think that others have a greater claim." He jerked his head towards the battle, where the second half of shielded infantry was advancing. "Now if you'll excuse me, my lord, I've a battle to fight."
He turned to his men, who had finished cutting down the Bolton half of the rear guard. "Ten of you, stay here and make sure this leech here stays alive. The rest of us, TO BATTLE!" He cried with a loud echo, quickly joined by the rest of his men as they charged with a berserker rage.
XXXX Smalljon Umber XXXX
The archers were the closest, so they would be the first to die. They had turned to see what they were shouting about, but they were too late to mount a proper defense against them. Some dropped their bows in shock, others to draw their swords, and some of the smart ones kept enough wits about them to fire a couple of arrows, not that it did any good. A thousand Umber men at arms, mostly wielding greatswords, against a couple hundred archers taken by surprise? There was no contest.
Which pissed him off all the more because one of those lucky arrows grazed his cheek, barely missing his eye, and sunk into the eye and brain of a man right behind him. Quickly glancing back, he recognized the man by his blond hair and red, threadbare cloak as Felix Stone. He was a bastard from the Vale that traveled the world as a sell-sword before settling down in the service of his House. He told many gripping stories of his travels over a few horns of ale around the fire. Bellowing with a renewed rage at the loss of a good man, he cut down all in his path, his eyes never leaving the man who fired that arrow, and split the man now pissing himself with terror in twain, and spit on the corpse for good measure.
What was left of the Bolton army was now fully engaged in battle. Some were lost due to a cavalry charge, but with them now mixed in with the Stark forces, they would be more of a nuisance if they entered the fray. But the Stark cavalry had found whom they believed an easier target, namely them.
"STAND DOWN!" He called out to his men, as much as he hated to say it. If they jumped into battle without a thought, those who believed them to be enemies would cut them down. 'Shame, looks to be a good one.' With clear disdain for the situation, they laid down their weapons in surrender as the cavalry surrounded them, before a cavalry officer ordered them to. Instead, the man leading the cavalry, a slightly balding man with a greying, well-kept beard and a steel gorget, asked, "Who's in charge here?"
"That would be me, Jon of House Umber, Lord of Last Hearth! Who are you?"
"Davos, of House Seaworth." The man on horseback finally took notice of all the Bolton corpses on the ground. "Have you gone turncoat again, my lord?"
Jon spit on the ground, "We're not fucking turncoats! We remain loyal to House Stark, as we have for over a thousand years!" He pointed behind him, "Back there, you'll find proof. Ramsay Bolton himself, captured and now prisoner."
Davos was not expecting that. It would appear that men of the North were indeed more loyal, as the Lady Sansa had said back at Castle Black. "Fuck it, I'll let Jon Snow decide what to do with you. In the mean time, we'll wait."
Cavalry wouldn't be much use in that chaos of a battle anyway, and if this was a trick, they would be preventing reinforcements, and he had heard stories from Tormund and other Free Folk about how fierce Umber warriors were. They had led raids on their lands, and were lucky enough to get away with it.
XXXX Jon Snow, Battle XXXX
At this point in the battle, there was no plan other than kill as many as you could without dying. Within the chaos of large-scale combat, the tower shield became a hindrance. While they were a formidable defense in organized formations, they were heavy and slowed the wielder down in more individual fighting, something that his forces were quick to catch up on. While easily defending an attack in the front, they were stabbed or slashed in the back. Smart Bolton men dropped their massive shields for more mobility, which made the battle a bit more even, but by that time, the Boltons and Karstarks were severely outnumbered. Deprived of several of their previous advantages, and a lowered morale to boot, they recognized that they were outmatched as well.
With that in mind, they began to surrender. After the first one threw down his armaments in the mud and kneeled, the idea quickly spread like a plague, leaving about 2000 men, Bolton and Karstark, but no Umber, kneeling the ground awaiting judgment.
Breathing deeply to calm the rush in his veins from the battle, he saw the cavalry surrounding another large group of men, likely the Umbers. Spotting Tormund in the crowd, Jon walked towards him.
Tormund saw him approach, "Well, seems we won." He spoke simply, slightly in awe that they had prevailed against such odds.
