WINTERFELL RUINS – THE NORTH

Sansa Stark rode at the Wildling army as though it were hers. Her soul died at Ramsay's hand but rose from the ashes of Winterfell. Blackened, torn and hard as dragonglass. Fear was the snow on her face – immaterial. It melted off her flesh. Discarded without a trace. She was the wolf Lady never lived to be. What was her brother? She wondered. Had death made him strong or had it stolen his rage...

A white mare pulled to a stop, fighting against its reins. The creature on its back shared her brother's dark eyes. He had the same hair, sturdy form and pale countenance made worse by his brush with death. Jon was off his horse, knee deep in snow as Sansa brought her beast beside him.

"Brother..." she greeted, reservedly from her perch.

"Lady Stark..." he replied, as was their way from childhood days. Jon offered both hands which she accepted, slipping off the horse and directly into his waiting arms. They wrapped around her, all leather and smoke.

He is still warm, Sansa realised in relief. Death had not taken that from him. Her hold tightened, nearly against her will as she gripped his shoulders and burrowed into the furs. In his arms she found the ghosts of her family. For a moment she was Sansa. A breath of wind passed and she was Stark again.

"I doubted the ravens," said Jon, as Sansa pulled back. He was gazing at the blackened pile of rock in the ice. Winterfell's innards were laid bare in an abstract vision of death. "Who'd have thought that our stubborn castle could fall? Old Nan said it was made by giants."

"A dragon ended it," Sansa replied. "I watched it birth from under the rock. I think Old Nan's stories had more truth than father let on. The woods are cold without the creature sleeping below. Even the Godwood is dying. We won't survive a winter a here. We'll rebuild." She promised him, lifting her gloved hand to her face. She cupped it gently, directing him away from the sight. "There are Starks in Winterfell again."


Littlefinger spent the afternoon on the far side of the royal tent. Tucked into a corner with a glass of warm ale, he kept watch as the hours passed and night set upon them. Jon Snow, or 'Stark' as he styled himself these days, was a stranger. The world paid little attention to bastards, a mistake, he reasoned. Danger always stemmed from the unknown. Perhaps if Roose had taken the time to unravel his son's malevolence he'd have seen the blade before it entered his chest. Petyr harboured regret far deeper than the late Bolton. It stabbed at his stomach whenever he looked upon the Lady Stark. He'd not be making that mistake again.

His careful study was interrupted by a crash of armour falling uncouthly into the seat beside him. Petyr's ale sloshed over the lip of the goblet as the knight discarded her heavy sword onto the table. It was a beautiful thing, earning a curious tilt of his head.

"An abundance of gold. Gaudy lion head mid-roar. I'd guess that handsome sword belongs to a Lannister." Petyr wiped his hands on the tablecloth. "Whose head divorced their corpse for that fine thing to end up here?"

Brienne had not realised the table was occupied by Sansa's pet dog. That's how she saw him – a little lord that Sansa barked commands at and he followed. What debt he owed her, Brienne did not know. She understood enough of men to guess his generosity had more strings than a spider's web.

"The sword was a gift," Brienne replied. Her eyes locked on Jon Stark – self proclaimed, 'King in the North'. She didn't trust anyone dragged back to life by the gods. What was dead should stay dead in case the gods made playthings of them all. It was never to their benefit. "It was a promise."

"A promise," Littlefinger was momentarily engaged. He knew a little of Tarth and the lord that ruled there and he'd heard fabulous tales of the daughter, more man than half the fighters in the realm. A great beauty they joked, now the gods laughed at them and the pieces she'd left scattered on the ground. "That is noble. Almost knightly."

"I am a knight."

"Of course. I remember." His voice turned to silk, sensing weakness. "Our queen did the honours herself, so I am told. May I?" He gestured to the sword.

Brienne was too busy watching Sansa and Jon drink wine at the far end of the long table to care for Littlefinger's curiosity. A gruff nod was enough.

Petyr lifted the sword, drawing it into his lap. It was lighter than one would expect of such a weapon. Most of the weight came from the jewelled handle. In truth it was unbalanced. Lannisters were like that, favouring appearance over substance. Northerners, they knew how to make swords. Simple – clean – dangerous. He tugged it a short way out of the sheath and found an unusual blade inside. Instead of a smooth, even surface this metal had innumerable imperfections caused by folding the alloy over onto itself again and again, a thousand times, maybe more.

