The hour was late and the night unusually dark when she was awakened from her slumber.

Lady Bellegere Stark sat up from her bed in a hurry as a mournful howl rang in her ears.

It was Runa, lurking somewhere in the godswood. She could almost feel her despair.

"What is it," Brynden asked, rubbing his eyes.

She did not have time to answer him.

The door to their bedchamber burst open, revealing Ser Royce Blackwood.

From the expression on his face alone, she knew that he was in deep distress.

"My lady, I apologize for intruding-"

"Is it Mya," Bellegere demanded. "Has she gone into labor?"

As Ser Royce began to nod, she was already on her way toward the door.

"Find someone to relieve you and go to your wife," Bellegere said sternly. "She needs you."

As she left the room, Brynden hastily followed.

The devastating wails could be heard well before they reached her.

"Get her out!"

"Please stay calm, my lady."

Bellegere burst into the room, fully unprepared for the scene she was walking into.

"Lady Stark, you may not want to see this," Maester Luwin warned her.

The smell of blood hit her in the face like a fist.

It was everywhere. All over the floor, on the table, and the maester. Much of it covered her friend's legs all the way down to her toes.

When Bellegere glanced toward the far corner, she saw a sight that crushed a part of her that she did not know existed.

In the crib, a small baby lie as still as a statue.

She pressed her lips together tightly, as if trying to hold her anguish inside.

It scratched at her throat with sharp claws.

"Belle," Mya whimpered, reaching out to her.

Tears cut tracks through the blood smeared on her face. Without another thought, she quickly went to her side. The handmaidens moved out of her way with sorrowful expressions.

At the door, Lord Brynden looked on, wide eyed.

His son's birth had been nothing like this. It was relatively quick and unproblematic, whereas this resembled a massacre.

He begrudgingly left the room feeling sick to his stomach.

"What the fuck happened," Bellegere demanded, pressing a cool towel against her friend's face.

Maester Luwin blanched, feeling his lady's palpable rage oozing outward.

He never saw her this angry before.

"She was pregnant with twins, my lady," he said. "The first was still born and she is finding it difficult to birth the second child. I believe she has been worrying over the coming battle. The stress must have been too much for the baby."

At his words, Mya sobbed harder.

The grief was debilitating.

"Listen to me," Bellegere commanded. "I am here with you and Ser Royce is on his way. We will help you through this. You must only push."

Mya shook her head, trying to catch her breath as a sharp pain travelled through her lower abdomen.

"I can't do it," she whimpered. "It's impossible."

Bellegere clenched her teeth.

"Yes. You can. And you will."

"No."

The look on Mya's face was one of utter defeat as she glanced toward her dead child.

"I'm going to die," she said, wide eyed and afraid.

"The pain is too much."

Bellegere closed her eyes tightly, and said a quick prayer. As she gently kissed her forehead, tears warmed her cheeks.

"My love," she said, barely above a whisper.

"Please don't say that."

Years of longing for her mother resurfaced all at once. She died, in her prime, giving birth to her. Never being able to meet her only child.

Now, Bellegere was watching her first love accept the same fate.

When she glanced up, Ser Royce was on the other side of the table holding his wife's hand as well. His reddened eyes told her that he saw the body of his first child.

Seeing him so distraught struck a cord in her, and the flame of determination roared back to life.

It was her duty to help them.

"Absolutely not. You will not die like this," Bellegere said as if it were an order.

"Your husband and I will guide you through it. We will give you all of the strength you need to bare the pain and you will live to see another day. There is no time for fear. This baby is coming."

Mya nodded although she had little hope left.

"Lady Stone, I need you to push," Luwin said with a determined expression.

"The head is in view."

Bellegere stood beside her friend dutifully, holding her hand and encouraging her as she struggled to give birth.

After hours of pure hell, finally, the child arrived.

Silent and still.

Bellegere closed her eyes, praying to the gods.

Not again, she thought. Not again.

When Maester Luwin smacked the baby's bottom, the most beautiful cry filled the room.

"It is a girl," he said. "A healthy girl."

Bellegere leaned heavily against the table as her knees weakened beneath her.

"Gods be good."

While her friends greeted their child for the first time, she distanced herself from them.

Relief, as well as dread, filled her heart.

Her eyes wandered to the silent baby in the crib and her stomach twisted in knots.

The smiles on their faces were so beautiful and full of pride, but she knew it was short lived. Once the reality of their situation hit them, their happiness would be tainted.

