Denys

'Bolton!'

The voice seemed to appear from nowhere, a helmeted man shouting from the ground outside Winterfell. From his position atop the walls of Winterfell, Denys could see a small force gathering before the south gate—they numbered five hundred at most, equipped assorted equipment without any sigils visible save for a tattered grey direwolf, and no true formation or attempt to appear truly formidable.

Ugh, Denys thought. Fucking sellswords.

'Bolton!' The voice shouted again. 'Get down here, you scum! The North remembers!' It was a young man speaking, Denys would stake his life on it—a nobleman, most likely, based on the confidence behind the bellow and the impeccable pronunciation. A northerner who'd deluded themself into believing that they could take on the Boltons and put some pretender in power as the last Stark.

'Get down here now, cur, or I swear I'll drag you down here myself!' Another man spoke, taller and broader than the first man, with more bitterness evident in his voice. This man, the guard could tell, was older and more jaded than the other who'd spoken.

'Fuck off!' Denys shouted back. 'Who are you to give Lord Bolton commands anyhow?'

'Robb Stark!' the first voice shouted. Gods, this was ridiculous. Either this boy was truly that confident, that stupid, or had simply been dropped on his head as a child.

Denys laughed. 'Forgive me, your grace. Might I ask why you've come to grace Lord Bolton with your presence?'

'I've come to take his fucking head!' the supposed king in the North shouted. 'But in the meantime, perhaps he'd like to see his wife?'

From behind a clump of shields a figure emerged, a young woman whose vibrant hair seemed to burn against the dull brown mud she stood upon. She carried herself with dignity and poise, and her voice rung clearly like a stream of crystalline water. 'Tell my husband that if he surrenders now, I shall take his life before I take his manhood. The choice is his!' The words came out with such cold detachment that they could only be those of someone who truly meant what they said, consequences and morality be damned.

Gods, it really could be her—Sansa Stark, in the flesh.

The figures below did nothing as lord Ramsay was fetched and soldiers began to muster in the courtyard—Boltons, Karstarks, Manderlys; really any Northerner with adequate bloodlust or a lord with the good sense to swear fealty to the Boltons—clearly meaning to see this confrontation to its end. As his lord stepped to the edge of the battlements, Denys swore he could see the woman below shudder.

'Sansa, darling!' The lord of Winterfell spread his arms as though attempting to give her a hug. 'Thank the gods you've returned. Come up, and we can discuss the reward for your companions—how does a minute's head start before the hounds are released sound?'

'The next had you lay on her, you'll lose, bastard!' The young man spoke again, his voice underlined with the same cold steel that he reached for on his belt. 'You'll not touch her again!'

Lord Ramsay smiled, his sadism barely disguised behind the hollow façade. 'I'm afraid that's not for you to decide, whoever you are! She's my property and I intend to reclaim her!' Spit flew from his mouth as he shouted, getting increasingly frustrated at the man's insolence but clearly aroused at the prospect of his favourite pastime.

'By the time the sun has set, Lord Bolton, you'll be naught but food for the worms,' Lady Sansa shouted, turning backwards and mounting her horse with surprising ease. 'Or perhaps for your dogs.' With that, she trotted off, her body shielded by some hulking frame of plate armour, the rest of those in her company sprinting after her.

'Get her! Kill them all! Tear the fuckers to shreds!' Ramsay shouted, clearly irate. 'A hundred gold dragons to the man who brings her to me, alive!'

The south gate of Winterfell swung open and all hell broke loose, the Boltons leading the charge against their fleeing opponents, the Karstarks at their heels and the Manderly men following in swift succession. Whoever they were, those fools would be dead soon, and there'd be feasting and merriment for all in Winterfell. Denys smiled at the thought but shook himself out of it—such thoughts could wait.

First they had some wolves to hunt.

Between the south gate of Winterfell and the easternmost part of the Wolfswood, there were roughly 300 metres. With the element of surprise and their head start over the Boltons, the soldiers fighting for the Starks could have reached the army with ease had they not been armed. Even with weapons, they'd likely have made it in good time without being weighed down by armour.

As it happened, they were armed and armoured; a mass of leather and steel and flesh sprinting toward their comrades. In order to appear sufficiently vulnerable to their enemies, all were afoot, with only the lady Sansa speeding away on a horse, protected by the Beauty the entire time, reaching safety at the back of the crowd of men and women hidden in the trees. They ran, their enemies atop horses inching ever closer as they tried to reach their men. Sansa had never been in any real danger.

