Arthur

It could hardly be described as anything short of a miracle—three men travelling near a thousand leagues and a thousand more travelling the same distance once more, all to arrive at the precise moment they were needed? To anyone else, it would have seemed ridiculous, but not Arthur. He'd seen all there was beyond the wall, all who'd returned; if anyone deserved some divine aid, it was them.

'For Dorne, for glory! Charge!' Spurring his horse, Oberyn Martell charged forward at the head of the Dornish cavalry, the vast collection of spears looking eerily like a hedgehog. They swiftly cut through the Bolton forces as an ox would plough the ground, a grim red trench in their wake as they rode in a figure of eight to reform.

Arthur himself had no such words of motivation for the infantry behind him. 'Kill the fuckers!' With that, he grasped Dawn in both hands and charged—he had no need to stay in the formation of the others and knew that every second he wasted would be more lives taken from those on the field below.

Military theorists, maesters, and historians had never conclusively agreed on just how Dorne was able to resist the Targaryens for so long—they were by no means superior fighters, nor massively different on a physiological level, and any match-up between a soldier and a dragon would only ever end one way. Few, however, had ever truly considered the Dornish phalanx. While almost all martial cultures in the seven kingdoms had some idea that a group of men with locked shields was stronger than a group of men without, none had ever perfected it to such an extent as the Dornish.

Even at a sprint they moved in lockstep, barely an inch ever appearing between their shields even as they clashed with the mass of bodies below, their spears staying level as they became coated in red, thrusting with deadly precision over and over, each time hitting their intended target with lethal efficiency. The phalanx was a stone wall; no man could break through it, and if one brick fell it would be swiftly replaced by another.

As Arthur and his men charged, as did the forces behind Oswell—Mallisters and Cerwyns, with the craggy face of the Blackfish visible on the front line, sword in hand and cry upon his lips. Just another miracle, Arthur supposed—who could've foreseen them coming across another force, united in aims and alliances when disembarking their ships at the headwater of the White Knife? It had been a surprise to be sure, but a welcome one.

Not that Arthur particularly noticed any of this, for he was engaged in the dance of death, his pale blade a blur as he carved and cut his way through the swathes of bodies in his wake, none giving him much pause. He'd cut his way to the thick of the fighting, where he found Aegon stood over a body that was still warm and still spurting blood, grimacing as he pulled his sword from the man's throat.

'Hello there, your grace,' Arthur grunted, ducking a under a spear before slashing at his attacker, the body careening off as its lifeblood fled from it.

'Arthur? By the gods, how are you here?' The conqueror was certainly worse for wear than Arthur was—although unharmed by all appearances, he was covered in the grime that accompanied all battles and seemed to be breathing heavily. 'I know I sent you, but I never truly expected you to come back! How did you do it?' He kicked out at an attacker's knee, sending him to the ground with a grim crack before impaling him through his stomach.

The sword of the morning stayed silent as he dismembered a Karstark man before him, before looking back to the conqueror. 'It's a thrilling story, your grace. Full of intrigue, adventure, danger, and…well, Oswell stealing a ship.' He smirked as he remembered their misadventure at Eastwatch-by-Sea.

Aegon stopped for a moment before remembering that the slightest hesitation could result in the loss of his head and moving again. 'Ha! You'll have to tell us about that later! For now, though, we have a battle to win.'

'That we do.' With that, Arthur switched off his mind and let his body take over. Absent thought or feeling, he was ruled by his muscles and his senses, slicing a grim path through all those around him with Dawn, as the phalanx proceeded behind him with its eerie uniformity and the cavalry wreaked havoc all around. Arthur was unsure how long he fought in such a way, time washing over him as the sea would wash over a stone. He saw Lyonel and Robert basking equally in the slaughter, Ned with the same quiet concentration evident on his face that he'd had at the Tower of Joy, and Jon and Lyanna with a large wildling who grinned maniacally as his axe clove an enemy's head in two as a white wolf roved about their feet, tearing out the throat of a fallen Bolton soldier. He saw that, despite the carnage, he was receiving wide-eyed stares from those noticing a man in the white plate armour of a Kingsguard with a sword as unique as Dawn, each wondering if it could really be him? He saw four enemy men fall for each one of their own.

Gods, they were actually winning. Despite himself, Arthur grinned as he lurched to the side and opened some poor bastard's belly. He ached all over and wanted nothing more than to soak in a bath with a bottle of wine—which, by the sounds of swords clattering to the ground and the shouts of "Mercy!" and "I surrender!" was looking as though it might be sooner than he thought.