"Belle," Mya beckoned her. "Would you like to hold her?"

Bellegere gave a slight nod, struggling to keep her conflicting emotions in check.

"If it please you," she muttered hoarsely. "I most certainly would."

When Ser Royce placed the baby in her arms, she could barely control her breathing. Her body wanted to sob uncontrollably. It wanted to laugh and collapse from all the feelings that wreaked havok on her.

He squeezed her shoulder gently.

"I will never be able to repay you for your kindness. I doubt my wife could have done this without you."

Bellegere swallowed thickly and began to rebuke his words, but he was already leaving to speak with the maesters about his other child.

"She is beautiful, isn't she," Mya said, staring off into the distance.

Bellegere smiled.

"Yes," she whispered. "She's perfect."

The child lie in her arms, making those sweet noises that babies do. A pair of blue eyes blinked slowly as they stared up at her.

This peaceful moment reminded her of the first time she held her son.

She thought she knew what love was.

However, upon seeing him, she realized she never had a clue. A fact that was even more apparent now.

After a while, Bellegere begrudgingly handed the child back to her mother.

Lest she never let her go.

"Have you decided on a name?"

Mya remained silent for a long time, never taking her eyes off of the crib in the corner.

When she finally spoke, her voice was faint.

"Alys. Alys Blackwood."

Bellegere smiled, pleased with her choice.

"And...my son will be named Beron."

Her face fell immediately when Mya turned to her. Her eyes were overflowing with sorrow.

"I need you to bring him back like you did Jon," Mya said, gripping her forearm painfully tight.

"If you ever felt anything towards me, you will grant me this kindness."

Bellegere looked down, feeling the weight of the world falling down on top of her.

"I did not bring him back, the gods did," she said, shaking her head. "I can't guarantee they will do the same for your son."

The look on Mya's face made her look away. It was pure grief and desperation. Something she was no stranger to.

The sight of her in pain ground her already broken heart into dust.

"It does not matter. I am begging you to try."

Bellegere inhaled deeply, stealing a glance at the sleeping baby in her arms and then the deceased child in the corner.

They were apart of her family now.

"I will do everything I can."

Mya sobbed with relief and kissed her hand.

"Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you."

The next day, Lady Melisandre stood in the dungeons of Winterfell.

She cast her indifferent gaze over the men who stood within the cells.

"Which one of you is named Osrik Willyn?"

An old man stepped forward.

He was rather short, with a long, silver beard and a scarred, bald head. His eyes were brown and had dark circles around them.

"Today, you will stand before the Lady of Winterfell and plead your case," Melisandre said, signaling the guards.

Osrik did not speak as he was taken from his cell, but his demeanor told her that he was resigned to his fate.

"My lady, the prisoner has arrived."

Bellegere continued to stare at the weeping heart tree for a moment before turning around.

Her eye examined the man indifferently.

"You are accused of murdering your wife," she said, clasping her hands together.

"What say you?"

Osrick stared back at her, unflinching.

"I know who you really are, witch of Winterfell," he scowling. "If you mean to sacrifice me, then get on with it."

Bellegere tilted her head at the man. She regarded him with respect for his lack of fear in the face of certain death.

"Witch? Is that what you think I am?"

"Aye," he spat. "You and that red lady."

She hummed and nodded to her guards.

Melisandre stood beside Lord Brynden Blackwood as the prisoner was dragged in front of the great heart tree and forced to kneel.

She glanced at him, noticing his somber expression. She wondered if the man could handle what he was about to witness.

"For the murder of your wife, I hereby sentence you to death," Bellegere said simply. "If you have any last words, now is the time."

Osrick remained silent for a long time.

"With all the blood on your hands, your fate is worse than mine," he said, looking at the bones that littered the ground.

Her stare pierced through him like a spear, but he met it. Knowing her for what she was.

"You're already dead. I don't have nothing else to say to you."

Her hands clenched at her side.

For some reason, she felt this man was innocent.

More than that, he was right. His purpose was only to die. Not to face any brand of justice.

"You're correct," Bellegere whispered, maneuvering behind him.

Her hands rested on his bald head and then pulled it back to expose his throat.

"My fate will be much worse."

She removed her dagger from it's sheath swiftly, forgetting about her audience.

Without another word, she began.

Melisandre looked on as her knife sliced into the man's throat without hesitation. His blood ran thick while he choked. It spilled over the roots of the heart tree, staining them maroon.

After he bled for a moment, Bellegere commenced to taking his head off his shoulders. Her expression flat and unchanging.

