In the North…
Ser Lucius and Tormund observe a large yet strange mix of wildlings and Stark loyalists marching downrange carrying the sigil of various northern houses they represent. Within a few moments, the battle for control of the North was about to begin. The Old Bull calculatingly determined that with the addition of the Free Folk, the Starks culminated a near 34,000 host – including three direwolves and one giant. Under the command of Robb Stark and his half-brother Jon Snow, Lucius oversaw efforts to not overextend their supply lines and helped strategize a series of battle plans with the Young Wolf.
Although not from the North, the Old Bull understood that both House Stark and House Bolton knew every inch of the terrain; and with the heavy snow battering against his armor, the winter cold would not slow them down.
"Our scouts report that morale is high," Lucius informed the wildling. "So long as we have the momentum on our side, the Bolton forces will have no choice but to surrender – provided of course Her Grace's brothers stick to the plan. What of the wildlings?"
"I've never seen these Bolton fuckers fight. And they've never seen the Free Folk fight," Tormund replied. "So yes, I think we've got a strong chance. This many fighters against that measly little band? Give me a few dozen and we'll have more steel."
"That Mance Rayder of yours had a big speech ready?"
"Him? Ha! Nah, no that's not how Mance approaches a battle. We followed him because we believed in him. At first I thought he was the man to lead us through the Long Night. But I was wrong. He gave up his title as King-Beyond-the-Wall after Jon Snow stood up for us and let us through the Wall. He believed we could somehow not only defeat the Long Night, but coexist? Hard to believe it when I say it out loud like that."
"Even though Jon is a bastard?"
"Who cares if he's a bastard or not?" Tormund remarked as he drank a swill of goat's milk. "Bah, I need a good drink before a fight. You want some? I have a jug of sour goat's milk stronger than any of that grape water you southern twats like sucking on."
"Sounds good, but I prefer to keep a clear head."
"So what do you do all night?"
"I formulate strategies and tactics; been doing so for more than 40 years. Best be sure nothing is left amiss."
*AHooooooooooooooooooooooo!*
The Old Bull heard the blasts of the war horns echoing throughout the war camp; this was the signal for the Stark loyalists to begin the march on the Dreadfort. Although the skies were dark and vision was intensely limited due to the icy cold blizzards, the Northern soldiers emerged from their tents—gripping the handles of their swords and lit flaming torches to light their way.
Robb rode atop his horse with Grey Wind at his side.
"Lord Stark," Lucius greeted.
The Young Wolf nodded in acknowledgment. "Prepare to form up. It's time," he said. "Jon and I will go on ahead with our personal vanguard. Ser Lucius, you and Ser Olyvar will both command our flanks. Have your archers provide cover fire and light our way. Remember, the North can be a very dangerous place to any southerner."
"So we've been made keenly aware several times already. Stay alert and keep an eye out for traps."
Robb nodded; Jon had already retrieved Ghost and fastened Longclaw to his waist. Not too far behind was the Greatjon Umber, who was already bellowing out commands to his troops.
"All right, on me boys! We're moving out!" he hollered.
At the battlefield…
The field lay before the large Northern host which was about 400 meters long with a small valley bordered by two hills peaked with trees. At one end is a forest of high trees; at the other is a ridge with a reasonably soft incline that plateaus and stretches out to the Hornwood forest in the distance. It was still dark out and the blizzard was making things a bit harder for any of the Stark armies to see.
It would take time for them to make it to the Dreadfort; the horses neighed and some of the men's feet sank in the snow banks. Olyvar felt his teeth chatter. He wasn't used to this kind of weather, though Ser Lucius remained focused on the primary objective. House Stark was always right in the end: 'Winter is Coming' was more than just a noble house motto, it served as a warning to the rest of the Seven Kingdoms.
The Old Bull oversees the longbow archers on the flanks, standing within a defensive caltrop-shaped structure. Thousands of archers and infantrymen are each divided into different battalions with only cavalry standing guard on both left and right flanks. Mance and Tormund strode atop their horses at the ready, overseeing the 17,000 Free Folk infantry force that is one of the largest contingency. Wun Wun, however, remains as the centerpiece of the wildling infantry formation due to his massive height.
"Can't see a blasted thing in this weather," Olyvar complained.
Dacey stood her ground. "None of us can see, Ser Olyvar, but we Northmen know every inch of the terrain better than anyone else. So stay close if you wish to survive."