They pushed toward the South gate of Winterfell, the dwindling enemy numbers diminishing further—through surrender and death—as they neared the high stone walls. The bastard still stood atop them, glowering down at the amassing crowd of pissed-off soldiers below him, a sea of helmets and swords and raised spear heads, Northerners and Rivermen and Wildlings and Dornish each united in their desire to see Ramsay Bolton swallow three feet of steel.

'It's over, Sansa!' he shouted, seeing that she was one again present, guarded by the ever-watchful Brienne of Tarth. 'I have the high ground!'

'The high ground can't save you, Bolton!' Jon shouted, his fury breaking free like water bursting through a dam. 'Surrender peaceably and I guarantee you a quick death!'

Ramsay laughed, a crazed giggle escaping his lips before he reschooled his face into one of cold sadism. 'You must be her bastard brother! Sorry, bastard, did I say high ground? I meant your brother!' He pulled up a body with a sack over its head, yanking off the covering to reveal a strangely distorted mirror image of Robb—aye, he was malnourished and badly beaten, with more cheekbones showing than was healthy, and purple lacerations covering his face, but any doubt in Arthur's mind of his identity as a legitimate Stark vanished when he saw the pained look on Jon's face. 'Say hello, Rickon!' The boy—Rickon, apparently—groaned in response before Ramsay shoved him out of sight.

'I want a fresh horse, bastard, and you're guarantee that you won't pursue me! If you do, I swear I'll gut your brother before you get within a mile of us!'

Jon hesitated, a pained expression briefly marring his face before he nodded. 'Aye! You have my guarantee, I won't come after you!'

As the horse was fetched, Ramsay left their sight before re-emerging through the gate with a knife to Rickon's throat, taking slowly measured steps towards the horse as his eyes never left Jon's. Arthur could feel the tension in the air, as though a noose was becoming stretched ever tighter, to the point where it could snap at any moment. He slowly manoeuvred himself into a sitting position, pulling Rickon—whose skeletal frame couldn't have weighed much—into the saddle in front of him. With that, he rode off in a slow trot, his knife never leaving the young Stark's neck. He'd be safer if he galloped, Arthur knew, but then there was more chance of a mishap with his knife, at which point he'd lose his hostage and immediately be impaled with arrows a score of times over.

'Brynden,' Robb Stark muttered to the Blackfish stood beside him, making sure that Ramsay wouldn't here him. 'I assume you remember my grandfather's funeral?'

'Aye.'

'Are you still that skilled with a bow?'

'More so, lad. You don't survive living in Moat Cailin if you can't shoot whichever poor bastard requires shooting.'

Robb took a bow and a single arrow from a Mallister soldier behind him and handed it to Brynden. 'Aim for the head, if possible. I don't want Rickon harmed.'

All were silent as the Blackfish aimed, drawing his arm back with steadiness that would've been envied by men half his age. By now, Ramsay was little more than a blur, slowly gaining speed as freedom drew ever closer, simply preoccupied with getting as far as he could.

Brynden loosed the arrow with a quiet twang, the projectile sailing through the air and out of sight. For a moment Arthur was unsure whether he'd been successful or not, but all doubts were dispelled as the blur widened and separated—there was a person and there was a horse, no longer the same blob of greyish-brown disappearing into the horizon. Oberyn took off immediately, his steed going into an immediate gallop and his spear levelled—the bastard was a crafty fucker, and for all they knew could be playing dead.

He was not. Oberyn returned with Rickon curled up against his body and the reigns of the other horse wrapped around his hand. Ramsay was there too, the point of an arrow emerging his eye and his foot stuck in the stirrup, dragging him through the dirt.

'Lord Stark,' Ned said to Rickon, his face still partially obscured from view. 'Winterfell is yours.'

Ned's youngest son looked up and gasped. 'F-father?' With that, his eyes rolled back and his body went prone, collapsing into back into Oberyn.

They began to move, all senior figures in their party moving toward the gate, save for Aegon, who stopped and whipped his head around, his eyes frantically scanning his surroundings and his breaths becoming more frequent and shallow. 'Where's Orys?'