For the rest, it was far closer.

Robb

'Split!' He shouted, blood pumping in his ears as he reached the treeline, before abruptly changing course and heading right, half his force following in his wake, the other half going left after Orys. They appeared to almost splash against the bulk of their men as a wave might on a rock, careening off to the side to allow them the first crack at the oncoming troops.

All in all, it had worked beautifully. They'd appeared adequately desperate; Orys playing the grumpy old man (admittedly without much acting on his part) and Robb the brash young roughneck to perfection; Sansa goading Ramsay into making an appearance; the men in their entirety seeming so vulnerable that they'd been able to draw the Boltons out of their secure position.

As they divided, allowing the troops led by his father, Robert, and Aegon to charge forward, Robb was reminded of the battle of the Whispering Wood. Gods, he'd been arrogant—sacrificing hundreds of his men just for a more likely victory, all for nothing in the end; they'd either die in the battle or get murdered at a wedding, all because a boy was too busy playing at war while his men bled.

Then the men passed him and he was pulled back to the present, the roar and the clatter of the Bolton cavalry getting all but stopped by the trees as men piled into them. Robb himself whirled around, his heart thumping in his chest for what felt like an hour (but in all likelihood was closer to ten seconds) before a rival soldier attempted to attack him. He was older than most, and had he been a few years younger Robb may have been worried—old veterans were some of the most dangerous foes, and this man had the scars to prove that he was such a man. That didn't stop Robb from seeing that he was slow, the physical toll of swinging his sword against a much younger man clearly getting the better of him. After barely ten seconds of engagement, a swift slash to the man's neck caused him to tumble into the snow, with Robb moving on to his next opponent. And the next, and the next, and the next. He was unsure how long it continued, the desperate melee of men and horses, the snow and the mud and the blood all mixing together below them as the steel clashed above.

'Turn!' was called from a Manderly knight atop a white destrier, the call echoing amongst his men as they whirled around and turned began attacking those they'd been beside until now. The effect was instantaneous, a crippling blow to the Boltons akin to being stabbed in the side by a dagger—they'd live, but much of the danger was taken away. He was taken out of his musing as he was charged by a boy, green as he'd ever seen, who he quickly dispatched with a single stroke, blood spurting as Robb pulled his sword out of the boy's gut, squashing down the brief flame of guilt he felt.

Even as the maelstrom whirled around him, Robb could see that they were losing.

The element of surprise had been a boon, undoubtedly, with many of their most confident rivals being immediately taken out of commission as they hit the treeline. Robb may have been biased, but he was also certain that his side—those who'd returned, the Umbers, the Mormonts, the Glovers, the Forresters and their companions, the wildlings; all of them—were fighting better. But was a simple matter of numbers. Even with the surprise, the advantage of the terrain, the betrayal of the Manderlys, and the skill of their fighters, Ramsay Bolton simply had too many men for them to fight off.

But fight he would. Adjusting his grip on his sword, Robb Stark took a deep breath and plunged back into the fray.

Egg

'Find your footing, you fool.' That had been the first lesson he'd received from Dunk after the tourney at Ashford Meadow, usually accompanied with a clout round the head. 'If you don't have half decent footing, you'll be the first to fall.' Then he'd kick him in the knee, sending Egg to the floor with a howl of pain. Ser Duncan the Tall had been an excellent knight and a fine man, but his skills as a teacher had been somewhat lacking.

Still, Egg thought. He can't have been all bad if I can still remember it. As he thought, a soldier emblazoned with a white sun charged at him with a pike, with Egg taking a step to the side before fixing his stance and bringing up his sword, the blade slashing against the man's cheek and sending him to the floor.

'How are you holding up, your grace!' Lyonel shouted with a grin, materialising at Egg's side with his sword flashing in the mid-morning light.

'I won't lie, Lord Baratheon!' Egg replied. 'I think I've been better.' The Unlikely swung his sword, cleaving it into the armpit of an attacker. 'And yourself?'

The Laughing Storm pushed his sword through a soldier's midriff up to the hilt and withdrew it just as quickly. 'Oh, I'm loving life, your grace! If only we weren't losing!'

That stopped Egg in his tracks for a moment before he remembered where he was and kept moving. 'We're losing?'