"Aye, it looks that way. We need to get these men in chains. We'll figure out what to do with them later. I'll find out what Ser Davos is doing." With that, Jon Snow walked at a fast pace to the cavalry, not bothering to sheathe Longclaw.
XXXX Smalljon Umber XXXX
He didn't have to wait long for Jon Snow, as the man had walked past the horses, and walked towards him without hesitation.
Smalljon Umber had met Lord Eddard 'Ned' Stark several years before his ill-fated journey south. He had served Robb Stark, the King in the North. If he didn't know better, he would have said that the man standing before him was the true Stark, for he looked more like a Stark than the deceased king, who looked more like a Tully due to his mother.
Lord Snow kept eye contact with him, grey eyes so dark they were almost black, staring him down with the chill of winter in his gaze. Slowly shifting his gaze to the rest of the Umber men, "You have not suffered many casualties, Lord Umber. Why have you surrendered?" His voice carried none of the polite tone that he kept during their meeting yesterday, but was instead as cold as the Wall, harsh and unforgiving.
Rather than answer with words alone, he took his sword and bent the knee. "House Umber remains loyal to House Stark, as we always have. Ramsay Bolton is now your prisoner, as proof. How is Jarvas?"
"Stand, my lord. I am not a Stark." His voice sounded a bit weary. "And Jarvas is fine. A bit shaken, but that is to be expected from his ordeal. He should be safe at our camp by now." Davos looked between the two, confused as to whom they were talking about.
Complying with his request, Smalljon sighed in relief. He added, "That's good, he's a brave lad. As to you being a Stark, perhaps not by name, no. But by blood and by deed, I see a Stark standing before me."
The former crow took a deep breath, taking his measure, but before he could reply, a horn sounded in the distance. Looking to the source of the sound, he frowned. "They're late. I need a horse. Ser Davos, Lord Umber, with me." Two of the cavalry dismounted, leaving both Jons to replace them, as they mounted and rode off to the hill where a large force of cavalry under the banner of a white falcon and a crescent moon on a blue field, the Arryn banner.
XXXX Sansa XXXX
She wasn't sure to expect as she rode up the hill to take her first glimpse of the battle below. Would the field have piles of corpses? Had their plans been all for naught? Would Jon have been defeated, his army slaughtered and awaiting Ramsay's hounds? She didn't know, and she hid her nerves behind an impassive face and her armor of courtesy. Even here, surrounded by 'allies', such measures was necessary because of the man riding next to her, a man named Petyr Baelish.
What she, nor Littlefinger, nor the Vale Army expected was the battle to already be over; and based on who was still standing and who was not, it would seem like it was a massive victory in favor of her brother, who was riding towards them with Ser Davos, and strangely Jon 'Smalljon' Umber as well. Why was a traitor riding with them, and armed no less?
Once they were close enough, one look in her brother's eyes and she could tell that he was angry, hidden behind an icy exterior.
Her brother spoke to the army with an icy tone, "Greetings, Knights of the Vale. What bring you all so far in the North?" He asked, even though he knew the answer, as though there weren't remnants of a battle behind him.
Next to her, Baelish answered in his admittedly charismatic voice and his small, smarmy smile, "Well met, you must be Jon Snow. I've heard much about you." He had not. Baelish and her have talked about many things during their travels together, but nothing pertaining to the Night's Watch, where Jon had been at the time. It was highly likely that he knew about her brother's election to Lord Commander, but deemed the knowledge not important enough to share with her. "I am Petyr Baelish, Acting Lord Paramount of the Vale."
If he had been expecting Jon to have been impressed or moved by his introduction, he was not. The biggest reaction he had received was a raised eyebrow from Ser Davos. "You have not answered my question. What brings you so far in the North?"
"We, at Lady Sansa's request, have come to assist in the retaking of Winterfell."
"I am pleased to hear that the bond between the North and the Vale remains strong, my lords, but your assistance is no longer necessary. As you can see…" He gestured behind him, "The battle is over, and Winterfell will fly Stark banners once more shortly."
She could tell that Baelish was becoming irritated at being treated so dismissively from someone he considered beneath him by the near imperceptible twitch in his left eye. "Oh, really? And how do you plan on accomplishing such a mighty feat?"
