Jon

The ironborn in Torrhen's Square had never seen them coming. In fairness, few would have—thousands of wildlings emerging from the mist with an ex-Night's Watchman, a priestess of R'hllor, a smuggler, the lady of Winterfell, and the most prolific female warrior in the Seven Kingdoms at their head. The keep was strong, they knew, but not so strong as to stand against that many with that few.

They may not sow, Jon thought to himself, but they sure can run. There was no honourable death in sight for an ironborn this far from the sea. They all fled—all of them, but one.

The sole figure remaining was large and broad, strong looking despite his years, with a long white beard reaching down to his ribcage. He offered Jon a grim smile, his rotten teeth peeking through the long-healed gash running up his chin to his nose. This, Jon realised, must be Dagmer Cleftjaw.

'You must be the bastard wolf pup that Theon thought so lowly of! Haven't done so badly for yourself, have you?' He said, running a critical eye over the Free Folk behind Jon from his position on the castle wall. 'Proud warriors, one and all. Time was, I'd have said the same for my men.' He spat. 'Traitors and cravens, every one of them.'

'Lord Dagmer!' Jon shouted back. 'We know it is just you! Surrender, and I can promise you honourable treatment. If you continue to fight, you will die.'

The old master-at-arms laughed. 'I will not surrender like some maiden, Jon Snow! What is dead may never die, but rises again harder and stro—'

His speech was ended by a small hatchet lodging itself in his face, hurtling through the air and cutting through the soft flesh of his cheek to his brain. Dagmer wobbled for a moment, before his body went prone and he fell over the wall, tumbling into the dusting of snow that adorned the ground.

'Ha! Take that, cunt!' Tormund laughed, yanking the axe out of the spasming corpse, sending a small spurt of blood onto the snow.

'Tormund! What in the seven hells was that!?' Jon chastised.

'He was going to fight, crow. A simpleton could see it.'

He wasn't wrong—it would have been obvious even to Rickon that Dagmer had been readying for a fight, and given his rumoured prowess he could've posed a serious threat to some of the Free Folk. 'Just…don't do anything like that again. Not without my order.'

'You expect me to follow your orders? Like you're some kneeler prince?'

'I am a kneeler prince, technically.' Tormund had been one of the few he'd told of his true parentage—he had no interest in kneeler politics and would take a knife to the ribs before he betrayed someone that he considered a friend. Of all that could be told his secret, Tormund was the one that he knew would never mention it.

The Giantsbane snorted. 'If you're a prince, I'm a blushing maiden.'

'Always thought you were the prettiest of your people. Seems now I know why,' Jon said with a grin before turning back to the people behind him. 'Everyone! Set up your tents on the East side of the castle!' The Free Folk following him began to disperse, each one busying themselves with erecting their tents. Jon entered the shallow stone keep, unmanned apart from a few servants, staring at the new fur-clad arrivals with fear in their eyes. This would have to be addressed—many of those from beyond the wall still didn't completely understand the concept of a woman's body belonging to himself. Then again, he remembered Ramsay Bolton and Joffrey, and realised that southerners were no better, only hiding their barbarity behind hollow laws and meaningless rules.

A servant directed Jon to the quarters of the Tallhart family, near empty after their struggles in the war, silent apart from the howling wind and the dull hubbub of activity coming from outside. He'd found lady Eddara Tallhart cowered behind the desk in the lord's solar, a knife gripped in her shaking hands against her stomach, her eyes widening at the sight of Ghost as he entered.

'S-stop! T-take more step in my direction an-and I swear I'll—' She broke off, her body racked by sobs as she realised that she couldn't bring herself to do it.

'Please, my lady, lower the knife. The Ironborn are gone, and none of my men will hurt you. You are Lady Tallhart, correct?'

She continued to look at him fearfully, making no move to move the knife.

Bollocks. I'm terrible at all this stuff. I should've let Sansa do this. Gods, even Brienne would've been better. He gave her a smile, knowing as he did it how unconvincing it must've looked.