'Aye! Quite badly, by my estimate!' Lyonel parried and countered a Bolton man, carving a line from his navel to his neck. 'The Manderlys were a nice touch, but it's simply not enough.'

Egg swore, imaginatively and at length, his rage fuelling his blows as he briefly became somewhat invincible, as if Dunk had been at his side.

"This man protected the weak, as every true knight must. Let the gods determine if he was right or wrong," he remembered his uncle Baelor saying before the trial of the seven. If the Boltons' actions were considered right in the eyes of the gods, they weren't gods he wanted any part of. The truth, Egg thought, was far simpler—men were monsters of their own creation, and no kind of divine justice would ever get in the way of an evil man with a sword.

As he dodged an enemy sword, his foot snagged on the fold of a hauberk on a fallen soldier and he fell down, his sword falling from reach., his shield long since lost. Lyonel was gone, back into the thick of the battle, his lust for a fight being sated at long last. His attacker stood over him, raising his iron sword with the clear intent of taking Egg's life.

And then he wasn't. His head slumped forward, only remaining attached by a thin strip of flesh under his chin like the stopper of a canteen, before the body fell to reveal Brienne of Tarth, her sword remaining raised as she helped him to his feet.

'Where is lady Sansa? Weren't you supposed to be protecting her?' he asked, panting heavily.

'She's safe with Podrick and a group of guards about a mile back,' she responded. Brienne really was tall, towering over him in an oddly familiar way, immediately making him feel safer despite the carnage raging around him. As she cut off the sword arm of an attacker, she turned back to him. 'You really should watch your footing, your grace.'

No. It couldn't be. She drove the point of her sword through a Karstark soldier's eye, and suddenly it became obvious that it definitely could be true—he was in the presence of a descendant of Ser Duncan. She had the build, the skill, even some of the look, and he was sure that they'd spent time at Evenfall at some point.

A man ran at her, clearly enthused at seeing what he believed to be an easy target—after all, what would a woman be doing on the battlefield? When he was a mere foot away, Egg stuck his sword out with less technique than he would've liked, impaling the man's shin and sending him to floor with a horrific shriek before Brienne thrust he sword down and put him out of his misery.

'You should've watched your footing, mate,' Egg muttered to the corpse under his breath before moving on. It was becoming clearer by the moment that theirs was a losing battle—the corpses were piling up, and more often than not they'd have the sigils of someone on their side. Still, he couldn't stop fighting now, so he followed Brienne and got back to work.

Orys

Aye, these fuckers were tough, but he'd faced worse before and likely would again. Then again, Northerners always were. He remembered how he'd felt when Torrhen Stark had knelt all those years ago—sure, they may have had dragons, and they undoubtedly would've won, but Orys had slept easier knowing that there'd be no-one coming for him with a knife in the night. Northerners were hardy bastards, every one of them.

He yanked his sword out of an enemy's neck, his beard splattered with blood and his vision briefly blurred, but Orys didn't much care. He just loved battle. True, he'd likely empty his guts in the moments after, when the blood rush had stopped and he could fully take into account the scale of the slaughter, but in the moment, as the battle raged around him and he began his brutal dance of death, Orys had never felt calmer.

He could see that his descendants felt similarly; Robert was swinging his hammer with wild abandon, cleaving a path of destruction through the amassed forces before him, whilst Lyonel earnt his moniker, his laughter bellowing as his sword struck with the precision of a bolt of lightning. Orys almost smiled. When they weren't being fools, his descendants were men that he could almost be proud of. Not that he'd ever tell them that.

Orys lurched to the side, bringing his sword up and slicing the flank of a horse passing by. It tumbled, throwing its rider to the ground where he floundered for a moment before finding himself with a sword in his neck.

Then he spotted him. Through the throng of soldiers, a miraculous gap appeared through which Orys could see him. Atop his horse, loitering toward the back of his men, occasionally cutting down anyone who came close with a sick grin. The Bolton bastard.

Orys, contrary to popular belief, was not a complete fool. True, he was no genius like Aegon or cunning strategist like his darling Argella had been, but he had a keen military mid and could see that they were losing, and badly at that. Then again, a blind man could see that.

But if he could reach the Bolton bastard, they might have a chance. A single sword stroke rather than a thousand. One more body rather than a field of them. If he killed him, it would all be over.

