Disclaimer: GRRM owns all.

This story is based on the Battle of Thermopylae, which after reading the Frank Miller comic 300 inspired me to write this short story where those same circumstances happen in Westeros.

Yeah if you're reading this for extreme utter realism then turn away because I'm that kind of person and I'm self-aware of the unlikely hood of this story happening in Westeros. However, if you like the idea of this story, perhaps even the battle of Thermopylae itself or just 300, then stick around to read I think you may like it.

Just to give some background about where Westeros is at in this universe. Daenerys and Aegon Targaryen rule as King and Queen in the South while Jon Targaryen Stark and Sansa Stark rule as King and Queen in the North. This is after the ASOIAF saga because the Others have been defeated and the kingdoms are at peace.

I decided to post the story as a whole seeing as it's so short. No need to treat it like an actual lengthy fanfic where I update every so often.

This story will be POV format and in the same style as all of my stories.

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That symbol signifies a change in POV during a chapter.

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Chapter 1

Rickon

We march.

From dear Winterfell, from the heart of the North, we march. For honor's sake, for glory' sake, for duty's sake, we march.

The cold summer winds are at our back as the green fields of the North lie before us. For the pass near White Harbor we go, only the handful of us. Only the group of men chosen by the King to hold the North in the name of our freedoms. It was over eighteen years ago when the Others were defeated and the Seven Kingdoms finally were in peace, but a growing cloud from the East threatened that peace. A cloud that had been stirring since Robert Baratheon, the First of His Name had usurped the crown all those years ago.

We march now to defend our families, our homes, and all we love. Only us…only three hundred who came from Winterfell.

Rickon Stark, the Master-at-arms, Captain of the Royal Guard, and Castellan of Winterfell watches as one of the young lads named Martyn fell down from exhaustion. He took a whole host of men with him and they made a loud crash when they did. The King ordered a hault, but Rickon knew that this would not be pardoned by him. Time was not on their side and they had to sometimes march through the night to arrive at the pass in time…the Hot Gates they were referred to as by those who lived near White Harbor. Known for their hot springs the pass was narrow but close enough for an army to land ashore. It was a pass narrow enough to hold them off giving Queen Daenerys enough time and the rest of the North to rally their armies.

Rickon ordered the men to a halt. The wind whistled in the air and his auburn hair flew in his face. Rickon walked forward in frustration as the young lad Martyn got up from the ground. He grabbed his helm and shield, shaking the dizziness from his head. The others did the same around him. Rickon walked up to the lad, pulled him by his neck and stared at him in the eyes. "Martyn, you clown!" he admonished. The boy looked at him with wide blue eyes. He was at an age with Prince Robb, he knew. The crown prince to the Northern Kingdom. "You know this cannot go unpunished. Three times you have fallen. Three times you have made us stop our march. Three times, lad!"

He nodded. "I am ready for my punishment, Ser."

Discipline. That is what the man from the East had taught them when he introduced his new style of fighting to King Jon. Duty. Is what he had emphasized. Honor. Is what he said was most important above all. "Are you sure?" Rickon asked him.

Martyn nodded as he punched the lad in the stomach, throwing him to the ground. The men behind him cheered on, knowing the lad was being accepted by them. He fell to the ground clutching his stomach as Rickon kicked him once more. If the men were not taught that actions had consequences this was all for nothing. The lad groaned as Rickon kicked him in the back once more. The shock of hitting the lads armor sent a shock up his foot but he did not care.

He beat him a few more times until he heard faintly what sounded like an order from his brother-cousin, the King. "Enough!" Jon Targaryen Stark bellowed but Rickon did not care to stop.

Rickon knew that the King would not repeat the order and suddenly he was looking up at the sky as his back met the ground. His king stood over him looking like an old wolf, a leader of men. His grey eyes revealed that he had seen many things, his long black-brown hair rested below his ears, his black-brown beard with a couple streaks of grey conveyed the wisdom he now had. Even with his age he was still as youthful as any of these soldiers he had brought with him. It was if the man never aged in spirit.

"Up, Rickon," he ordered. Rickon got up and rubbed the back of his head. It was throbbing in pain and Rickon saw Martyn with a bruise on his face already forming, nose bloodied as well. Rickon turned to see his shield on the floor, his helm and spear with it. His back ached as well and he knew it would be hard for him to carry all that weight.