The knife was slowly moved away from her body, before being altogether abandoned and dropping to the floor with a dull clatter. 'Th-that is correct.' She straightened herself, as though trying to muster up the dignity befitting a woman. 'Might I know the name of the man who means to take me? That is what wildlings do, isn't it? Steal and rape women?'

'In many cases, yes. You have no need to worry though, my lady. My name is Jon Snow, and I am not a wildling. I am here to ask for the hospitality of Torrhen's Square on behalf of House Stark.'

'House Stark? But they're all gone! Is this some Bolton ploy to try and paint me as a traitor?' Her eyes went somewhat glassy, as though she were merely going through the motions. 'I am loyal to Lord Bolton. The Starks are treacherous dogs and will be treated as such.'

Jon sighed. 'I swear to you, few hate the Boltons as much as I do. And House Stark yet lives—I am Ned Stark's bastard son, and my sister Sansa is alive and in my company.' He neglected to mention his brother, mother, and uncles, since it was all rather complicated even without all this resurrection business. 'The North remembers, Lady Tallhart, and Winter is coming for House Bolton.'

The lady of Torrhen's Square looked at him as though he were some riddle she was trying to unravel, the cogs in her mind whirring as she realised that her next steps could cost her the lives of all those in the castle.

'Those men…the ironborn. They did terrible things to my people, terrible things indeed. Whether or not you are who you claim to be, it was you who made them run with their tails between their legs, and you who saved the remaining people yet within these walls. I can't imagine the wildlings ever following the Boltons, what with their history of guest right. So…I conclude that you must be who you say you are. Will you swear on the heart tree of Torrhen's Square that you are a Stark, and that you are going to destroy the Boltons, root and stem?'

'Aye, my lady. I will swear it.'

The lady of Torrhen's Square looked up at Jon as she pulled herself up from the floor, drawing herself up to full height in the dim light of the morning. 'Many Tallhart men were killed at the Red Wedding, and my uncle Leobald was killed by Bolton men at Winterfell. Torrhen's Square is yours, my lord.'

'My than—'

'I have one condition.' Her tone suggested that this was not up for any kind of discussion.

'Yes?'

A malicious grin spread across her face. 'Make them suffer. Make the bastards all suffer.'

Robert

Quite frankly, it couldn't be viewed as anything short of a miracle. He remembered before his death, he'd jibed Ned about the vast emptiness of the North, how it was as big as all the other kingdoms with a quarter as much happening, more land than the few people that were there could ever use, with all that the great Ned Stark could do was sit down and allow his blood to freeze. And for the most part, he'd been right.

And then, in the frozen expanse a few miles south of Deepwood Motte, they'd found not only the party of Forresters they'd been looking for, but two kings with a Mormont army in tow, and—Robert was happy to note—dozens of campfires producing mouth-watering smells of roasting game. He spotted a boar beginning to blacken and knew that vengeance was nigh.

'Robb!' Ned called out, dismounting his horse and running over to pull his son into a hug. 'Gods, you've done me proud! I can see the Mormonts, and I assume that the Glovers are on their way to Torrhen's Square?'

'Aye. Found Rodrik and Asher Forrester with a few dozen men as well. It seems as though it's coming together decently.' He shot a grin at the Targaryen nearby. 'Even if Aegon did have to fight a giant.'

Robert laughed. 'Ha! Seems as though they had a better time of it than us, Ned. The only giant we saw had one eye and a foul temper, although had a decent stock of ale. Good job, lad.' His eyes shifted over to Aegon, and he swallowed uncomfortably. 'You too, I suppose.' Gods, that silver hair still put him on edge whenever he saw it.

'Your son is a fine diplomat, Lord Stark. You should be proud,' Targaryen said. 'I suppose there is more to the North than I thought.'

Ned shot him a cold look but softened when he realised no insult had been intended. 'I think you'll find that the North has much to offer. And of course I am proud. I am proud of all my children, whether they are diplomats or…not.'

