Disclaimer: GRRM owns all. Frank Miller, too. Also I'd like to say thanks to King Xerxes of Persia and King Leonidas of Sparta, along with this three hundred for making this all possible. Along with the other seven thousand Greeks who fought at Thermopylae. Also thanks to the Athenians for supporting the Ionian Revolt.

Chapter 9

Rickon

Rickon's breath is shallow.

They're surrounded, he knows. From the rear the Umbers hold their own position and are ready to fight with them. The immortals came marching down the goat path in silence at dawn, thirsting for revenge. They close in for the kill. From the slits in his helm Rickon sees all before him. The royal guard stand with him in tattered cloaks, dented shields, and scratched armor. Rickon grips his spear and lets his shield rest at his side. The winds from the coast send a cool breeze against his face and the caws of the seagulls can be heard from all around. The men lie together readying themselves for their final act, their final moment of glory. Beside him Rickon can hear the labored breathing of his men and he could only live in this moment. He had said goodbye to Alys this morning in his own way. Praying that she could find a husband that treats her well and loves her as she deserves. It is all he can do to calm the stirring storm inside of him—the fear that grips him. Rickon remembers what Jon had told him when he first was baptized by the fires of combat. "Fear is a constant," he told Rickon. "But once you accept it, it makes you stronger."

The King stood in front of his men looking like a king of old. His grey cloak billowed in the wind, tattering at the ends after two days of hard battle. He holds his shield up next to him in righteous indignation. Jon grips his spear and looks forward, as if he is staring down all of the men Mazor has brought down upon them. The eastmen stand only one-hundred yards in-front of them in their formation. Men carrying shields made of wicker and swords of bronze. They would be easy to kill, Rickon knew, but seeing as they were surrounded he knew it was a matter of time before they would all be killed.

A man sits on a throne carried by his own men. It is far off, but just close enough to watch them, and his throne is not so extravagant. Made of wood and gold, it is, and small enough for just a man to sit on. The man that sits there is wearing golden robes with intricate detail but even his robes are simple. He wears a thick brown beard, braided and combed. The crown on his head his made of gold with jewels ordaining it. It's Mazor, Rickon concludes. The King of the East has come to watch the spectale. Has come to watch the death of King Jon and his three-hundred. We will give him a spectacle to behold.

An emissary approaches. The eastern emissary is wearing a black cotton garb with intricate white linen detail, a leather breast plate, and a white garb to cover his neck and face. That breastplate will easily give away to my spear, Rickon noticed. "My compliments—and my congratulations," the emissary began. "You have surely turned misfortune into victory. Despite your insufferable arrogance, King Mazor has come to admire this northern valor and fighting skill. He seeks to make you a powerful ally against Queen Daenerys and King Aegon."

A man stepped forward but his skin was fair. He was sounded like a northmen. He's the traitor…Rickon did not recongnize him. "Yield, King Jon. Use your reason. Think of your men!"

"Listen to your fellow northmen," the emissary said. "He can attest to King Mazor's generosity. Despite your several insults—despite your horrid blasphemies—the lord of hosts is prepared to forgive all—and more, to reward you for your service. You fight for your lands? Keep them! You fight for Winterfell? She will be wealthier and more powerful than ever before! You fight for your kingship? You will be proclaimed King of the Seven Kingdoms—answerable only to the one true King of the World! Your victory will be complete—if you lay down your arms and kneel to King Mazor!"

Jon says nothing and grips his spear tighter. Rickon could only wish to know what is going through his mind, but fortunately knows his own. It had been nineteen years since the Night's King and the winter cold. Rickon thinks back to what he told him during their march over here—that now, as then, it is not fear that grips him. Only a restlessness, a heightened sense of things. Rickon watches as the seaborne breeze coolly kisses the sweat at his neck. The seagulls caw as they feast on thousands of floating dead. The steady breathing of the three hundred beside him—ready to die for their king without a moment's pause, every one of them. Ready to die, Rickon remembers Jon saying, as if any of you knows what that means until it stares you in the face.

Jon reaches up to grab his helmet and throws it on the ground. Rickon knows how stifling it can be. He throws his shield down to the ground, how heavy it must be.

"Your spear!" the emissary commands.

But Jon points it at the traitor. "Whomever you are, man of White Harbor. I hope the histories remember your name forever."

The man only looks to the ground in shame. "Your spear, King Jon," the emissary urges a second time. Jon falls to his knees, throwing his spear daintily beside him. The men gasp at the sight, but Rickon knows his plan. His mad plan to end this once and for all…to seal the victory for them.