He ran. He wasn't proud of it—ordinarily, he'd have treated each enemy combatant with the same respect, facing them openly with the best man emerging victorious. But as it was, he sped forward, dodging any wayward blows and occasionally ploughing over someone, his hulking frame armoured with steel making him effectively unstoppable and his shield rebuffing anyone who attempted to get close.

15 feet.

10 feet.

5 feet.

His sword sliced into the bastard's leg, although he was able to remain mounted even as the blood began to pour down his leg.

'Get him!' At his shout, the Bolton's men surrounded Orys, outnumbering him four to one.

Orys smirked. He'd certainly faced worse odds. He swung his sword in a wide arc as his shield pushed forward, breaking a man's nose with a sickening crunch a moment before Orys' sword found his stomach. Another soldier thrust at him with a spear, which was narrowly avoided with a swift dodge before his shield smashed into his throat, sending the man careening as he gasped for air. Two men were left. They attacked in synchronisation, forcing Orys to engage one with each hand; the one on his left was struggling to penetrate his shield, the right one occupying his sword arm. The stalemate continued until Orys lurched back for a moment—both rivals swinging at air, leaving themselves completely exposed. In a single swing he opened both their necks, his sword slicing between the helmet and the gorget, leaving them to both collapse to the ground, still twitching as the life leeched from their bodies.

Gods, it was good to be alive. After Argella had died, after he'd lost his hand, after he'd been left to rot in some Dornish shithole, he'd been a sad man—purposeless, useless, bitter. Then he'd returned, once again to fight in the wars of other men, expecting to die a cold and bleak death north of the wall. But he'd found brotherhood—Brandon with his incessant talking and fine sense of humour, young Robb with his keen military mind, descendants he could be proud of. And Aegon. Truthfully, he was still not certain if they were truly related—the rumour had circulated amongst the nobles and servants all the same, but he'd never had any conclusive proof that he was his brother. And quite honestly, he didn't care. Aegon Targaryen was his brother, if not by blood then by bond, and Orys had been ecstatic to see him once again.

But first he had a battle to win. Breathing heavily as he turned from the bodies surrounding him, he looked up to the Bolton bastard, ready to—

The arrow hit him out of nowhere, the string still vibrating as he looked up toward Ramsay Bolton, bow in hand, glaring at him darkly. A shoulder wound, nothing too serious. He pulled it out and kept walkng

Then another, lodging itself in his gut. He took a step and stumbled, but his eyes never left Bolton. Another burrowed itself into his kneecap. His shield and sword were gone by now, and his head felt lighter than ever. Orys looked down and noticed that he hadn't been as quick to dodge that soldier's spear as he'd thought. Ah well. If he could reach the, uh…the man he was trying to reach, what was his name again? As he tried to remember he dimly felt something hit his chest but continued to move forward. Bolton, that was it. If he could reach Bolton, it would all be alright.

'It's fine Orys. You've done all you can.'

He turned to try and find the source of the voice, using momentous amounts of energy to do so. And there she was. Argella. Gods, she was as beautiful as she's been the day she'd come to his camp, that same knowing smirk and confidence bordering on arrogance. How he'd missed her.

'You can do no more. You…you've done all you can. Come with me, Orys. See your children. They've missed you.' Argella held out her hand, which Orys willingly took, his arm shaking as he lifted it.

As Orys Baratheon fell to the ground for the last time, the last thing he could see was a collection of horses and spears on the horizon, glimmering copper and shining fabrics appearing like fire against the bleak northern landscape.

At last, he thought before descending into nothingness. The sun has finally risen.

A/N: Slightly shorter update this time. I'm aware that it's fairly evident that I've never written a battle scene, but still hope you can get some enjoyment from part 1 of the Battle of Winterfell.

Hope you're all staying safe in these shite times, and are doing all you can-signing petitions, donating responsibly, and voting-to try and help those most badly affected by COVID-19, systemic racism, and the current humanitarian crisis in Yemen. Thanks as always to those who follow, favourite, and review (and if you haven't feel free to do so. Or don't. Your choice).

Tune in time for the Battle of Winterfell Part 2: Electric Boogaloo.

-Kinginthenorth1 xx

I thought, since there's been a lot of characters used that are barely present in canon and some characters that we're familiar with who are acting quite differently, I thought I might share some thoughts on my characterisations (in order of appearance). If that's not your cup of tea, feel free to ignore.