Robert thought back to that little hellion Arya who he'd met in Winterfell all that time ago—all the rebellion and looks of Lyanna with none of the ladylike pretences when necessary. He had a sneaking suspicion that she was who Ned had in mind.

'Robb, where is Lord Gregor?' Ned asked. 'It's been years since I've seen him. Remember Brandon's betrothal feast, Robert? He was the one singing on the table.'

Robert remembered, taking a moment to relish in the memory from a time before everything had, quite frankly, gone to shit.

Lord 'Gregor…he, uh, he died at the Red Wedding,' Robb replied. 'I'm sorry for your loss, father.'

Ned sighed and for a second looked as old as he had when Robert had come to Winterfell. 'Gods…so much has changed in so little time. He was a good lord, and a good man. I'd best go give my condolences to his sons.' He stood up, with Robert beginning to follow suit before being stopped. 'Sit down Robert. I've seen you eyeing that boar for the last few minutes.' He smiled and wandered off toward a far-off black flag with a white tree emblazoned on it.

With that, the three kings remained.

'Robert,' Aegon said quietly. 'I have much to say to you, and I'd ask that you remain quiet until I finish.'

With his mouth full of boar, all Robert could do was give a slow nod. True, he hated the dragons with a burning passion, but it had been the old him, the fat, useless king, who'd been consumed by that hate. The new, reborn Robert was determined to be better. He would hear out the Targaryen, and if he didn't like what he heard the hammer was still a decent option.

'What you did to my descendants was unforgivable. Rhaegar and Aerys, I can understand. Even Rhaella, I can understand to a degree —she was a full-blooded Targaryen and the dowager queen, and she had decades of connections that would have posed a real threat to your reign. But by the gods, Robert. Why the children? Why Elia Martell? What did they ever do to you? What threat did infants pose to you?'

The image of the red cloak covering the bodied flashed in his mind, as it had every night since he'd heard Lyanna's story north of the wall.

Aegon continued. 'Even if that could be understood, what of Viserys? Daenerys? They've had to live their lives on the run, all because you feared their shadows from across the Narrow Sea? I hear all these stories of Robert Baratheon, the legendary warrior who destroyed the Targaryen dynasty and crushed the Greyjoy rebellion, but all I see is a cowardly child, jumping at every noise in the night.

'I intend to bring Daenerys to Westeros, Robert. You shall have a trial when this is all over, but she and all those others who you wronged will act as judges. You have been running from it for nearly 20 years, but your judgement will come.'

Again, Robert nodded. What else could he do? Not a word spoken by Aegon had been a lie, and any attempt at defending himself would been proving himself to be the monster they claimed him to be. The monster he had been.

'You have been brought back for a reason, Lord Robert, and so I do not believe it would serve to get rid of you just yet. I hope that you might find some atonement for your actions.' Aegon's voice and face softened. 'I have faith that you can be a better man than you were.'

'Pardon, Aegon,' Robb cut in. 'But what about Rhaegar? He was brought back as well—surely he also will have a role to play?'

The conqueror nodded pensively. 'That is correct, Robb, and when the Long Night comes we shall see if that is the case. For now, however, he can do no good for our efforts—no man is more hated in the North, myself included, and his madness could be every bit as dangerous as a Bolton's blade.'

'Madness? You truly believe he is mad?' Robert asked.

'He…he greatly resembles my father. His ravings about prophecy, the faith in the dragon having three heads, that crazed look in his eye when he first saw Jon in the courtyard at Castle Black. I've seen it all before. As Robb said, he will have a role to play in the final battle, but he should be kept as far from any decisions as possible until such a time comes.'

They sat in silence for a while, the jubilance of those around the other fires fading into the background as each of them fell deeper into thought. After a while, Robb and Aegon began to doze off, knowing they'd begin moving toward Torrhen's Square at dawn. Not Robert, however. Even when Ned returned and went to sleep, Robert sat silently until the sun began to creep above the horizon.