"Valyrian steel," he stated. "Such things are quite unique. Rare as dragon eggs these days. Is this one half of the great Stark long sword, butchered in King's Landing?"

"I do not know," Brienne replied.

He tilted it to the flame. The surface came alive with fire. Tywin gave this sword to Jamie Lannister – Brienne had too much honour to steal it – so there existed a promise between them. Petyr searched his mind but he could not envisage a more unlikely thing.

"The original sword belonged to Sansa's father. Honourable then that it now protects her. A shame its sibling gathers dust in King's Landing. It would suit her brother. Half brother. Eddard's son all the same."

There is no Catelyn in him, Petyr thought. Snow lacked the Riverland ferocity. It was bred from a stubbornness against the rising tide. He could see those flood waters in Sansa's eyes – the depths to which she'd sink to keep what was hers. Snow had only Stark bravery with a heart too soft for war. A smart man would be wary of Sansa, a half-sibling with his birthright and an army. Snow broke bread with her instead, telling her stories to earn a smile. How foolish. Foolish like his father. The older Snow grew, the more evident the truth became. There was some fire in his blood and it wasn't Ned's.

"Why are you here?" Brienne asked bluntly.

Petyr was taken aback. In the civilised days, knights would not address a lord thus let alone a lady. He returned the sword. "I serve the queen," he replied, "same as you."

"Indeed. What I asked was why?"

"That is no secret. Those whispers have been from Bear Island to Old Town. I served her mother. I... loved her mother. She loved me, in her way but I was no Stark. For Cat's sake, I'll not leave until she is safe."

This time Brienne regarded Littlefinger. He was a slight man, fine of feature but fragile, like the mocking bird on his tunic. Podrick warned that he was the most dangerous man in Westeros. Brienne knew why. There was nothing more malignant than a man without a heart. She recognised his anguish in herself. To love fruitlessly with no hope... "Then we want the same thing."

Petyr nodded. He had the measure of Brienne. "I hope the Lannisters serve your heart better than the Baratheons, Ser – neither are worthy of such devotion." The aversion of her eyes answered his suspicion. "Why does the lion send you to guard the wolf? He is duty bound to have her head."

"A promise to her mother."

"Odd, isn't it? Here we are, held aloft by the promise of a ghost."

Littlefinger abandoned the table with his ale, slipping through the crowded tent leaving Brienne unsettled. All her secrets – spilled in an instant. A few whispered words had from her what torture could not bring. Podrick was correct.

As Littlefinger drew near the pair of siblings, they finished their drink and snuck out of the tent. He lingered by the edge but chose not to follow. Not tonight. He picked a different target, offering a full goblet to the Wildling king.

"You're the smallest fucker I seen," Tormund introduced himself, accepting the wine. "This stuff is better than the sour rot made in the Wildling camps. Mostly piss, that was. Anything to stave off starvation and the cold."

Littlefinger grinned, genuinely amused. "How astute, mind you'd have to be to survive the chaos beyond the Wall. They call me, 'Little Finger'." He purposely split his name to appeal to the Wildling King's amusement. Tormund laughed so deeply that most of the wine ended up on Littlefinger's clothes. No matter. "You fight for Lord Stark? That is a curious thing."

"If you had seen what my men have, you'd fight for the bugger too. A man died and walked again. The gods must love his pretty face."

"They most likely killed him to take a look." Tormund laughed again while Littlefinger delicately sipped his ale. "It is true then," Littlefinger continued, "Jon Snow was dead?"

"Dead as a Crow beyond the Wall! Aye... Should probably say somethin' else this far South."

With a genuine smile, he raised his glass. It was refreshing to spend a moment with someone who had zero political allegiances and no tact with which to build them. "We shall have to think of something. More wine?"


"I wanted to see it a little closer," Jon admitted, as the pair of wolves picked through the snow, crossing the short distance of open ice to the burned walls. Their camp meandered over the field surrounding Winterfell accompanied by the clamour of pre-war bravery. "I dreamed of it, from the North. The warm fires of father's great hall. Arya's poor attempt at music. Robb's laugh screeching over the other lords as he feigned amusement."

"My ill dancing," Sansa nudged him gently with her shoulder. "Bran and Rickon thieving pastries from the main table."

"Theon taught them that."

"Ironborn to the last."

Jon stopped, placing his hand on the collapsed wall. The cold made it through the layers of rabbit fur and leather. It reminded him of... He shuddered to think what it reminded him of. "He is dead, then..."