The King in his armor with his grey cape looked to Martyn. "You, Martyn, carry Ser Rickon's things. That is your punishment." He looked to the rest of you. "We march with no food and water until we camp for the night seeing as the rest of you were so quick not to help your comrade-in-arms. We are one unit, one fist, and need to be there for each other. That punishment goes for me as well."

Not a word was ushered by the men but as Martyn picked up Rickon's things to carry he received harsh looks from them all. Rickon moved to the head of the column and Jon only looked forward. "Move out!" he ordered and the three-hundred began to march again.

"Nice going, Martyn!" The men grumbled from behind. "Don't be such a clumsy oaf, next time!"

In shame, we march.

The night sky greeted them as they made camp for the night. Stars filled the night sky as if they were dots on a black field and the summer wind blows cool through the grassy plans. Rickon sat around the fire and spun his stories of heroism and exaggeration. The men were all settling for the night: some sat around fires eating, some drinking water, some stretching and sharpening their swords. Rickon saw even a few were combing out their long hair and others polished their shields. But many gathered around to hear him tell their favorite story.

"It was cold North of the Wall," Rickon said. He was a tall man now, broad and strong with youth on his side. A leader of men who had seen many winters now since Ser Davos had rescued him from Skaggos. He was telling his story about the lad named Azor Ahai, the legend who defeated the Night's King. "The hero was tired from battle, wounded from cuts and sore from sitting on dragon's scales. It was his baptism in combat after being reborn—he would vanquish the Night's King or die trying. He was far from home and had fought on his mighty green dragon, Rhaegal. Sending fire down upon the Others and their King.

The dragon had been killed by ice arrows and spears. It gave a mighty roar and crashed into the snow, sending Azor Ahai into the ground. He stood up from the snow surrounded by Others with nothing but his sword Lightbringer. Defenseless they circled around him and now he felt like prey.

The Others opened up for the Night's King to walk through and meet him. The King of the Others drew his mighty sword made of ice circling Azor Ahai as if he were a beast taking down his prey. Did Azor Ahai run? Did he cower? Did he cry? No. Not this man. Not the man he had been reborn as. Azor Ahai drew his sword of flame, Lighbringer, and was calm. All sense of fear had been extinguished when he was reborn in salt and smoke. The cold winter winds screamed and the Night's King charged at him. Back-and-forth they went, Ice and Fire, dancing around each other making music in the night. When all seemed lost, fate showed itself to him. Quickly he trapped the Night's King and destroyed his great ice sword. His form was perfect, his thrust timely, and Lighbringer took the head off the King of the Others.

The Others around him gave a ghastly screech and became nothing but piles of ice on the ground. And so the man who had been given up for dead by the army of wildlings, peoples of the Seven Kingdoms, and the Targaryens with their dragons…returned, a King! Our King! King Jon Stark! Ahoooo!"

"Ahooo! Ahooo! Ahooo!" The men around him yelled, thrusting their fists and spears in the air.

Rickon looked to see King Jon by himself standing looking at the stars. His brown-black hair danced in the wind, his grey cape with it. Looking towards Winterfell, no doubt. He knew that his mind was in the moment, but his heart was with Sansa and their children. Rickon knew he disliked it when he told this story, not because it wasn't what happened but because the battle for Westeros was more saddening than it was heroic. Yet Jon always stood close enough to listen and stood far enough to seem as if he was not interested. King Jon wrapped himself in his grey cape and turned to them. His silver eyes shimmered as the orange-hue of the fires shone on his face. Rickon saw the scars on there he had received North of the Wall as well. "Enough with the stories, lads," he said. "Get your sleep. We march again at dawn."

Rickon awoke in the middle of the night to see Jon walking around the camp wrapped in his grey cloak and holding his spear. Most of the campfires were smoldering yet some burned brightly to ward off animals. The men were all asleep around them. All slept draped in their cloaks and used their shields for pillows. Rickon stood from the ground, wrapped himself in his grey cloak and walked to his king.

"Jon," he said quietly. His brother-cousin turned to face him and nodded. "Why aren't you sleeping with the rest of us? King, you are, but a king still needs his sleep like all men."

"I cannot sleep, Rickon," he told him. They walked past the sleeping men and moved to a part of the camp where you could hear nothing but crickets and see the stars. "I just want to be alone with my thoughts."

"I know what you mean. I also feel the same from time-to-time."