He…he'd be better. His was the fury, aye, but it was now a righteous fury.

Robert Baratheon would defend Westeros as he should've done for the past two decades, or he would die trying.

Lyonel

Lord Wyman had been gracious enough to provide them with a boat to take them up the White Knife, with the three of them dismounting with their fresh horses—also courtesy of Lord Manderly—a mile north of Castle Cerwyn, ahead of three days of riding west. Orys and Brandon may have been successful in finding support from the Cerwyns, but that was not a risk they were willing to needlessly take.

Since riding out from Castle Black, Lyonel had found that Aegon knew an endless supply of bawdy songs and dirty jokes, no doubt a result of spending his teenage years in every tavern and hovel that the seven kingdoms had to offer the squire of a hedge knight.

'…and then the dwarf said "Not so bad? I used to be six-foot-three!"' Aegon concluded, sending Lyanna into fits of laughter.

They rode for a few more miles in a comfortable silence, one horse following another through the rapidly rising snow.

'I've got one, I think,' Lyanna said nervously, no doubt conscious of her audience—one a man who'd proven his skill with jokes, time and time again over the past few days, the other with a reputation for laughter that had lasted a good fifty years after his death. 'I overheard it from Robb at Castle Black.' She cleared her throat. 'For a man, what's the difference between the pox and the knight of flowers?'

'I…don't know,' Lyonel replied. He'd heard mention of the knight of flowers, some Tyrell nancy-boy with half-decent sword skills and stupid armour. 'What's the difference between the pox and the knight of flowers.'

'The pox could kill you, whereas the knight of flowers will only give you a prick!'

They were silent for a moment, before bursting into gales of laughter. When they'd been around the table at Castle Black, the Stark children had told them all of the war of the five kings, from the kidnapping of the imp to the Boltons' reign over the North. The retelling had also included Robert's younger brother and his taste in men.

'Aye, that's a good one. I'll have to remember it for later,' Aegon said.

'Is…is that it? Up ahead?' Lyanna asked, squinting into the distance.

It was hard to tell—the snows were getting heavier, and there appeared to be a semi-opaque sheet of white in front of them, cutting off any kind of sure visibility. But then they came nearer, and it became evident that they were indeed approaching Torrhen's Square—the squat stone walls standing firm against the elements, dozens of small fires, both on the ground and atop the walls, visible from even as far away as they were.

They were outside the walls when people came out to meet them—that large wildling in the furs, the tall female warrior with the elaborate sword hilt, the redheaded young woman and the shy adolescent boy, each stood behind Jon Snow. Or Targaryen. Honestly, it was all still quite confusing to Lyonel.

'Mother,' he said, running over to her horse as she dismounted, each pulling the other into a tight hug. 'I…I missed you.'

'And I you, son.'

'Were you successful? The Hornwoods, The Manderlys? Will they fight with us?'

'The Hornwoods, no,' Lyonel said, walking over to Lyanna and Jon. 'Getting their support likely would've ended with us losing our heads. The Manderlys, however, were…more complex.' He shivered. 'Might we discuss it inside? It's bloody freezing out here.'

Brandon

The journey from Moat Cailin had, for the most part, been relatively easy—they had no large army to feed, with Bryden getting the Cerwyns and Patrek the Mallisters, and there had only been a few Bolton patrols to dodge.

Dacey, however, had given them cause for concern. Her wound, the jagged gash of an axe to the gut sustained years ago at the red wedding had never truly healed; infection had been staved off by some miracle through constant attention, but with no real medical care and the swift speed of their journeying it was becoming clearer that she didn't have long before some very real damage was done. Ordinarily, this wouldn't have been an issue—they and their horses had been rested and fed at Moat Cailin, and the Barrowlands were flat enough to traverse with relative ease.

And then came the bloody snow.

It had started at night when Orys had been keeping watch, a day's ride from Torrhen's Square, a light dusting of snow that became a worrying flurry by dawn and was nearing a blizzard by noon. It was getting dark again; they couldn't have been more than a few miles away, but were struggling to see beyond the tips of their noses.

