Author's Note: This is all I have for the moment, and it's unlikely I'll go back to it, but... I think you can infer from this how everything ends :)
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The fight was bizarrely anti-climactic.
They had fought for less than an hour before the screech of dragons rent the air. Jon and the other commanders began yelling for their men to retreat, much to the bemusement of their opponents. Ramsay started cackling in delight at this show of cowardice, until a triad of dark shapes approached in the sky and began flambéing his men.
The white one flew high over the archers, and while they loosed a thousand ineffectual arrows that missed it completely, the green dragon flew in from behind, quite low, and turned them all to ash. The black one went straight for the cavalry, seeming almost to grin as they tried to run away, horses panicking and disobeying their riders in their frantic attempts to escape. Almost without effort, it swept down and bathed them all in a sea of fire.
Then the three joined ranks and coursed over the foot soldiers, mowing them down until there was nothing left but ashes floating in the air, sparkling like a new snowfall.
All told, it took fewer than five minutes before the unroasted remains of the Bolton forces deserted the charred corpses of their fellows and the battlefield.
Ramsey, alone and abandoned— even by his horse, which bucked him off before fleeing- tried to follow them in escape, but one of the dragons peeled off from the other two and herded him back with strategic blasts of fire until he was surrounded on all sides by the landed beasts.
It was all far too close for Sandor's comfort. He was sure he'd be having nightmares for years, about the flames spewing from their huge maws and the smell of cooking flesh.
A crash behind him had him spinning around to find the doors flung open. He searched for and found Sansa's bright hair as she pelted down the stairs and across the yard, toward him. As she approached, he saw that her cheeks were wet with tears.
"You're safe, you're safe," she chanted, flinging herself at him, heedless of the gore on his armor or the sweat on his face as she covered it with kisses. Then she pulled away and launched herself at her brother, then at Brienne, and even at Tormund and Davos and Edd, before returning to Sandor and nestling herself close into his side.
He thought, absently, that he should be embarrassed to be so fussed over by a woman. And not just any woman: a lady, the sister of a king. A beauty, kind and brave and strong. And likely mad as a shithouse rat, if she'd put aside those long-held dreams of a handsome, princely knight for a ruined old mongrel such as himself. In that triumphant moment, however, he couldn't find even a scrap of shame within himself. For once, perhaps, he'd earned himself a reward, even if that reward were a drastic overpayment.
They all stared at the assembly of dragons. Though they'd known the creatures were coming, still it was hard to believe they were truly there. They had accomplished in mere minutes what the entire combined force of Night's Watch, Wildlings, and scrounged-up allies had before failed to do in hours.
Something gold and silver and blue was moving on top of the black dragon, and then it became clear that its rider was standing on its back and waving at them.
"That must be her." Sansa had told the others what she knew about the last Targaryen, according to the reports she'd overheard Joffrey getting.
Jon made for one of the nearby riderless horses. "I think she wants us to approach."
Sandor tossed Sansa up onto another, took one for himself, and they all made their way toward the small conclave of dragons in the distance. When they were within shouting distance, the black one turned to them, wary and alert. It was a titanic black beast that looked like it wanted to char-broil and eat them all for elevenses. A tiny elf-like woman with ivory hair, wearing practical azure leathers she somehow made look like a coronation gown, clambered down from the creature's back.
"Thank you, my darling," she told it, as if it were just a pet dog instead of the single most destructive force in the world, giving it a fond cuddle around the neck before striding toward their apprehensive group. And the dragon, power barely leashed, was tame in her hands.
It rather reminded Sandor of Sansa and himself, and he felt a sudden kinship with the bloody monster. The breast huffed and shifted, and Sandor could have sworn it looked right at him. And that it was laughing at him.
The woman then went to the white dragon and likewise petted and complimented it. Finally, she turned to the assembly and smiled.
"I am Daenerys Targaryen," she said simply.
"I am Jon Snow." He stepped forward, then swept an unsure bow before her. "Your Grace."
Then he turned to where Sansa was clinging to Sandor, hand outstretched to summon her closer.
"My sister, Sansa Stark of Winterfell."
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Sansa
Sansa detached herself from Sandor and went to her brother, taking his hand and sinking into a curtsey before Daenerys.
"Sansa Stark, you say?" The other woman's lips turned up in a curious smile. "I have someone with me you might be interested to see again."
"Your Grace?" Sansa frowned; how had the women even known of her existence?
Daenerys glanced back over her shoulder, and spoke in the direction of the green beast in the back. "Are you ever coming down from that dragon?"
"No," said a male voice. It sounded… familiar. "I'm not. I'm staying here forever, with this wondrous beauty. We shall never be parted." The dragon arched its head, seeming to preen at the compliment, and blew out a pleased little smoke ring.
Daenerys' expression shifted, so subtly that Sansa almost couldn't tell, but it became both weary and amused at the same time.
"I shall rephrase myself. Come down from the dragon now." Her sudden grin was quicksilver, gone in a flash. "Or I will have him buck you off. You will not enjoy flying then, I warrant."