Jon nodded. He had changed since the Battle of Winterfell, since he had learned he was not the bastard of Eddard Stark but the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. He had grown wiser, more stoic and did not care for childish things anymore like stories of grandure and heroism. The Prince that was Promised, he was called by most in the Seven Kingdoms. But to Rickon he was Jon—only Jon. When the Others had been defeated Aegon Targaryen and Daenerys had planned to marry, to keep the Targaryen tradition going, and planned to make Jon Warden of the North. They planned to make the Targaryens a dynasty again and planned to sit on the Iron Throne once more. But Jon would not have it and told them he either wanted to be King of the North—to rule separate from the Seven Kingdoms and not get involved in their affairs—or to not rule at all. Left with only the option of fighting their Targaryen relative in battle or losing half of their kingdom, Queen Daenerys and Aegon conceded to his demand. They knew that all of the common folk of the South, the North, and even the wildlings loved Jon that most of them would go to war for him in a moments notice. He was a mythical figure to them all, the man that defeated the Others and saved Westeros. Seeing as they had no other choice, Daenerys crowned Jon as the King in the North and Sansa as his queen. The North would rule only over themselves, the South over themselves, but they remained allies nonetheless. Should they face a common enemy once again or should a kingdom rise to threaten the South, Jon and Daenerys were to help each other. Such were the events they faced today.

"Do you?" Jon asked him, taking Rickon out of his thoughts. "I feel as if the weight of the world is on my shoulders. Nothing but this small force of three-hundred northmen, three-hundred of the best the North has to offer, stands between our lands and the invaders from the East."

"Other lords have pledged to meet us at the Hot Gates. The Karstarks, the Manderlys, Flints—"

"—It's not enough, Rickon. The entire East has risen up against us. Gone are the Free Cities. Ruled by a mad tyrant they are—a mad tyrant who wishes for Westeros to either submit or pay our debts. We cannot do either. All we can do is fight."

"Do you know how many have come to fight us?"

"Some say two-hundred thousand."

"Two-hundred thousand?! What can we do against such a force?"

"We can fight or die. This weight is too much, I feel. Daenerys and Aegon need time to marshal their forces, and it will take time to move north."

"Why do they invade the North and not at the Blackwater?"

"They will be expecting that. They know that it will be easier to move from the North and hold Moat Cailin than to do the opposite."

Rickon saw the truth in that. As the crickets sang he asked, "What is it you feel, Jon?" He could only call him that in-private.

The King sighed. "It's been nineteen years since the events of the story you told earlier. And now, as then, it is not fear that grips me. No. Not fear. It is only a sense of restlessness, a sense of duty and what is right. A sense to protect the helpless and try to bring those three-hundred snoring men behind me back home to their families."

"They'd die for you, Jon. You know that. I would, too."

He snorted. "Die for me…that's real poetic, isn't it? As if any of you know what it means to die for someone else."

"These men are battle-hardened, they're the best we have to offer. Every man here has fathered sons to carry on their name, save young Martyn."

"I know, Rickon, but all men say they're ready to die until it stares them right in the face."

"Nonetheless, they knew what they signed up for. They knew what this meant. They knew the cloud in the East that approaches our shores as the Others did all those years ago. But this force of Others is made of men, horses, spears, and swords. An army so diverse and vast it is said they make the ground shake as they march. And they want to kill us all, bound by the whims of a mad tyrant. This beast approaches, Jon, and only we can stop it."

Jon looked remorseful. "I could have stopped it. I could have if I had not provoked them into it."

"Provocation or not, their invasion was imminent. You know Aegon and Daenerys are at fault for this. You know of what I speak, Jon. That slave revolt Queen Daenerys incited years ago at the behest of King Aegon. They supplied arms to the rebelling slaves and even officers to command them. She caused trouble in the East by doing that, crippling their economy. Mazor comes for revenge."

"As is his right," Jon admitted. "I hate slavery myself but Daenerys knew that this day would come—the day where the East looked for retribution."

"So as you said, this was unavoidable. You did not provoke it."

"I've wondered that myself but I knew I made the right choice barely a year ago. The north would not have submitted to foreign rule." He laid a hand on Rickon's shoulder. "Get some sleep, Rickon. Tomorrow we make for those hot springs. Tomorrow we face our fate."

His king gave a solemn smile and walked away. Rickon went back to sleep and thought on what had happened a year ago when the messenger from the East came to Winterfell.