'Oi!' Orys shouted. 'Can you see that?'

'What!? I can't see shit, mate!'

'Light!'

He wasn't wrong, Brandon noticed as he squinted over to where he was pointing. Torches or lanterns, flickering dimly in the snowy twilight, slowly but surely moving towards them.

'Orys!' Brandon shouted.

'Yes?'

'Watch over Dacey. Don't let these fuckers, whoever they might be, touch her.'

Brandon dismounted his horse, drawing his sword and shivering as he did so, wading away from the horses into the snow. He was quite sure that at that moment, shaking and huddled, he'd never looked less intimidating.

'Make your identities known, or I swear I'll run you all through!' Right now, he doubted he'd even be able to make contact, but they didn't know that.

'Brandon, is that you?' A voice boomed out of the darkness, the face of Robert Baratheon momentarily becoming illuminated by the torch he carried. 'Bollocks, Ned, we've drifted south. Do you know where we are, Brandon? Can't see past the end of my cock in this weather.'

Ah, the famed Baratheon eloquence.

'A mile east of Torrhen's Square, perhaps two.'

'Gods, Bran. How do you know that?' His younger brother made his presence known.

Brandon smiled. 'I wasn't fostered, brother. While you were out doing whatever the fuck people do in the Vale, I was in the North. Know it like the back of my hand.' He gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. 'About half an hour ago we passed a tree that I shagged Barbrey Dustin against.'

Robert laughed, squinting behind him. 'I can't see any soldiers. Is it just you two?'

'The Blackfish is at Cerwyn right now, trying to win over Lady Cerwyn, and we have aid coming from Seagard. There's also a woman there, calls herself Dacey Mormo—'

'Dacey!' His nephew ran past him to where the body sat slumped in Brandon's saddle. 'It's me, Robb. Gods, I'm so sorry this happened.' He seemed ready to continue his rambling when Brandon placed a hand on his shoulder.

'It's a touching reunion, lad. But we're close to shelter, and by the looks of things your men could do with some thick castle walls and a bowl of stew.'

Robb swallowed and nodded. 'Aye, you're right. But we have a wagon where I think she'd be much more comfortable. Give me a moment and I'll be ready to ride again.' With that, he slowly pulled Dacey from the saddle, carrying her over to a wagon as Brandon mounted his horse.

'Follow me!' He shouted using his lord voice; the voice that commanded respect alongside a healthy dose of fear. While it was always good to have the men under your command respect you, fearing the consequences of disobedience was always a handy way to ensure that your men wouldn't turn tail and run in a fight. He began to move, the soldiers falling in line behind him for the last leg of the journey,

They were there within an hour—two thousand Forrester, Mormont, and Glover men, fifty Essosi pit-fighters courtesy of Asher Forrester, three lords, and three kings looking impressive as they crossed the threshold of Torrhen's Square. Brandon could see various banners as he dismounted, but no men short of the miserable-looking soldiers on guard duty.

In the main hall, it was, simply put, pandemonium. Whoever was in charge—likely Jon, given the presence of the wildlings—had evidently seen the oncoming snows, and so had gathered all the fighters who'd ordinarily have been camped outside into the main hall, their bodies packed on the floor with barely an inch between them, spanning from the dais to halfway toward the door.

'Uncle!' His nephew spotted the newcomers and rushed over, stepping between bodies to reach them, before seeing the man he'd spent his life viewing as his father. 'Lor—uh, fath—uncle.' He grimaced. 'I'm still not sure what to call you, to be quite honest.'

'I'm your father, Jon. I always have been and I always will be. Come here.' He pulled him into a hug. 'Is Lyanna here?'

'Aye, I'll take you to her. I warn you though, the snows make it impossible for anyone to camp outside, so it's a tight squeeze with everyone within the castles.'

'Even the wildlings?' Robb asked. 'I'd have thought they'd be used to the snow, living beyond the wall and everything.'