Grumbling could be heard from the green dragon's environs, and then a pair of boots— a very small pair of boots— leapt to the ground. Tyrion Lannister burst into sight when he dodged away from the black dragon's massive head swinging in his direction, its mouth gaping and eyes narrow.
"Don't be cross," he soothed the beast. "You're lovely too. But you're Dany's favorite, she'd have you chew my head off if I tried to coax you to my side."
The dragon huffed and blew a little shoot of flame in Tyrion's direction, causing him to do a nimble sidestep once more, laughing as he did. His eyes were bright and his face suffused with joy; he looked happier than Sansa had ever seen him.
"Ah, there she is!" he cried, making straight for her, hands outstretched. "How fare thee, my wife?"
Sansa darted a glance at Sandor; he hadn't moved an eyelash, but she could sense the turmoil burbling within him.
"Um," she said, feeling stupid, belatedly remembering to aim a curtsey in his direction as she took his hands and gave them a limp little shake. "Lord Tyrion."
Upon reaching her, he looked up… and up… and up. "Gods, are you even taller?" He gave a short laugh. "Well, I suppose I could just climb you like a tree…"
A low rumble coming from Sandor's direction.
"Is that the growling of a dog I hear?" Tyrion swung around, quite dramatically, feigning shock. "Why, Clegane, whatever do you here in these far-northern climes?"
"Pray do not tease him, my lord," Sansa whispered from his side, her eyes imploring Sandor to hold his temper. "It has been a trying day and he… well, you know he has scant control over his temper as it is."
"Well do I know how fragile the Hound's patience is," Tyrion said, his eyes shrewd as they darted between his spouse and his family's former guardsman. "The question becomes how you know it so well, my lady wife."
A creak of leather armor had Sansa darting her eyes toward Sandor. He'd only shifted his stance, placed a hand with deceptive casualness on the hilt of his sword, but she could tell there was maybe another minute or two of calm in him before something was being hacked to bits. And this time, it wouldn't be an old table.
Daenerys stepped up to Tyrion's other side. Her face was serene but it was clear that she could detect the tension. She shot Sansa a glance of womanly commiseration over the antics of men and their frail sensitivities.
"It will much inconvenience me to have to find another Hand, should you antagonize this huge man into killing you," she murmured. Her gaze, roving over Sandor's immense, muscular form, was quite complimentary. Sansa left them to stand at his side, staking her claim with crystal clarity.
"Would you avenge my loss, Khaleesi?" Tyrion asked, his tone pert.
"Indeed not," came her answer in a tone of vast amusement. "It will have been a richly deserved fate. I might even envy him the doing of it."
Davos gave a discreet cough. "Might I suggest we… make a decision about our prisoner?" He nodded toward where Ramsay stood encircled by the dragons, being playfully tormented by them for sport as they took turns shooting flames at him, making him dance to avoid being broiled.
"Quite so." Daenerys said. "What shall be his fate?" She gave a slow, rather chilling smile that sat ill on the serene backdrop of her face. "My lambs have not eaten since we left Winterfell. Think you he would give them indigestion?"
Half a dozen people blinked in reaction to such a casually bloodthirsty… joke? Had it been a joke? Sansa darted a glance at her companions and saw that the majority consensus was of surprised distaste (Davos, Edd, Brienne), with Sandor and Tormund seeming quite appreciative of her ruthlessness.
Jon, however, was gazing at her with a sort of terrified ardor. Sansa had heard of his relationship with the Wildling, Ygritte, and that woman's exuberant ways. What was it with him and rowdy women? She'd have to ponder that mystery later. Right now, her brother was turning to look her way, and she knew he was deferring the choice to her.
"If he does," Sansa began slowly, "I'm sure the maester can mix up something to sooth their bellies." She then flashed the other woman a feral little smile, and let her gaze drift to Ramsay. How she'd hated him, how she would always hate him. Ending up as dragon chow was too fine a fate for him— not agonizing enough, to be sure— but there was a definite sense of poetic justice to it. "However, he's a meager, disappointing meal, and stringy besides. Won't they need more than just that little scrap?"
Daenerys returned that smile with a wicked one of her own. "Quite so." She turned to a clump of foot soldiers, milling about, watching the excitement with wide eyes and wider mouths. "You men, unsaddle some of the dead horses for their lunch. That tanned leather will give them indigestion."
She held out a hand to Sansa, who took it, and together they approached the knot of dragons and the prisoner at the center of it.
"I sense a dark history between you and this man," Daenerys said in a low voice as they walked.
"Yes," was all Sansa replied, but their eyes met, and a book's worth of pain and humiliation and cruelty was spoken by her, and read by the other. Sansa saw, then, that Daenerys knew exactly what she had suffered at Ramsay's hands, had suffered it herself. "I would like for us to be friends, Your Grace," she said on impulse.
Daenerys' face lit up, and for a moment she appeared more a young girl than an impossibly powerful queen. She gave Sansa's hand a squeeze. "I'd like that." Then the smile fell from her lips, and she turned back to the dragons and their prey. "The death-blow is yours to command. Just say when."