Melisandre glanced at her lady's husband as the sawing of bone echoed through the godswood.

Lord Brynden's face was pale and his jaw set as he refused to look away from the scene before him. He'd always been squeamish with blood and gore, but he faced it head on now.

His wife was an honest woman. Not once would she fix her tongue to lie or omit the truth.

As such, she never hid her religious practices from him. So that, if he was to be with her, he knew exactly what was in store.

The red woman's mouth pulled into a small smile.

Hands covered in blood lifted to the sky and then down to the wolf's face. With two fingers, she drew a trail of tears.

A show of respect for her gods and her sacrifice.

"Hang him," Bellegere sighed.

She watched silently as her guards tied rope around his hands and hung him from one of the thick branches of the weirwood tree.

Staring at the headless body, she spoke softly.

"Leave me."

They all did as she commanded.

Except Melisandre.

"I said leave. Did I not?"

Bellegere turned to glare at her, but she saw through her facade of anger.

She saw the defeat.

The never ending ocean of grief.

"You don't believe this will bring the child back, and yet, you did it anyway," Melisandre said, frowning.

"Why?"

She glanced down at her bloody hands and then up into the judgemental eyes of the heart tree.

"For Mya," Bellegere said, nostrils flaring. "For her stillborn babe. For myself."

Melisandre came to stand beside her.

"Do not lose your grip on reality," she said sternly.

"If you are to win the coming battle against the Boltons, you must keep your wits about you."

Her bottom lip trembled and she closed her eye.

"Mya's worry over this battle killed her child. I should have waited to declare war until she gave birth."

"Pardon?"

Melisandre placed a hand on her back to comfort her as she came to a realization.

Guilt was eating away at Bellegere, not just grief.

"That is not true," she said adamantly. "The child's death isn't any fault of yours. Regardless of whether she was worried or not, you made the right decision, my lady."

Bellegere exhaled, lowering her head.

"It was the right decision. I know. That doesn't change the fact that the child died," she said.

"I owe it to Mya. I have to try and bring him back. And then I will make Ramsay Bolton pay a much higher price than this man did."

For the next few days, Melisandre hovered outside the room her mistress was holed up in with the stillborn child.

The Lady of Winterfell did not sleep, or eat as she focused all of her energy into bringing back her friend's son to life. She did not have time to think about her own needs.

Three days and three nights passed with no one seeing her. Not even her worried husband. Only the gods she begged to hear her prayers.

When the door finally opened, Melisandre scarcely recognized the woman that exited.

Instantly, she knew that the boy did not live.

"My lady," Melisandre whispered. "Is there anything I can do?"

Her face and hands were covered in dried blood, and there were dark circles under her eyes as she stood in the hallway silently.

After a long moment, Bellegere brushed past her and walked away on weak legs.

In search of Mya Stone.

"My lady," Melisandre called out. "Bellegere?"

Her voice fell on deaf ears.

The look on the Stark's face was so vacant that it frightened her. Haunted and wrought with a strange mixture of rage and mourning.

She wanted to go after her and offer her assistance. However, she knew that there was nothing she could do.

Inside the wolf, a piece of her was missing.

Broken off and sent into the void.

With the boy she could not save.

"Open the gate!"

Lady Bellegere Stark held her husband's hand beneath the cover of her cloak as she waited to greet her long awaited guests.

Brynden squeezed her hand, knowing how much she missed her brother. Not only that, she'd been stressed out for the past month preparing for the battle. The death of her friend's child did not serve to ease her mind either.

On top of that, they recieved intelligence that Rickon Stark was being held hostage by Lord Ramsay Bolton, and Sansa Stark's location had been unknown since the death of the king.

The bad news never ended.

He was glad to see something good happen in her life for a change.

When the gates finally opened and Jon Snow crossed through the threshold with wildlings trailing behind him. Far behind them, she could see a giant. It unsettled her but she wouldn't question it.

Bellegere shared a fond smile with her brother as he dismounted his horse and stood before them.

"Lord Blackwood," Jon said, eyeing the tall man beside her. "Good to meet you."

Brynden extended a hand to him.

"Welcome home, and thank you for aiding us in the coming battle."

"Of course, my lord."

Bellegere watched them shake hands with warmth growing in her heart.

When Jon turned to her, his smile split his face.

"My lady," he said, bowing his head. "It has been far too long."

Bellegere rolled her eyes and pulled him into a tight hug. He returned it, exhaling a deep breath.