'From the looks of things, the snows aren't going to let up anytime soon. Sure, they may be able to handle it better than any of us, but if they're to fight the Boltons, I can't have them frost-bitten and half dead.' He waved his arm. 'I'll be around here. Get your men settled, and I'll show you where you can rest for the night.'

After they settled their men with no small amount of arguing and swearing at the idea of sharing space with Wildlings, Jon led them down a corridor, prone bodies lining the walls as they approached their destination, two doors facing each other at the end of the walkway. He gestured toward the one on the left. 'Lyanna, Sansa, and Brienne are in there.'

'Would it be possible for Dacey to also sleep there, Jon?' Robb looked drained as he asked, his kingship never appearing more evident—he was clearly drained, but still looking out for his people. 'Brandon and Orys found her, she's not doing too well.'

'Aye, of course. I'll send for her in a moment. I'm afraid there may be, uh…slightly less space for us men.'

He wasn't lying. It had clearly once been a fairly illustrious bedchamber—a large four-poster bed occupied much of the space, with Aegon and Lyonel currently lying on opposite ends, waking abruptly as the rest entered. Brandon could also see a blanket on the floor and got the sneaking suspicion that it had been Jon's bed.

'We are to sleep on the floor?' Aegon asked incredulously. 'Here I thought we were a collection of kings and lords, but it appears that I was mistaken and that we are no better than peasants?'

'Correct.' Jon replied. 'You are no better than a peasant. Nor is a peasant better than you. Aye, you may be a better warrior and general and politician, but why should you get a bed that none of them get? When I was at the wall, it didn't matter whether you were next to a king or a commoner—so long as he had your back, you had his, station and titles be damned.' He looked his forbear in the eye. 'Will that be an issue, Aegon?'

Aegon clenched his jaw but relented. 'Forgive me. I have been on the road for weeks and…well, I suppose I am starting to miss some of the finer perks of living in the Red Keep.'

Ordinarily, Brandon would consider himself a gentleman, if a bit crude at times; seeing space for one more body on the bed, he knew he should offer that place to someone else, perhaps one of his nephews or any of the numerous kings he was surrounded by. Then his body flopped down between Egg and Lyonel and he was dead to the world.

Sansa

'Are we all here?' The conqueror's eyes scanned the room, mentally tallying all those who were gathered around the table in the solar, before he gave an abrupt nod. 'Excellent. As the only one of us who, quite frankly, has ever conquered a continent, I believe I am best equipped to deal with the oncoming battle. As such, I ask that you keep any questions you may have until the end. Is that acceptable?'

No one said anything, which he took to mean that he should continue.

'At presen—'

'Forgive me, your grace.' Sansa could hardly believe she'd spoken until the words had left her mouth. Interrupting a man who outranked her? Gods, mother and Septa Mordane would be distraught.

'Yes, uh…'

'Sansa, your grace. Sansa Stark, daughter of Eddard Stark. Forgive the interruption, but I suppose I'm just confused as to why you, a southerner, would believe they were the best person to plan for a battle at Winterfell, when there are multiple people in this very room, many of whom are worthy commanders in their own right, who know the castle and its land better than you could ever hope to?'

He smiled, ever so slightly—most would have missed it, but after her time in king's landing Sansa could tell the difference between the sickeningly false smile of someone who didn't mean it, and the true amusement of someone who didn't want to let on that they felt it. 'There is nothing to forgive, Lady Sansa. You are right. It would be better if one who knew the castle took the lead.'

There was silence for another moment before Robb began to speak, shooting Sansa a grateful look. 'In terms of men, we are outnumbered. Aye, we are much more evenly matched than we were before, but the bastard still has more men than us. So we'll need to be clever.' He swallowed, pointing at the map that lay before him. 'Winterfell has four gates; one to the north, one to the south, one to the east, and the hunters' gate to the west. Given our current position and the fact that we can scarcely move for the snows, there is little point in making any attempt on the north or the east gates. So that leaves us with the hunters' gate and the south gate.