Sansa squeezed her hand back before detaching herself and stepping closer. She was almost lightheaded with fear, being so close to the dragons, especially when they rolled their big yellow eyes and shifted uneasily, but a murmur from their mother calmed them.
When Sansa was close enough to reach out and brush the creamy-white hide of the closest dragon, she dragged her eyes with reluctance to Ramsay. He stood there, very still, his mad pale eyes still somehow haughty, arrogant, hateful.
"You've spent so much time trying to make yourself important and powerful," Sansa began. "What you did to Theon, what you did to— to me." She stumbled over the words, but pushed past it. "You killed your father, your stepmother… you set your dogs upon your newborn brother!"
Behind her, Daenerys sucked in a breath.
"In the end, it got you nowhere. Your men have deserted you. You have lost Winterfell. You will die with empty hands, despised and scorned. You'll receive no honored burial."
She stepped closer, heedless of the dragons' proximity now. "Your fate is to be shit, Ramsay," she hissed at him. "These dragons will eat you, and then they'll shit you out, and you will be forgotten."
"You will never forget me, Sansa," he said in that low, oily whisper of his. "You'll always remember me."
She just laughed at him.
"I won't have time," she replied, her tone breezy. "I'll be too busy with a husband who loves me. We will fill Winterfell with our children, and we will be happy." She swept him with a glance that was pure disdain. "And you'll still just be dragon shit."
She retreated to stand by Daenerys, who aimed an approving look her way. Sansa nodded at her, indicating it was time. Ramsay squared his shoulders and aimed a glare of loathing at them, but Sansa didn't feel anything but good.
"I'm going to enjoy this," Daenerys murmured, then called out, "Dracarys!"
The big black dragon nipped Ramsay between his dagger-like teeth, tossing him effortlessly up toward the clouds in a playful manner, quite high up. For a long, silent moment, he hung there, his scream of pain the only sound in a world where everyone held their breath.
Then all three beasts blew out great plumes of fire, engulfing his form. His scream grew louder, then abruptly ceased. His body hurtled toward the ground, but the green dragon reached out a long, scaly neck, and chomped a good quarter off him.
The white dragon huffed in displeasure and darted its face toward the charred, bleeding remains, but the black one took exception at that and roared in protest. They snipped at each other, and at Ramsay, until there was very little remaining of him.
"My loves, there is plenty more," cooed Daenerys. "No need to fight over this meager snack." She shot a dismissive glance at what was left of Ramsay— a foot, it looked like— and waved in the direction of the horse carcasses, freshly denuded of their tack. The dragons lumbered off toward their equine smorgasbord, and the women returned to the others.
"Thank you," Sansa whispered.
"It was my pleasure. If only all such men could be disposed of likewise."
They were close enough to be overheard, and Daenerys' comment was met by, again, a variety of reactions. Brienne had an expression of distress etched on her features. Davos was trying, with some success, to compose himself, which took the form of gazing down at his hands a lot. Edd, as always, just looked mournful. Tormund was in deep, quiet conversation with Tyrion about the dragons. There was a wild glint in his eyes that spoke of a desire to ride one. Or perhaps make love to one; no way to be sure, with him. Sansa was positive it would not end well. Jon still looked like a lightly stunned haddock.
And Sandor… Sandor just looked hungry. Starving, even. When Sansa realized it was for her— that he was famished to get his hands on her, now that they had won and Ramsay was dead and they were safe— she felt a blush rolling from deep within, until her face was cherry-red and her breath came faster.
Daenerys gave a delicate giggle at her side. "He seems a fine man. You are fortunate."
Sansa just beamed at him, giving a giggle of her own when a slow tide of red washed over his face. "I am. I really, really am."
Jon gave a discreet cough. "Might we discuss… things… inside? In private?" His glance around at the heaps of dead men and horses, the happily dining dragons, and the avid gaze of the survivors, was eloquent.
Brienne took that as her command to organize the remaining troops, and with great relief to be away, took off to do so, Tormund her shadow. Jon cocked an elbow out toward Daenerys, very awkwardly. If she noticed his discomfiture, she didn't show it, just curled her hand around his forearm and let him lead her into the castle, the rest trailing them like baby ducks.
Sansa went to Sandor. After a moment, he mimicked Jon's courtly gesture and offered her his own arm, which she took, tucking herself rather more closely against his side than was warranted, but she was in quite a fine mood and didn't mind sharing it with him.
"That was well done," he rasped.
"Don't you mean Ramsay was well-done? After the dragons roasted him?" She let out another, slightly hysterical giggle. He looked at her oddly. "I'm sorry. I'm just… it's been…" She slumped a little. "I think I'm a bit overwhelmed by it all."
Sandor studied her in silence for a long moment. "Snow," he called, "your sister needs some time to herself. We'll join you…" He looked to her for an answer.
"Later," she supplied.
"…later," he finished.
Jon nodded, and once inside the castle, Sandor and Sansa peeled from the group, going toward the wing with the bed chambers. He gave her a gentle push into hers, saying that he was going to have a wash and would join her.