Sansa laid back against that frozen wall, embracing all the horror. "In a way. He breathes well enough but Ramsay took his soul, his honour, his future and his name. Those are trickling back to him but who knows if the river may fill the ocean. I sent him home. He promised to return but that will depend upon the Ironborn. We may never see him again."

"Or Bran. I thought – well I felt him in the North, beyond the Wall. It was probably the cold playing tricks. How could he be alive, Sansa? A cripple boy with no family or friends..."

Sansa did not want to think about her young brother's bones picked apart by crows as they lay in the snow. She'd seen her wolf torn apart by their vicious beaks, pecked incessantly. It was a vision she could not shake. The sinew snapping, splashing blood onto their feathers. "When it comes time to kill my husband, bring him to me. His life is mine. I want to see him die."

Jon bowed his head, "My queen."

She returned the gesture. "My king," she whispered.

He smiled softly, taking her arm. Jon plucked her from the wall and together they rambled through the ruins of the castle. Memories lurked in every shadow. They were happy so they paused now and then, sharing stories.

"I am sorry," Sansa said, after listening carefully for a while. "Mother bore you so much hate. It is not your fault that you were someone else's child."

"Mother did not hate me," Jon quickly corrected, "I reminded her of a painful thing. There was love enough, in her own way. She kept me." The chandelier from the great hall was half buried in front of them, twisted by the fire. A candle was caught in one of the holds, untouched. "How did you bring the army of the Vale to our cause? Was it Lysa?"

"Hardly. Lysa tried to throw me through the Moon Door. If you think mother's jealousy is enduring, you should have seen our aunt. Lord Baelish pulled me back from the edge. He is the one that is loyal to our cause."

"I know nothing of the man."

"I do. He will fight and he will die to see the North returned to the Starks. The reason does not matter."


FIVE FORTS – YI TI

"Steady – steady – careful!"

Jorah pushed one of the horselords aside as Drogon twisted, snapping at the man trying to measure up a saddle. His jaws came within inches but the short man fell into the dirt, flailing on his back in surprise. The dragon lost interest, setting his immense head onto the sand with a puff of smoke.

"You behave..." Jorah whispered, before offering his hand to the man. "Dragons are-" he was interrupted. The furious little man kicked his legs and was on his feet in a move akin to witchcraft. He started ranting at Jorah in a foreign language, hissing and spitting on the dirt before one of the other men dragged him away to continue on the harness.

Jorah rested against the dragon, moving with the rise and fall of Drogon's breaths. He sang to the creature – songs of his home – words of the First Men that Northerners repeated but did not understand. For all he knew he was singing nonsense but the words were beautiful and they calmed the dragon.

"You're a soft old thing," he paused. "Like your mother. It's the temper you have to work on. You can't go around biting anything that nips at you. If a king did that he'd have no empire to rule over." Jorah shook his head in dismay. He was giving advice to the wrong dragon. He returned to his songs, looking out over the camp. The starlight caught the dune behind. It roared up over the settlement like a glacial sea, edging closer when you weren't paying attention, consuming everything. Even the forts would be covered by the sandy flanks. Buried with the rest of man's folly.

Jorah held up his hands, levelling them in front of his body. They were vibrating as if submerged in freezing water. The marks on his skin glistened under the evening light. What magic is this? He thought, as the shadow of the sand dune began to move, curling over like a wave about to crash onto the shore. Closer. The shadow fell across the camp. Then over him. Darkness. The breath of sand...

Jorha fell to his knees and the vision shattered. There dune was returned to its place. The stars stretched above. His hands were steady and the writing pale. Had any of it happened? He could not say.

Drogon nudged Jorah with his snout, pushing him onto his hands and knees because he'd stopped singing. Before he could stand, Jorah found a pair of bare feet brushing through the dirt in front. His eyes lifted and there he found a wild sort of man, neither Jogos Nhai nor Yi Tish. With a red beard and green eyes he had the pale face of an Andal.

"Tricky things, dragons..." The man said, offering his hand to the knight.

"You speak the Common Tongue," Jorah replied, ignoring the man, using the dragon instead.

The man lowered his hand, taking no offence. Stubborn pride was a common trait among men of the sword. "A man speaks little else," he confessed, "which makes most of this a mystery."

Drogon kept one golden eye on the man. "Lorath?" Jorah searched the accent.