'I propose that we send a token force to the south gate—they'll maintain distance from the Boltons, but lure the westward to the Wolfswood, where the rest of our forces will be waiting to charge the hunters' gate'.

'That seems risky,' her father said. 'There is little honour in using men as live bait, and those men will be at the greatest risk when the battle truly begins.'

'If you mean to fight Ramsay with honour, father, you've already lost,' Sansa cut in. 'Robb, would you be willing to lead the decoys? I'm sure that fighting alongside the king in the north would do wonders for morale, and your presence would deter any misconceptions that they're expendable.'

'Aye. I could do that,' Robb said. 'I learnt my lesson from the Whispering Wood. Those men will survive the battle if I have anything to say about it. Will any others join me?'

'Of course I will,' Jon replied. 'You're my brother. Not going to leave you to the flayed man, am I?'

'No.' Everyone turned their heads to Eddard Stark. 'I'm sorry Jon, but you're needed for the wildlings. They won't follow anyone else.'

No one spoke.

'I'll join the boy.' Robert broke the silence, running his thumb along the edge of his hammer. 'I could do with a good fight, and I'm sure that Ned doesn't want his son getting fucked by the Boltons.'

'You'll do no such thing, Robert,' Sansa's brother shot back. 'Bolton will have all sorts of veterans from the rebellion. If they see a massive man with a war-hammer and an antlered helmet, they'll be able to put two and two together, and that adds a whole new element of political horseshit that we don't need in this battle. We're not trying to restore your throne, just reclaim Winterfell.'

'But I'm dead! Or, was. Anyway, how will they know it's me?' the old king asked.

Robb floundered. 'You, uh…'

'Not you, Robert.' Ned saved his son from his distinct lack of an answer. 'Those Baratheon genes are a funny thing, and you can't deny that you sowed your wild oats around the North a fair bit when you were younger. Your bastards are common knowledge, and if someone thought that you were one of them before the battle even started, you'd be a target to have your head sent back to Cersei.'

Robert harrumphed, but remained quiet, knowing better than to argue with his foster brother.

'Orys.' All eyes moved to Aegon. 'I trust no man, dead or alive, more than I trust you, and you're too old to be one of Robert's children. The entire plan hinges on this feint working. Will you accompany young Lord Stark?'

The Stormlord grimaced. He didn't have the objective handsomeness of Robert, nor the easy smile of Lyonel or the charm Sansa remembered Renly possessing back in King's Landing. What he did have, however, was the true embodiment of the Baratheon fury permanently etched on his face. He said nothing, giving Aegon a look before turning to Robb. His eyes didn't leave him, scrutinising everything he saw as the cogs turned in his mind.

'Aye. I'll do it.' Orys looked over to Aegon. 'But if I die, your grace, I swear I'm going to haunt you.' He smirked and fell silent once again.

'So,' Sansa's father continued. 'The smaller force will be at the south gate, led by Robb and Orys. They'll stay out of reach, luring the Boltons west until they reach the Wolfswood, at which they'll join up with the main force. Is that everything?'

'How,' Lyonel began, stepping toward the map and staring down at it, 'can we be sure that they'll take the bait? Aye, they have no idea of our numbers, but surely they'd be suspicious if such a small force led by no-one recognisable tries to take them on?'

'That's why I'll be going with them.'

All eyes turned to Sansa.

'Not a fucking chance!' Jon shouted, her father making his agreement equally known while Robb glowered. 'He'll not get his dirty hands on you, not unless he steps over my cold, dead body to do it!'

'It's the only way, Jon! He'll not risk his army for anything less than his wife, you know it's true.' Seeing that he knew she was right, she pressed her advantage. 'Brienne will be with me, and as soon as the trap is set we will retreat. Is that acceptable?'