Orys has the same inherent temper, skill at arms, and looks as Lyonel and Robert, but his main differentiation is that whereas Lyonel rose above trouble with his good humour and Robert sank into it (see: the entire book of A Game of Thrones), Orys is determined to fight whatever comes his way, generally with supreme bitterness. Still though, he'll be missed (by me at least).

Lyonel is the simplest character to write. He's a true knight, with all that loyalty and chivalry bollocks, but so long as he has something to drink, someone to fight, and someone to share his journey with, he'll die a happy man.

Robert was the character who I most wanted to provide some kind of redemption arc for. In the books and show, he's admittedly a wanker, but from what we see of him and Ned's friendship, and his miserable state of existence (married to a woman who despises him, stuck in a job he hates, and mourning the woman he always believed loved him), he's the most interesting to try and give some chance at atonement-underneath all the bluster and bravado, in this story his primary goal is to become a better man for both the kingdoms and his friends, no matter the cost to himself.

Egg, by all accounts, has always had a kind of childlike naivety, which I would imagine has been badly shaken by the fire at Summerhall and the death of his friends and family. As such, he's being forced to grow u and to try to prove himself as deserving his place amongst those who returned.

Aegon is the closest we're ever going to get to how Jon Snow is often portrayed in fan fiction: he's good at everything, can rally almost anyone to his cause, and is ridiculously driven to try and prevent the long night. He is not infallible, however, and will soon find that the new status quo of the seven kingdoms doesn't necessarily have room for a single conqueror without a dragon.

Rhaegar has had, hands down, one of the weirdest fucking receptions in fan fiction overall. If some 24 year old seduced a sixteen year old, shagged her, and then left her to give birth with zero medical assistance in a desert without sending any kind of word to anyone else nowadays, he'd be sent to prison! He abandoned his family in a place where they were very likely to die with no protection, and then everyone licks his boot because they think it's romantic. Either way, he's a wanker, and I intend to portray him as such.

Brandon is probably the one enjoying his resurrection the most-he no longer has any of the pressures of being the heir to Winterfell, he's not rotting in a dungeon as he was before he died, and his family is reunited. That being said, he hasn't properly faced the skeletons in his closet (Rickard Stark, anyone?) and that'll have a fairly big impact on his outlook.

Ned is shaken-he was betrayed and murdered, and is now aware that if he always acts with honour above all else he'll always be doomed to fail. He's also taken this opportunity to tell Jon the truth, which makes him a considerably lighter character than he was in canon. Similarly to Brandon, however, he's still got ghosts in his past that he needs to face...

Lyanna was a young girl who was massively privileged and naive, and who is now finding out that the world is even less fair to women than she thought it was. There'll be an interesting dichotomy with Lyanna, between the warrior who has a hard time trusting after what she's been through and the nurturing mother who's been given a second chance to have a life with her son.

Robb has also been forced to grow up following the Red Wedding, as he can now see the specific ramifications of his childish mistakes. He's in the big leagues now, and plans to take advantage of every lesson he can get his hands on.

Oberyn has now been made aware that he's not quite as invincible as he previously believed. Still by no means cautious, he's certainly going to have a less arrogant approach to his battles. With the reappearance of Robert, Rhaegar, and Lyanna, vengeance is also closer than it ever was before. Question is, is he still the man who prioritises vengeance above all else?

Oswell was essentially the middle child out of the three kingsguard at the Tower of Joy. Between the Lord Commander and the Sword of the Morning, he was the type to be overlooked (to the point where he wasn't even included in the show). Whilst a great warrior in his own right, he's still in the shadow of the others, leading him to take the very first opportunity to strike out on his own (lovingly demonstrated when he told Rhaegar to fuck off at the first possible opportunity). A genuinely good man who was the victim of his own oaths.

Arthur was one of those who got sucked in by the facade presented by Rhaegar, only seeing the truth when it was too late. Honourable to a fault, he badly struggled with not only the brutality of upholding his oaths but the betrayal of his trust in Rhaegar when ordered to kidnap and guard Lyanna.

Gerold was a wanker, simple as. Ground down by years of meaningless servitude, upholding his oath was his main reason for living, no matter what moral quandaries there were.

Jon is the same as ever-honourable, broody, but now in a position that he can actually do something about it.