"A speck on the map for these fine men," he gestured at his captors spread as far as one could see behind. "Disappoint reigned when they found none but parchment in my purse. The lonely emperor set all his captives free when the demons came – put swords in their hands. A man gave his blade back."

"What does that make you – a priest or a fool?"

"An explorer. A man was a merchant first but the repetitive ports and seas, the smell of fish rotting in the sun – it is not the life a man dreams of from his frigid shore."

Jorah seriously considered letting Drogon have the man. What use was a poet in the middle of a war? It would have been a kindness. There was only suffering and death on his horizon. He wanted to see things – oh he would see them. He'd see the depravity of man. The filth that rots in his heart. If he lived long enough, he might even see it surpassed by the gods and all their rage.

"You didn't run, then. When emperor freed you? Why not return to your gentle shores? Of all the places to survive what's coming, Lorath might well be one."

"The night the others ran, fleeing into the foothills of Krazaaj Zazqa with their new swords, everything was still. It was an odd night – no moon at all, only restless clouds culling the stars from the horizon. At the depth of night, the screaming started. Never, sir, have you heard terror cut through the hearts of men. A man swears their skin was torn from their flesh while they were still alive. No freed man ran after that.

"Pol Qo abandoned those mountains, dragged his people from one end of the realm to the next, gathering villages as he went. They came willingly. Every night since, something pursued, edging closer with each passage of the moon. It hunts. The Jogos Nhai have an old song about the black sisters standing guard at dusk. They think these these old scraps in the sand will save them from the night."

"Why are you telling me this?" Jorah reasoned he must have one of those faces. People told him things they shouldn't, spoke to him without introduction.

"A man has a dragon."

"A queen has a dragon," Jorah corrected. "He feasts on unwelcome hands that stray too close. Do not be fooled by his cheerful song. Dragons sing to ward off danger."

The man considered the dragon, taking in every curve of its fury. Such a thing must be born of fire – how else could it be construct of violent edges? There were dragon bones in Lorath's temples. He'd spend hours in their shadow, admiring the creatures that once picked their way over the seas, perching on the ragged cliffs that stood against the Shivering Sea. He had even held a dragon egg in Old Man Hightower's lonely keep.

"A man does not want to die a footnote – some faceless pile of bones in a desert, picked over by sand snakes. We served the dragons once, perhaps again. There is a great wash of hate in the Western lands for dragon blood. Their petty wars tore crowns apart, set ancient families against their oaths and nearly collapsed the realm. If you mean to return to Westeros," he lowered his voice unnecessarily, shifting closer to the perpetually uncomfortable knight, "which I believe you do. Words will have to clear your way. Let me tell her story. Let it wash upon the Red Keep and enamour the masses. They could love her, a silver queen from old blood."

"That is all well and good," Jorah replied, not entirely unmoved by the idea. It is something the dwarf might take a fondness to. He was a creature of words. "You forget, we are at the edge of the world with nothing save a dragon for birds."

"A man has ravens," he replied. "Cages of the things, squabbling with naught to do. Tell me her story. A man will polish it nice and sell it to the world."

Jorah agreed for lack of anything else to do while the horselords fashioned Drogon's saddle. The pair of them made a pit of fire in the sand. Jorah began with the stories his father told – a baby, born in a terrible storm of blood and thrown to the winds.


WINTERFELL RUINS – THE NORTH

Davos sat alone in the starlight. Stannis was dead, somewhere in the dark curve of forest in front. He was at peace with the thought, whispering a few old prayers to the night, asking that the King's soul might find its way back to his family and the snows bury his bones deep. The Queen too, he understood her to be dead. The Red Woman would not say how and there were no men left to ask.

He'd heard rumours since he'd been in this camp. Rumours that spread through the North of the King that burned his living child and the mother that looked on, wailing at the flames. You could find her swinging beneath a tree, they said, her tears making ice on the snow. The child was left a smear of ash, blown about in the wind.

If there was any truth found in those whispers, Davos would tie the witch to a pyre of her own and watch her transformation into soot. He was a patient man. Revenge could wait. Her magic served a purpose for the moment but bringing Snow back to the living did not undo the horrors of her past. That was the promise he made to the snow – to the sweet girl with nothing but joy in her heart. Most of his whispered prayers were for her.

What kind of god gave power to a demon like Melisandre? Not a just god, Davos thought. Perhaps all the gods were malevolent. The old gods. The storm god. The drowned god. R'hllor. Seven gods. Black Goat. Horse god. Maybe it was all the same fucking god. A god that had four of his boys wrapped in its claws.