Oberyn

'He was the finest lord the Stormlands ever knew, and the strongest hand the kingdoms ever saw. He was my friend and my brother. He cared not for pomp and circumstance and would hate any kind of flowery speech, so I will leave you with these words. Be at peace, Orys. You deserve it.' Aegon fell silent and set down the torch onto the pyre, prompting all others to do the same, the land surrounding Winterfell's south gate being illuminated against the oncoming darkness, dozens of pyres covered in the slain from the events of the day. The acrid stench of burning flesh didn't quite sit right with Oberyn, as though the gods were making it known that burning men in such a way was an affront against their very existence.

Not that they had any choice—Jon had mentioned how they'd burnt the bodies of his sworn brothers to prevent them becoming those things they'd seen north of the wall, and even further south they were unwilling to take any chances.

They began to slowly file away, the bulk of the crowd making their way to the barracks, with the wildlings setting up their tents around the gate and the nobles making a beeline to the main hall. It had been a long day already, but it wasn't over. Not yet.

Only three people remained at the pyre. Lyonel and Robert stood a few feet behind Aegon, who'd remained silent since he'd finished the eulogy. His eyes, normally so stoic, were unfocused and glassy, staring into the flames as though he wished he could join him. Then he swallowed and turned round, his eyes moving over to Oberyn, once again filled with the same steely determination. 'We'd best get inside, I suppose,' he said simply before moving past him, Robert and Lyonel in tow. Oberyn shivered and followed suit.

They were sat around a number of lower tables that had been pushed together, less performative than being sat on the dais but more pragmatic. Young Rickon had been taken to the maester, a great bear of a man by the name of Wolkan who'd visibly sighed with relief when he'd seen that the Boltons were no longer in power. Still, holding a spear to his throat for a moment and seeing the terror in his eyes had been enough to ensure his continued loyalty.

Bread and salt had been laid out, and after a brief disappearance Jon reappeared with a servant in tow carrying a cask of ale, followed by a quick flurry of servants who deposited refreshments alongside bread and salt. The remaining Baratheons dug in with gusto, with all others eating slowly and mechanically, as though simply trying to regain all the energy which had been spent that morning absent any thought of taste or texture.

Egg swallowed his last mouthful before pushing his plate away and looking toward Oberyn, Oswell, and Arthur, who were grouped together at the end of the clump. 'Might I ask, my lords, how you were able to reach Winterfell in time for the battle? I'm sure I was not alone in thinking you'd been sent on a fool's errand.' He looked at Aegon and grimaced slightly at his tactlessness. 'Meaning no offence.'

'Oh, it was,' Oberyn responded. 'Had we ridden South to Dorne and tried to ride back again with an army at our backs, we barely would've made it by the end of summer. So instead, we went east.'

'Ww wmmt bo—' Oswell paused for a moment and swallowed, before trying again. 'We went to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. Arthur and Oberyn distracted a guard while I stole a small trading vessel which Oberyn was able to pilot, due to his years of travelling, I believe?' Oberyn nodded, and Oswell continued. 'After he taught us the basics, it was relatively simple—we took it in shifts to sail, not stopping until we reached Sunspear. We had fine winds, and the good fortune not to run into any reavers.'

'When we arrived, there was a party from King's Landing led by Balon Swann, readying themselves to leave,' Oberyn cut in.

'A decent man,' Ned said. 'But why would a Stormlander be in Dorne? They're not exactly known for their rosy relations.'

'He's a Kingsguard, Lord Stark, there to guard the Princess Myrcella.'

Robert choked on his ale. 'By the gods, why in the seven hells would she be there?'

'It was a ploy of the imp, from what Doran told me, so that the crown would have the support of Dorne. Probably to spite his sister as well, knowing him. Trystane and Myrcella would marry and the throne would be secure from the South,' Oberyn said. 'Anyhow, it appears that my niece is more of a fool than I took her for—she intended to crown Myrcella and take the lordship of Dorne from Doran without him ever knowing. Either way, there were enough unwanted guests in Sunspear that we had to sneak in. Luckily, since I know it like the back of my hand, we were able to reach Doran's chamber with relative ease, with only a few…' He trailed off, thinking of the bodies hidden in the stables. 'Difficulties.'

'It was strange. He was glad to see me—less so for Arthur and Oswell—but somehow not particularly surprised. I told him the truth, since he'd have seen through any lies, of who'd returned and what we aimed to do, that I required a thousand men and three of our swiftest ships. He agreed without a moment's hesitation.'

'I always thought that Lord Doran was a rather pragmatic man,' Ned said. 'What benefit would he get from sending men away from Dorne, to most likely die in the North?'