Instead of Jon, the larger and thicker bearded Jon Umber answered. "Some of my men are inside the gates, and should be opening them shortly. If not, then as proof of House Umber's continued loyalty, Lady Stark, we have taken Lord Bolton prisoner…" He pointed to where his ten men still surrounded Ramsay, his leg no longer being crushed by his horse, "Right over there."
Looking over to where he pointed, she could see that he told the truth. Looking even farther, she gasped in surprise and a bright smile grew on her face. For above the ancient stronghold of Winterfell, the banner of the flayed man had been struck down, and once more the banner of a grey direwolf over a snow-white field flew proudly.
XXXXXXXXXXXXX
After the battle, it was determined the side fighting for the Starks had suffered minor casualties; about five hundred Free Folk, thirty cavalry, and one fourth of the men from the various other houses. Interestingly enough, no fighter from House Mormont had died during the course of the battle. It would seem that Lady Lyanna's claim held merit.
The same could not be said for their opponents. All eight hundred Bolton/Karstark cavalry had been annihilated, and their infantry had been reduced to two thousand prisoners awaiting judgment.
As Jon and Sansa walked through the gates, they felt the winds die and the air become a bit warmer, as if the keep itself was welcoming its true owners home after so long without a Stark to rule it.
XXXX One week later XXXX
The three Starks, Jon, Sansa, and Rickon, the real one this time, stood in front of the cast-iron door to the kennels. In the center, seated and secured with rope was Ramsay, having received mild treatment for his leg, but no milk of the poppy. It would do no justice to have him die before his execution.
Raising his head, as if he had been slumbering, he looked at his 'wife', and only at her. "Ah, Sansa. Hello, Sansa." He spoke softly, almost affectionately, but she knew very well that it was a lie. Looking around a bit, "Is this where I'll be staying now?" His voice was calm, relaxed, as if he could talk his way out of this. The ropes creaked every time he moved.
He continued. "No." He was almost speaking more to himself than the three before him. "Our time together is about to come to an end." He chortled. "That's all right. I'm a part of you now."
Sansa replied with a voice that carried no emotion, "Your words will disappear. Your house will disappear. Your name will disappear. All memory of you will disappear." Ramsay no longer seemed amused as she talked, and he stared back at her with a sense of finality.
After giving a small smile after she finished, he heard the growl of one of his hounds, his most prized one in fact. Hearing another hound growl, he turned and saw another one walk out of its kennel, and now all three were within his field of vision.
Scoffing as he realized her plan to kill him, "My hounds will never harm me."
Speaking up, Jon Snow said, "You haven't fed them in seven days, or so you boasted."
"They're loyal beasts."
"They were, my lord, and then you starved them. We didn't, and now they have new masters."
He heard two unfamiliar, deeper growls behind him, but he could not turn around far enough to see the two sources.
He no longer had to strain himself, for two large direwolves, one almost thrice as large as one of his hounds and black as night strolled past him on his left. On his right, an even larger direwolf with fur as white as snow and eyes as red as blood. They padded to the entrance, turned around, and sat down on their haunches, staring at him with a cruel, uncanny intelligence and malice.
Seeing such massive beasts stirred panic in Ramsay, try as he might to resist such a primal response.
With a short, loud bark from Ghost, clearly the alpha of the beasts, the hounds descended on their former master, tearing flesh from bone one bite a time, the sound of Ramsay being ripped apart interspersed with howling, and barking, and the tearing of clothes to expose the flesh underneath. The three Starks and the two direwolves remained where they were, silent as they watched their revenge unfold until no more screams could be heard.
Rickon turned away, unaccustomed to this level of violence, and threatened to be sick. Jon watched, but he took no pleasure in this. All that mattered to him was that justice and revenge had been served.
They dismissed it as a trick of the light, but Sansa's brothers could have sworn to the old gods that the smile on her face matched one that would not have been out of place on the man currently being eaten alive before them.
XXXXXXXXXXXXX
Chapter End
I originally was going to write this in a How it Should Have Ended style, but it ended up more in tune with Leverage.
I also added the Umber theory I had, before BotB, of how they would betray the Boltons and turn the tide against them.
There's a subtle Warhammer reference. Felix, as in from the Gotrek & Felix novels.
I moved Davos to the cavalry.
If I continue this, the next chapter will be 6x10, if these changes were to have occurred. Anything after that will be reactions from other players of the Great Game.