He would rather make gods of men.

"The world is a better place without gods. Men make mistakes but they die and those mistakes die with them. The mistakes of the undead live forever. Nobody wants that."

Quiet as a shadow, Melisandre appeared behind him. "There are no answers in the snow. Believe me, I have looked."

"Excuse me, I have preparations to make." Davos replied, standing.

"You were the only one that believed I could bring Jon back. Where did your faith come from?" she asked, reaching for his arm.

Davos sidestepped from her grasp. "It wasn't faith. It was a foolish, blind grasp in the dark." The Red Woman smiled, making Davos' skin crawl.

"That is faith." She assured him.

"Most would call it lunacy. Mind you, so is what we plan to do come the rise of the sun. Men fighting men when the dead are at the door. There's a reason the gods laugh."


Dawn.

Watery flames rippled around the orb as it struggled to climb out of the snow. It burned away the swirling layers of mist, woke the forests and finally, drew the Stark army into the snow.

"Hear them?" Podrick whispered, as he fastened Lady Brienne's armour into place. They were among the last to make ready. The rest were on the field, staking their spot for the fight.

"I feel them," she replied, lifting her arm so that Podrick could wrap the metal around it. "It's coming through the snow. Ramsay has a vast army."

"Larger than ours?"

"It will be a fight, if that is what you're asking. Do you have any armour, Podrick?"

"What you see, my lady."

What she saw was a weary panel of leather held together by cracked buckles. "When you are finished here, we will pass via the Vale's armoury. Baelish has everything spare."

"Yes, my lady." Podrick frowned. Paused. Ducked under her arm and stopped in front of her. Brienne had to stoop to meet his questioning gaze. "Why, my lady?" he asked, baffled.

"Because if you fall at the first stray arrow, who is going to get me out of all this rock once the battle is done?"

Jamie Lannister, Podrick thought with a grin.

"Why are you smiling? You might be dead by nightfall."

"No reason, my lady..." he assured her.

"Well – don't. You'll unsettle the other soldiers. They're outside trying to be grim."


"Have you ever seen a Mormont in full armour?" Davos asked Jon Stark, who he'd found wandering in the mud between the tents with his patent stoic manner.

"Not yet. My sister has a few in her service, I believe."

"She does. I would not wish to meet one on the field. They are wild, Your Grace, half a foot taller than a normal man and solid, like the best of your Wildlings. It is no wonder Bear Island has never been conquered. No one would dare if they want their arms and legs attached after the fight."

"A shame there's only sixty-two of them."

"That is probably enough with their tiny Lady. I am more afraid of her than I am of you. Shall we start the march?" Jon nodded. "I shall find your sister. The army is split between the pair of you – it would be right to ride out together."

"She cannot be in the midst of the battle!"

"You try and stop her."

"Ser Davos?"

Davos stopped. "Yes, Your Grace?"

"You have prepared for war against the Boltons before, under Stannis."

"Last of his name. The Baratheons and the Starks felled a tyrant king together. I am honoured to stand beside you this day."

"Davos Seaworth, you are a good man."

"I am man," Davos chuckled, finding a moment of joy in the morning, "nothing more."


"A true Stark..." Littlefinger ducked into the tent. Sansa was dressed for war, wrapped in steel with a wolf's head on her armour and a fur cape latched at her shoulders. She carried a small sword around her waist – no doubt sharpened specially for Ramsay's neck. He did not doubt for one moment that she would draw it. "A wolf if ever I saw one."

"You are not in armour, Lord Baelish?"

"It does not suit." She smirked at his joke. "I've no talent for arms, as your uncle taught me. I thank him every day for that lesson. Its memory has kept me alive."

"I am no fighter either," Sansa replied. Her old dog, he was a fighter. She wished he was there now, growling at her enemies. For all she knew he laid dead in a ditch, bones like her wolf – bleached and cold. Maybe he lived and wandered the world, free of trouble. Whichever it was, Sandor Clegane would not be sharing a fire with her in this life. "Today my blade will know Ramsay's blood."

"I believe you."

"When it is done and my husband is dead, we will talk."

Petyr was not sure if he had heard correctly. He tilted his head, stepping forward, about to speak when they were interrupted by Davos Seaworth crunching in, more armour than sense.

"Apologies Your Grace, my Lord," Davos nodded at them both. "We are ready to ride."