"Rickon!" Jon yelled, loud and thunderous like a god. Rickon runs from the formation, gripping both his shield and spear tight, and jumps off Jon's back to stab the emissary in the chest with his spear. The eastern emissary looks at him in shock, blood poured out his chest and trickled down his mouth. Rickon turned to see Jon having thrown his spear down at Mazor. His helmet was stifling and narrowed his vision. His shield was heavy and threw him off balance, and he must throw far. "Mazor!" Jon yelled. "Die!"

Rickon watched as the spear flied in wind almost as straight as an arrow. In this moment Rickon thought back to what he had learned about the northmen. The histories say that the northmen are descended from the First Men themselves. Jon gives testament to this as he roars loudly at the eastmen, as if he was a dragon or a direwolf.

But the spear missed only to graze Mazor in the side of the face. The eastmen surrounded their wounded king and look at Rickon. Jon pulled Rickon by his shoulder and they both ran back towards their lines. "Slaughter them!" Rickon heard someone yell and suddenly he hears the footsteps as Mazor's army charged at them.

The shields of what remained of the royal guard opened for them, and Rickon stepped through with his king. Jon had picked up his helm from the ground and his shield as well. Another man handed him a spear and the men assume the phalanx formation. Shields overlapped together like dragon scales and spears pointed out like needles on a pin cushion. Rickon held his breath, knowing that this will be his final moments on earth. He just was happy it was to be in the heat of battle, dying what he called a glorious death.

From behind he already heard the immortals fighting the Umbers in battle, and before them the eastmen were ready to crash upon them like a mighty tidal wave. When they did the royal guard pushed them back and stabbed, fighting as fierce as a pack of wolves. With nothing to lose they fought like mad men void of all thought or care. Rickon pushed his shield back, stabbing a eastmen in the chest with his spear. With nothing to lose he yelled with each stab, laughed as he pulled his spear out, and grinned when the blood splayed on his chest. All the royal guard did the same and from behind Rickon could hear the Umbers being pushed back, being pushed closer to the royal guard. Beside him the king was fighting like a mad man as well, jabbing and pushing to his heart's content. No one at this point really cared and it was good to them. A glorious death…

Mazor had sent all his might at them. Unlike before he gave them mo respite in battle, gave them no time to collect their breath. With hearts racing and muscles aching the phalanx formation began to crumble. From behind them the Umbers had already been pushed back, back enough to have their own backs against those of the royal guard. The royal guard's losses were few at this point. Some men had taken spears to the neck or javelins to the chest, but still the losses were few. Rickon pushed his shield and jabbed, doing the best he could but it got to the point where his spear shattered from all the jabbing and pulling.

Around him the same thing began to happen and the formation was practically broken. The men of the royal guard drew their swords, while some still used their spears to fight like feral wolves. Rickon did the same and so did the king whose spear had been broken as well. Now the phalanx formation all but crumbled and it became an all-out fight for their lives. The Umbers fought honorably and as well as they could. Lord Jon Umber swung his great sword like a mad man, hacking and slashing at the immortals. His men had began to fall to the ground being surrounded and stabbed to death.

Rickon stood by Jon and guarded him the best he could. An immortal came at Rickon now and he only swiped the bastard's spear thrust with his sword, only for it to meet the immortals neck. Much of the battle was like this. Rickon would kill one immortal or eastmen only for another to take its place. On the ground more of the royal guard began to appear, dead and hacked to bits with furiousity. But beside them laid at least ten eastmen and Rickon felt pride for that. The shouts, curses, and screams of battle filled his ears and Rickon could only fight like a man with nothing to lose. He cut off limbs, hacked at man's necks and stabbed them in their bellies. Now their losses were becoming greater and Rickon could only stand by the king.

Jon was now fighting with two swords, his shield having been dented too far when it took a spear to its center. He deflected one blow only to slash at the man's leg, and then stab him in the belly with his free sword. Jon turned around to see two men coming at him and Rickon rushed to fight with his king. He hacked at the man's leg who was coming for Jon. The man gave out a yelp and he slit the bugger's throat. Jon had been hitting an eastmen in the face with the pommel of his sword when Rickon heard a shout from behind. Three eastmen came at him with one immortal. Rickon blocked the first one's blow with his shield and slashed the lad's throat with his sword. The second one jabbed at him with a spear and Rickon hacked at it. When it was broken he hit the man in the face with his shield, sending him to the ground. The third man came at him yelling with his sword raised; on the downswing Rickon met him with an upswing, taking the man's arm off at the elbow. The man yelled but Rickon eased his pain by slashing at his neck. Finally the immortal came and he tackled Rickon. They went to the ground and the immortal was on top, trying to gauge Rickon's eyes out but his helm protected him. Rickon punched the immortal in the gut and threw him off him. He then wrestled on top of the silent whoreson and smashed his head in with the edge of his shield.