Once they released one another, she pursed her lips, feigning a stern expression.

"It's been two years, brother," she said, raising a brow. "You've missed out on a lot. I hope it was for a good reason."

He nodded slowly.

There was much they needed to discuss, but that could wait until after the battle.

"I hear I have a nephew," he said, looking between his sister and her husband.

He did not know Brynden Blackwood, but from the way they looked at one another, he knew their union was a happy one.

"Cregan Stark is his name. You will meet him soon enough."

Jon chuckled and shared a loving glance with his sister. He couldn't have been more proud of her.

"How many men do you have with you," Bellegere asked, eyeing the men behind him.

She noticed a large, redhaired man that she remembered from her visit to the wall. He bowed his head to her respectfully.

"I have just over a thousand. All of them swore to fight beside House Stark to defend Winterfell," Jon said dutifully.

She hummed, furrowing her brows.

"Why is that?"

"They're loyal to me for several reasons. However, they also share that loyalty with the Champion of the Old Gods. I wonder why that is?"

Bellegere nodded to herself, grinning.

"They are certainly welcome here," she said, ignoring his question.

"But, make sure they know our army trains daily. If they want to fight for me, they will need to be present and ready to learn. I need every soldier I can get, but I won't have them go to war unprepared."

Jon's brows rose slightly as he appraised his sister. He had always known that she was a great leader, but not necessarily a general.

"Each time I come home, I realize that I don't know you as well as I thought," he said quietly.

"You're the heir father would've wanted."

Bellegere took his hand and smiled softly. Although she wouldn't say it aloud, his words touched her.

"I hope you're right, brother."

He shook his head.

"You have no need for hope."

The Lady of Winterfell crossed her arms as she watched her soldiers train. The sound of swords clashing against shields and men's voices filled the air as they sparred.

Her gaze focused on her husband and brother.

"Will you be fighting in the vanguard, my lord?"

"I will," Brynden said without hesitation. "It is my duty."

Jon nodded, narrowing his eyes faintly.

The man was tall and decently muscled, but he'd seen men his size be killed by women.

"How many battles have you fought, my lord?"

Brynden clenched his jaw.

"None, yet. But what I lack in experience, I make up for in knowledge, skill, and enthusiasm."

Jon pursed his lips, pondering.

This man was his sister's husband and the father to her child. If anyone needed to live it was him. It was not smart for someone inexperienced in battle to fight, especially with so much to lose.

However, it was not his place to say that.

"If you want to spar with him, you only need to ask," Bellegere said, slowly strolling toward them.

She shared a faint smirk with her husband.

"I doubt he would turn down a chance to train."

Jon nodded to her as she walked away and then turned to his companion.

"Shall we," he asked, gripping the hilt of his sword.

Brynden was already unsheathing his own.

"We shall."

Bellegere watched them spar with a small smile adorning her face, and dread in her heart.

They didn't have much time until the battle came to their doorstep.

She appreciated her brother returning home to fight with her, but now she had to worry about him as well as Brynden.

There was also her baby brother Rickon who'd been held hostage by the Boltons for god knows how long, and then the grieving Mya Stone who worried for her and her own husband.

All the while, the rest of her siblings could very well be dead.

Bellegere exhaled slowly, pushing all of her trepidation to the back of her mind.

The main objective was keeping Winterfell under her authority, no matter what.

"Champion," a deep voice sounded behind her.

Bellegere turned around to find the familiar redhaired wildling. Several more stood behind him. She narrowed her eye at the title he called her and the grin on his face.

"I am Tormund," he said, bowing in respect. "We come to tell you that it would be an honor to die at your side."

"And why is that," Bellegere asked, tilting her head.

"You brought Jon Snow back from the dead. We saw it with our own eyes. Felt the gods standing beside us when you killed that traitor. You're the Champion of the Old Gods."

She held in a chuckle and stepped closer to him.

"I am not the champion of anything," Bellegere said quietly. "I gave my soul to the gods. I'm merely a pawn in whatever grand game they're playing, but I appreciate your loyalty."

Tormund smirked faintly.

"Whatever you want to call it, the gods listen to you and so will we."

When he extended a hand to her, she took it with a contemplative expression.

"Tonight, I will be visiting the godswood to pray for the favor of the gods in this coming battle," Bellegere said, casting her eye over him and his group of free folk.

"I welcome you all to join me for an old fashioned pre-battle ritual. It would be an honor to have true believers, and speakers of the Old Tongue present."