Tormund gnawed loudly on a duck bone, tearing bits of meat from it as he stood on the ice, draped in fur with a crooked sword at his hip and some ghastly hooked whip strung on the other side. The sound of bone crunching so early in the morning caught the attention of a Crow. The Night's Watch man fixed his pale eyes on the savage, shaking his head.

"How can yer eat at a time like this?" he asked.

One orange, arched eyebrow curved in the Crow's direction. "Time like what?" Was all he said.


"Nervous?"

"Sh..." Sansa hissed at her brother to hush.

Every few minutes he found something else to say while they waited for the bastard's army to appear along the ridge. The bulk of the Vale's men remained hidden in the wood, kept out of sight three-thousand on both flanks ready to ambush the Boltons once they were on the flats. The rest amassed behind them, stretching across the breadth of the bowl, concealed under Stark banners. Their armour glistened in the new sun, almost like they were made of ice. A crow carved through the sky in front, released by the young Mormont lady. If none of them survived, her birds would be the only record of this dance. A dying song in the ice.

"Here they come..." Sansa added, as a bright glare caught on the cusp of the hill in front.

A moment later, the ridge became an army. It was a great wash of metal, hammering step by step toward them. Then came the banners, scattered among the lines of men. The flayed bastards followed by the black sun of the Karstarks. Half a dozen others appeared – Sansa marked them all. She was making a list, one that she'd whisper to herself after the swords had been laid down. The North remembers... Those who stood in opposition to their sacred oaths were being etched upon her heart.

"Your husband is here." Jon pointed to the front of the army where a cluster of men rode ahead of the rest. One carried the Bolton banner. The other was the man himself. The bastard that killed his father. Short was Jon's first impression of his counterpoint.

"I never did bring a wedding gift. His head would look rather fine on its own, liberated from his corpse, don't you think?" The true depth of her ice began to show as she watched the approaching nightmare spill into the valley. "He'll have hounds with him. Stay on your horse."

Jon's sword lifted. He held it parallel to his shoulder. Behind him, the first wave of soldiers marched forward with full length shields. They marched in front of Sansa and her brother, taking up the front line. When in place, they jabbed their shields into the snow and formed a wall of steel with every edge sharpened as though it were a sword's blade. Their helmets were adorned with iron spikes, ready to stab through any foe that cleared the shields. Behind them waited the Wildlings and Crows. Their weapons were out. They shifted, warming up their muscles while the Vale's soldiers kept still as stone.

"Hold..." Jon commanded, keeping his arm steady.

Sansa kicked her horse, turned and galloped through the army. There was a small rise of snow behind their number where one of Winterfell's turrets had fallen and been buried. Brienne was on horseback beside her, holding a long poll with the Stark banner rippling in the strong wind. Sansa took it from her, taking the weight without complaint. She could feel the woods shift in expectation, the Vale's army at her command. The Bears were with them, scattered through their number.

"What is that?" Brienne whispered, as two crosses were rolled over the hill on Bolton's side.

Closer, on the flat with Davos at his side, Jon saw the two wooden crosses wheeled in by teams of men strapped to them with ropes. Strung upon the barbaric forms was a small boy and a direwolf.

"Rickon..." Jon whispered, swaying dangerously in his saddle.

"Your Grace?" Davos asked, fixated by the horrific image of a child turned inside-out. His mind thought of Shireen, her flesh peeling back in the flame. Sometimes he thought the wind carried her screams but it was only the howling from the ruins.

"My young brother," Jon clenched his hands around the reins to stop himself from crying out. He wanted to unsheathe his sword and rage at Ramsay's army. One man in the field with the gods of his father at his back. He could murder them all and send them into the black.

"That's what he wants," Davos murmured. "Your rage. Hold the line."

Some of Ramsay's men carried flaming torches. They rolled the crosses onto the flat – mounted them in the ice and lined their army beside. Ramsay took a torch and then rode along his men. He stopped at the flayed direworlf, leaned from his horse and caught the cross with the flame. It erupted, burning furiously. He rode again, toward the other cross. Jon averted his gaze as the fire ate the remains of his brother. Two pillars of black smoke curdled the air.

The harrowing sight joined the names on Sansa's heart. If Ramsay thought to make himself monstrous in their eyes he had failed.

"In the face of death, he is a child," said Sansa. "The men remember their orders?"

"Kill only what they must," Brienne repeated. "His army will be yours."