Rickon stood up, grabbing his shield and sword and surveryed the scene before him. What remained of the royal guard were now rallying around Jon, fighting like mad men with whatever weapons they could muster. Some fought with only a sword, some with only a shield. Some fought with no helms on while others with sword and shield to match. Their grey cloaks were ripped to ribbons and their armors dented beyond repair. Rickon turned around to see the Umbers had all been but slaughtered. The Greatjon stood with whatever remained of his men and took off heads with his giant sword.

It was then Rickon heard the yell.

"My King!" he heard suddenly and Rickon turned to see what had happened. Jon stood there with arrows sticking out his neck, legs, and arms. Rickon's eyes grew wide and time moved slow as he rushed forward to save his brother-cousin. Jon dropped his swords, fell to his knees and stared up at the sky. The royal guard rallied around their fallen king, fighting the men of Mazor valiantly.

"Jon!" Rickon yelled but three eastmen blocked his advance. They came running at him with swords and spears, but in this moment not even the Old Gods, Seven Gods, Red God, Drowned God, Many-Faced God, and the millions of others in counting could stop him. Rickon slashed one in the face with his sword, hit the other in the throat with his shield, and stabbed in the belly. By the time Rickon reached the king he was on the floor, his eyes looking at the sky. With the chaos looming around him he took off his helm and knelt by Jon's body. Jon's helm was off to the side, his silver eyes looked above and blood was seeping out of the arrow wounds he had received. One in the neck, one in the arm, and two in the thighs. Rickon put a hand on his kings chest and closed his eyes forever. There was no time to grieve.

In front and around him he could see an eastmen trying to pull at Jon's leg. Rickon grabbed his sword and shield, standing up to stab the bastard in the face. "Protect the King!" Rickon yelled loudly and what remained of the three-hundred rallied around him. Even the Umbers retreated back to fight for Jon's body. Like mad men they fought for their kings body not letting Mazor take it to do with it what he will. Rickon slashed at one man, battered another's head in with his shield and even beat one to deat with his fists. The Greatjon yelled loudly and swung his sword, protecting Jon's body the best he could.

When it was all said and done the eastmen retreated back to their lines. At this point Rickon had lost his sword and shield. Martyn came forward and tossed Rickon a spear. He caught it in the air and stood to face the eastmen with whatever men remained. Rickon stood in front of Jon's body fiercely, protecting him as a mother bear would her cubs.

He looked to his sides and saw only ten northmen remained living. Six of them were of the royal guard including Rickon, while the other four were Umbers. The Greatjon was beside Rickon with his labored breath and blood slick on his giant sword. The Umber men were reduced to nothing but chainmail and fighting tunics, holding whatever weapons they could. Rickon's men were reduced to holding swords and spears—not one carried a shield. Martyn was beside him with cuts on each of his limbs and one on his face. He looked to Rickon with a grin holding his sword firm.

The eastmen did not advance on them, did not rain arrows upon them to finish them off. They just stood there at attention as if someone had ordered it. Rickon looked behind him to see the immortals doing the same, standing at attention with the black linen over their faces.

"Fight, you cowards!" the Greatjon bellowed. "Is it now that you choose to cower away seeing as we slaughtered so many of you like sheep!"

The eastmen said nothing and only opened their ranks for someone. A man came through on horseback wearing golden robes with intricate detail. He had a brown braided beard and a golden crown on his head. On his cheek was a cut with dried up blood. Mazor…

He reared his horse up to look at them. Looked at what remained of the northmen. "You have fought valiantly," Mazor said. "I admire the heart with which you northmen fight. I admired your king as well."

"And who might you be?" asked the Greatjon.

"I am King Mazor," the man introduced himself as. "I am the King of Kings. The King of the East. You've heard my titles…"

"Aye, I've heard about you," Rickon said. "I heard about the children you nail to trees, the women you condemn to a lifetime of slavery. I've heard about the elderly whose heads you chop off for amusement. You'll probably do that to Jon's body as well."

"I am not these things you say I am," Mazor replied. He trotted his horse to face them. "Even kings can be generous to each other. Even enemies can show respect. This is why I have decided to show you all mercy. Where I come from we treat valiant heroes and men-at-arms with the respect. You fight with heart and defend your king even in death. That's more than I can say for my own men." Mazor looked to Rickon. "This is why I give you a choice: you can die on this patch of land with your king, slaughtered by arrows, or you can take his body back to Winterfell. Give him the proper funeral he deserves. I only command that you tell the tale of what happened here. Tell them what happens when you defy me. I give you these two options. Think carefully."

Rickon looked to the Greatjon and to his men and they all nodded in agreement. He looked to Mazor and said, "We will still be your enemies on the morrow. This does not change anything."

"You're still my enemy in this moment. But like I said enemies can still show respect. So which will it be, my valiant northmen. Life or death?"

Rickon only gripped his spear and let it fall to the ground. With nothing to lose his men did the same.