Tormund looked to his fellow wildlings and then back to her. He grinned, proud to see someone from south of the wall still practicing rituals.

"We will certainly meet you there, Champion."

When he walked away, Bellegere turned back to find the sparring match was ending.

There was now a crowd surrounding them.

"Very good, my lord," Jon said, shaking his hand. "With a bit more training, you could have won."

Brynden grinned, wiping the sweat from his brow.

"I demand a rematch."

Bellegere rolled her eyes at his antics, but the smile on her lips was fond.

This man of mine, she thought to herself.

When the hour of the wolf struck, and Winterfell was covered in the blackest darkness, a massive crowd assembled in the godswood.

She had expected only the wildlings.

However, the majority of her army was present.

"We gather here to ask for strength and courage," The Lady of Winterfell said, her strange eyes wandering over every face around her.

Her voice echoed through the trees.

"We gather here to ask for protection for ourselves and our loved ones. Most of all, we come to ask the Old Gods for victory against our enemies."

A chorus of voices murmured their agreement.

The red woman lingered in the background, watching the ritual begin with rapt attention.

She was intrigued to witness her mistress' strange, northern practices in action.

Bellegere Stark knelt before the heart tree, and collected it's fallen leaves into a small bowl. With undivided focus, she ground them into a thick paste the color of freshly drawn blood.

Once she was satisfied, she moved to the center of the large circle and dipped her fingers into the bowl.

All watched silently as she began to carefully draw runes on her face.

Each one held a different meaning.

Peace, courage, protection, wrath.

She continued this until she resembled something closer to a demon.

The symbols covered her entire face, along with thick crimson lines that trailed from her eyes to the bottom of her jawline. The paste covered her chin, from her bottom lip down, as though she'd just drank a cup of blood.

Now, she embodied exactly what her sacrifice, Osrick Willyn, accused her of being.

A witch.

The witch of Winterfell.

"For this invocation," Bellegere's voice rang out in the Old Tongue of the First Men.

"I, the Rune Master, your servant, call upon the Old Gods to aid our army."

Melisandre glanced around her as the wildlings bowed their heads in response. For, only they could understand the rough, guttural words the wolf spoke.

"We, blood of the First Men, blood of Old Valyria, blood of the wolf, blood of the Children of the Forest, and blood of the Andals and the Rhoynar, swear to quench your thirst with the blood of our enemies. Before the Old Gods and the new."

The wildlings and even the giant, Wun Wun, chanted her words back to her, over and over again.

Their haunting mantra rang in her ears as well as the sudden pulsing beat of drums. It sounded like a song. Their voices were deep and throaty.

Menacing.

The chant vibrated through her being.

She could have sworn the torches surrounding them glowed brighter. The presence she felt years ago filled the space around them.

The air was thick with their blessing.

Melisandre watched as the wolf beckoned both her brother and husband into the middle of the crowd with her.

The drums were louder now.

They shook her to the core.

Jon Snow stood still as his sister drew a symbol of protection on his forehead, and then did the same to Brynden.

"May the old ones protect the blood of my blood and my love made flesh."

The men had no clue what was happening, or what she was saying, but they could feel the eyes of the gods bearing down on them.

Whatever she was saying, it was being heard with open ears.

"Prepare us for battle," Bellegere said, bowing her head to the heart tree.

"Prepare our enemies to die."

As the free folk chanted her words back to her, Melisandre caught the wolf's silver eye through the crowd. She saw the glee within them.

The smile on her face was not kind.

It was bloodthirsty.

"Come," the wolf beckoned. "Join us in this celebration."

Joy flooded Bellegere's body, erasing all of the grief and worry that had taken hold of her.

From the way her men began to dance, they could feel it too. Their feet pounded into the ground, shaking the earth around her.

"Lord of light," Melisandre whispered to herself. "Forgive me."

She hoped R'hllor would not see her participation as blasphemous.

Time seemed to slow when she joined her mistress in the dancing circle of men.

Bellegere held her hand and danced joyously amidst her soldiers, her brother, and her husband.

The red woman moved with her, feeling her mind become clear and filled with an inner peace she only knew whilst staring into the flames.

Laughter echoed through the trees and smiles adorned the soldiers' faces.

The stars, the fire of the torches, everything glowed brighter as they danced to the pulsating drums and chanting voices.

Above them, the moon was a crescent, as thin and sharp as the blade of a knife.

Melisandre pitied the wolf's enemies.

For, the gods had surely forsakened them.