"Have them hold the Stark banners higher. I want the traitors to know they march against their oaths."


"Now?" Davos asked. Jon Stark nodded, Davos repeated it to a young boy on the ground who ran off, skirting in front of the line of shields. He scampered over the snow – the only soul between the two armies.

The boy dived at the ground, sliding on his stomach to a hidden trench that had been dug in front of the Stark forces. An unassuming stick marked the place. The boy brushed away a few layers of white then peeled back the material that covered the edge of an enormous, hidden trench.

The opposing army leered so close that the boy could see his foe's faces. Several were marking him, feeling the hilts of their swords. A few drew. Dangling his arms over the edge, the boy smashed flint together. The sparks struck. Flash. Flash. Flash. Like lightening in a storm. Then it caught. The flames took to the straw, found the oil and tore off in both directions.

A wall of flame leaped out of the ground, throwing the boy backwards with a thunderous whoosh! He scrambled, crawling first then running into the safety of the flanks which opened to let him through.

The Red Woman felt the flames rise up. She closed her eyes, standing on the highest wall of the Winterfell ruins, then lifted her arms up to the Lord of Light and murmured her words. In the pit, the flames thickened, somehow churning on each other, feeding and growing.

Jon's view of Ramsay became obscured by smoke. 'Hold!' Davos commanded beside him. "Arms!" Jon clenched the fist on his outstretched hand. Metal screeched across the battlefield as a two thousand Northern swords and eight-hundred Wildlings brandished their steel. The forests remained quiet. Not a sound. Waiting.

Five thousand bore down from Ramsay's side, heavy with blood-lust and pernicious venom toward the Stark's previous failure to protect them from the Bolton's insidious violence. Now they rode with their torturer to avoid his blade. Robett Glover was among them, leading dismal ranks of tired men, barely recovered from the last campaign. The desperate visions of Robb's war were made anew on the ice below. Flames greeted their nightmare and behind, the banners of their former warden. None of them would stand against Eddard Stark. Not one man except the bastard at their helm.

Glover paused at the ridge, taking in the black skeleton of Winterfell. Its broken bits and frozen Godwood said all there was about the North. It was an ember, spent and dead – all of their souls with it. He wished for a moment that he could halt his men, still their swords. Slaughtering the valour below held no payment for his dead. He felt the hole deepening, dug with his own hands. Those men that died did not die for this. That's when he caught it – the briefest glint of light from the pine forest surrounding the valley. Glover looked again at the Stark army of Wildlings and small but nobler houses than he could hope to be. There was something amiss with the battle lines. Ramsay had not seen it.

Robett whistled for his man. A horse stormed over, pulling close beside. Glover whispered to the runner who nodded a few times then vanished over the rise.


Wildlings loved a good fight. They were born for it, pillaging since they learned to crawl. Surprise attacks were different to this – waiting, watching the enemy amass. It was a style of warfare they'd seen thrust upon them, always to their doom. Better to fight the living than the dead, some thought. At least there was hope. If they survived, the dead were next. There was a murmur of fear between them.

Not Tormund. As the army marched close enough to hear their cries, Tormund made one of his own.

"Let's show these cunts a good time!" he shouted.

The Wildlings echoed back, beating weapons against the ground in an unsettlingly familiar sound to the Northern lords, accustomed to hearing it outside their castles.


Bolton's men were first into the fray. They stormed the flames, vaulting over the pits with spears plunged into the snow. It burned their armour, searing the flesh. Their weight hit the wall of shields. The men beneath them crumbled to their knees, absorbing the impact. Together they growled, pushed up from the ground and threw the aggressors into the fire pit.

"Ours is the fury..." Davos whispered, as the first swords ran aground.

Screams died in the flames. Shields cut the limbs of fallen men, parting flesh in tides of blood that quickly turned the snow red.

"Hold..." Davos said again, beside his new king. Jon's arm was steady, his sword unsheathed. They drew Bolton's forces deeper into their ranks, allowing them to clear the flames. While ever there were men on the hill, he'd hold.

"We must move soon," Jon cautioned. Bolton's men were fighting through the lines, massacring Vale soldiers until they faltered at the giant's feet. Brandishing part of a tree, Wun Wun swiped its base along the snow and set a dozen men to flight. Some landed in the fire, others in the heart of Stark's army where they were swiftly beaten unconscious. "Why are the Glover's lingering on the hill?"

"It is odd, I admit," Davos replied. "Seems he is waiting for something."