Oberyn chuckled. 'You are not the first to be stumped when attempting to understand my brother, Lord Stark. Still, he lent the men and ships and we left at dawn, sailing around the Stormlands and up the White Knife. We disembarked this morning, and well, you know the rest.' He took a sip of his ale and grimaced at the bitter taste.

'Why wasn't he surprised?' All heads turned to Aegon, who had barely muttered a word since coming inside, and whose gaze still seemed to be focused on something a league away. His eyes locked onto Oberyn's and he continued. 'By all accounts, your death was one of the most public and indisputable events of the last few years, with none of the conspiracy involved in the Starks or the privacy of Lord Robert here. But then from what you told us, it almost sounds both as though he expected to see you and wasn't particularly surprised at the presence of Sers Arthur and Oswell. So I suppose I'm just surprised at how easily he accepted it.

The three of them remained silent, each shooting each other looks before Oswell swore under his breath and cleared his throat. 'We, uh…we weren't the only people he'd met that had returned.'

Commotion arose around the table, swearing and laughing and shouting in equal measure, before Aegon silenced them all. 'You mean there are others? People who were not beyond the wall?'

'Aye.' Oswell said.

'Tell me, gentlemen,' Oberyn asked with a sly grin. 'What do you know of Queen Nymeria?'

As the sun rose the next morning, hundreds of men gathered at the top of the hill overlooking Winterfell, horses and spears and shields all assembled to liberate Winterfell from the Boltons.

And then the laughter began. A slight chuckle originating from the men at the front, spreading back through the ranks until there was a deafening roar to be heard all through the force. They'd been marching for weeks, starving and half frozen with their horses slowly dying beneath them, all so that they could take Winterfell and earn their lord the favour of the Starks. And it had all been for naught.

Upon seeing the direwolf hanging from the walls and the piles of red and black armour outside the gates, the laughter seemed to fade from his hearing, and Petyr Baelish scowled as his fists tightened around his reins.

What in the name of the gods had happened here?

A/N Hi guys! Slightly shorter chapter here-I know it took a while, but I turned nineteen this weekend so barely remember any of it. Still though, I hope you are still enjoying the story. Feel free to favourite, follow, and review, and as always thanks to those who have done that.

P.S. See if you can spot me being a massive nerd in this chapter.

Also thought I should say, my account's being weird and not showing reviews until about a week after they're posted. Know that they're still massively appreciated and they're not being ignored on purpose.

Thanks again!

-Kinginthenorth1

KingManaena: Thank you! Really appreciate it!

TianYi: I'm gonna assume you're saying that about the death of Orys and not the horrific quality of my writing, but know that I fully agree with you either way.

DarthMaine: Trust me mate, massive motivation for writing this story is to see the characters I don't like get what they deserve, and Baelish is most definitely on that list.

Guest: Cheers!

M: There's nothing in canon to suggest that there are secrets of Winterfell or that Brandon would know everything about the castle by his early twenties, Everything that is achieved by the characters in this fic, I want to be through their own merit rather than some bullshit deus ex machina. Also, just an FYI, if you like Trump/his policies/ideals, you may not like some of the content of later chapters. I think he's an awful person who spouts an unbelievably divisive and damaging rhetoric, and that if you support a proven rapist and a racist in such a position you should think about WHY THE FUCK you'd do that. xoxo

Moshi: First of all, Robert is not redeemed-he's got the close links with the Starks and so will be viewed more favourably by them/their POVs, but all are still well aware of his flaws. Yes, he was a terrible king, but the realm was still relatively peaceful, especially in contrast to Aerys and the actions of Rhaegar in this story. In this fic, he will not be a king at any point, and we'll be able to see more of the man he could've been the first time around rather than the man he was. Secondly, and I thought this was fairly obvious: This is not canon. I'm using an absolutely massive amount of suspension of disbelief, and putting my own spin on the character. As far as the actual ASOIAF/GoT series go, youre right: we don't know the whole story. But in this story, the one that I'm writing, I have very specific views on the characters and their arcs, and I apologise if you're not a fan of that, but know that in this case, Robert will not always be good, and Rhaegar has not been brought back solely to be bashed and abandoned at the wall.

Cali: He really will-it's not only the loss of someone who was essentially his brother, but also the man he considered his strongest ally in the events to come. As for the recomendation, thank you! I will definitely check it out, and I appreciate you telling me.