Her family all appeared troubled—Robb and Jon looked downright murderous, Brandon—who she'd barely said three words to—was clenching his fists so tightly that his knuckles were turning white, and Lyanna simply stared at her with fear in her eyes. Worst of all, however, was her father—she could've sworn that she saw his hands shake, and his gaze was glued toward the floor for the better part of a minute. At last, he looked up.

'You're sure you want to do this? I'm sure we can find some altern—'

'I'm sure, father.' She smiled and took his hand, looking him deep in the eye. 'I'm not that same little girl anymore. I'll be alright, I promise.'

His jaw was clenched, but he nodded. 'Very well. When are we planning to go to battle? Are we not going to wait for the others to arrive before we ride?'

Aegon scratched his chin. 'We cannot. It has been a moon's turn since we left Castle Black, and the Boltons will soon have word of the mobilisation of the North. We need to strike as soon as we can, as soon as these damned snows pass, and if that means that we don't have the Dornish, that is a chance that we must take.'

As the details of the plans began to be hashed out, Sansa began to tune out. She'd nod and make sounds of affirmation when was expected, but the realisation she'd be seeing Ramsay had lit a fire inside her, heating up the emptiness that had lingered since she'd escaped. As soon as the snow cleared enough to march, his death would not be avoided.

Winter was coming for Ramsay Bolton.

Morten

Being a guard to a lord was an honour. At least, that's what his father had drilled into him every day—sure, they'd never be knights of the Vale, but for someone of his station, a guard was just about the finest thing a man could be, and so as he'd reached adulthood he'd worked tirelessly to become the guard to some great lord—any great lord, really.

But why did the man he'd been charged to protect have to such a cunt?

He was the weaselly sort, the one who'd be bankrupted in a game of cards before starting a fight to flee in the subsequent chaos, leaving a trail of broken bodied and spilled ale in his wake, while his coin-purse remained strangely full.

The man wasn't even a great lord, to be quite honest. Aye, he'd risen high and was dressed in all the trappings of high nobility, but the fact remained that he was from some shithole in the Fingers, hardly any better than Morten's folk.

'Lord Royce,' he'd complain every day as the sun rose, frustrated at the slow pace of their journey. 'Are you quite sure that your men can travel no faster? We need to reach Winterfell, and time is of the essence.'

'It's too icy for the horses to move quickly down the mountains. If they're to be useful in battle, both the men and the horses must be rested, otherwise we'll arrive with useless horses and soldiers who are dead on their feet,' Lord Royce would always respond, only for his lord to storm off, his rage evident despite his calm demeanour.

Aye, Lord Baelish really was a prick.

After a week of seclusion in Torrhen's Square, the snows had melted adequately so that the soldiers might begin to move; a steady train of men and women, each armed to the teeth with minimal baggage as wagons rolled beside them. War was coming, and they knew that not all of them would survive.

A/N—Another chapter done! Next chapter will be the battle of Winterfell (this fic's equivalent to the battle of the bastards). Hope you're all staying safe in these shitty times, and as always feel free to favourite, follow, and review (and cheers to those who have!) As usual, I'm too lazy to properly proofread and have no beta, so forgive any mistakes you find in my sleep-deprived ramblings xox

-Kinginthenorth1

ArtimuosJackson—You're very correct! Horses don't have a chance to go up and down the continent—it was more of a last-ditch effort to get more men, more wishful thinking than anything else. They're hoping that their main weapon will be the element of surprise, which is why they're doing this mega quick round up of troops before attacking as fast as they can. As for Rhaegar, he will have his role to play, but in the meantime I think he's a bellend so I might as well bash him ;) As for Aegon, I figured that there's no reason he shouldn't have some foreign (in this case, Asian and Eastern European) influence on his fighting, given that all other Westerosi combat we see (i.e. not Valyrian) is based around medieval Europe.

TianYi—Noice.

Moshi—You're completely right, I reacted like a dickhead after your reasonable feedback. Sorry about that.

Donny Donuts—Cheers! And thanks for the constructive criticism, will definitely try and keep more of an eye on that in the future.