"I cannot hold."

"They are out of reach. If we go now..."

"No choice."

Ramsay was already beyond the fire. His horse found a path through the violence, trampling bodies of men, Bolton and Stark alike. He had a sick grin on his lips and blood running down half his armour from a recent butchering. Ramsay lifted his sword, pointed it directly at Sansa Stark and made a vulgar gesture.

"Sure you don't want me to kill him?" Davos asked, repulsed by the creature.

"Now!" Jon lowered his arm and the men watching from the trees pulled back on taut bow strings. A second later, the sky went black with arrows. They curved out of the forest until gravity took hold, tapering their steel heads down towards the flailing mess of men. The bulk fell on the Bolton forces, striking through armour, nailing them to the ice. Another wave dimmed the light, making the line of fire all the brighter. Ramsay let his head fall back, mad laughter ringing out over the field.

"What is it, my Lady?" Brienne asked. Sansa watched the edge of the Bolton lines.

"A horseman disappeared beyond the ridge. Now he is returned, riding into the ranks of the Glovers. They're lingering at the back of the field when they should have joined."

One of the arrows from the wood diverted, crossing the battle to land on the soft rise of snow near Sansa. Her horse stepped sideways in surprise, nudging into Brienne's. Podrick alighted his, plucking the arrow from the snow. There was a message wrapped around its shaft.

"From Lord Baelish," Podrick said, unravelling it at Sansa's request. "The Glovers send their regards. What does that mean?"

"He's turned," Sansa nodded for Podrick to mount his horse. "Ride through the camp, send word to the men. The Glovers are ours. You have minutes... Then the trap closes. Don't be there when it does. Understand?"

"Your Grace..." Podrick nodded, riding off into the battle.

The hounds came next.

Spoiling for flesh, staved to madness, they snapped at the leather harnesses holding them and dragged the burly Bolton soldiers toward the battle against their will. One of the men stumbled, releasing his grip on the dogs. They sprang to freedom, dragging their leashes behind as they overtook the horses.

One dog remained, smelling blood at its feet. It reeled to the Bolton man, face down in the snow. The beast opened its jaws and clamped around the crown of the man's head, tearing into the skull. It shook violently, trying to rip the man's head from his neck, paws on his shoulders. Other men came to help, striking at the dog. The blades through its flesh meant nothing. It bit again, this time at the soft skin around the neck. It tore a hole, dragging the main artery into the snow with a growl, pulsing and squirting blood over those that tried to help. When the dog stilled, a sword through its chest, there were human veins wrapped in its fangs.

A Vale man was the first to find himself in the path of Ramsay's beasts. One dog had singled him out, dodging its way through sparring men with its head down, fur pricked up around its neck like a wolf and gums dribbling over the snow with anticipation.

The Vale man quickly fought off a Bolton, pushing the corpse from his sword while it was still alive. His hands shook, waiting the attack. He could hear it sneering, pulling its lip back to show curved teeth, as long as a wolf but with some kind of ungodly anger.

"No!" A Wildling appeared beside him, as the dog crouched on its haunches. "Like this."

The Wildling offered the drooling jaws his forearm, turning his body to the side. The dog latched on, hanging from its bite. The leathers and fur were too deep for its teeth to break the skin. Before it could release and try again, the Wildling swung his sword and took the head clean off the dog. He shook his arm, loosening the bloody head until it fell beside the carcass.

"Yeah?" The Wildling slapped the man on the back as if training a child to hunt. They'd seen worse wolves behind the Wall. "Next one's yours."

Jon singled Ramsay out from the battle. He turned his horse in tight circles, holding up the Stark banner. Jon swung it side to side like a pendulum counting away their last seconds on earth.

Even through the smoke Ramsay caught it. Pretty little bastard... They could be brothers. Maybe their fathers fucked the same whore. Technically they were brothers in law. What a horrible thought, to be related to a brooding bore like that.

Ramsay paraded his horse closer, cutting down a young Wildling boy. His gut opened and spilled over his fur boots. He dropped his sword. Placed his hands over the gaping hole. Looked up toward the sky and fell dead. "One of yours?" Ramsay shouted.

"Only one of us has to die!" Jon screamed, pointing the Stark banner right at Ramsay's heart.

"All men must die..." he replied calmly. Ramsay paused, watching the boiling mass of swords. It was a riot of violence. An offering to ancient, virulent gods.

A dance for bastards.