Olyvar felt three direwolves scouting on ahead; he hadn't seen Grey Wind in a battle since the Second Greyjoy Rebellion, but he hasn't seen Ghost or Shaggydog either. Ahead of him Robb, Jon, the Greatjon and Robett stood side-by-side with their own cavalry—each holding the banners of Mormont, Mazin, Hornwood, Manderly, Glover, Stark and Umber. Olyvar narrowed his eyes and moved his hand in front of his face to keep the harsh blizzard out of his sight—even the horses' muzzles had steam coming out from them. If it weren't for the Stark army sentries holding up lit torches, he would've easily gotten himself lost and freeze to death.
"Brrr! Now I see why northerners sometimes wear fur cloaks."
"With food and resources so scarce, it's only natural for our people to stick together to brave the winter," the Lady of Mormont explained.
Further ahead, Robb and Jon noticed something wrong in the distance and stopped abruptly, prompting the Greatjon to do the same.
"All units halt!" he bellowed at the forces behind him.
The Stark army ceased their march upon exiting the Hornwood forest, but what they saw in front of them would be forever burned into their brains for many years to come. Everyone stands stock-still, staring across the battlefield as Robb and Jon rode their destriers through to stand out in front. Although the Dreadfort was in sight, they saw X-shaped pyres resembling the sigil of House Bolton are burning. Attached to each of them are several bodies of flayed men, strapped upside down.
Dozens of Stark men stood still and look unnerved at the gruesome sight; such a fearsome, inhuman cruelty elevating to a satanic myth invoking dread. This was a whole other level of evil, psychological taunting. All of was designed to invoke terror. One of the Hornwood troops began to slowly back away before Dacey placed her hand on him – stopping him in his tracks.
"Steady now," she said calmly.
Olyvar narrowed his eyes, peering into the distance trying to see beyond the blizzard and the X-shaped pyres lighting up.
"Crucified flayed bodies roasting over eight large bonfires. Such twisted form of intimidation is something only Ramsay could have possibly thought of," Robb speculated.
"Been knockin' down enemy strongholds for 35 years, but this is by far the worst I've ever seen," the Greatjon implied.
"Try the massacre at Hardhome," Jon interjected.
Ser Lucuis rode forth cautiously, hand grappling the handle of his spiked mace. Grey Wind, Shaggydog and Ghost sniffed the air in near perfect unison and began emanating a low, menacing growl; the three direwolves tucked their ears back and displayed their teeth with their tails pointing straight.
'Something's wrong…' Lucius suspected.
"What's going on up there?" a Mazin soldier shouts.
"Storm's messing with— I can't see!" complained a Manderly mounted knight.
Robb rode a bit further until his horse stepped in a rather strange black sticky substance and began rearing itself back in surprise. The Young Wolf hushed his destrier and dismounted to investigate. He knelt down in the snow and pressed three fingers into the substance—hot, sticky viscous maternal… but when Robb smelled it he immediately turned his head away in disgust.
"Pitch," he called out.
Theon approached and leaned over to investigate. "Why would pitch be doin'—"
"Arrow!" shouted a Free Folk, pointing towards the sky.
Robb and Jon looked up and saw a faint, orange-tinted arrow flying through the air from the right flank nearly two-hundred meters away. Ser Lucius and Olyvar noticed it too, though the Old Bull's mind rapidly analyzed the situation as the arrow got closer and closer.
"Pitch…. No, fire!" he realized before shouting "AMBUSH!"
*SHUBOOOO!*
It was revealed to be a flaming-tipped arrow which landed within close vicinity of the black viscous liquid which immediately went up in flames—startling the Stark loyalists, the Free Folk and the horses. As a wall of flames went up all around them consuming the trees, confusion and panic spread throughout the mobilized army as they were taken by surprise by the sudden fire attack. The blizzard winds didn't help much either and only helped to further fan the flames and spread everywhere.
Further away, off in the distance, banners for the Boltons, Karstarks, Whitehills, Smalljon Umber's and all the other quisling houses abound—watching the Hornwood forest go up in flames. Lord Harald of House Karstark sat on his horse at the front of the cavalry, war lance in hand. The Bolton cavalry weren't as large as the Starks', but what they lacked in numbers they made up for in clever tactical strategy and deceitful traps.
On the ground level, Smalljon of House Umber—long after having been banished from Last Hearth—stood with the infantrymen eager to separate some people from their limbs. He takes a huge pull off a leather-covered flask of something very alcoholic. Nearby was a set of horse hooves walking through the Bolton ranks, past infantry, past cavalry. The winds were blinding to the Starks, but with the Boltons on the opposite end they could clearly see them. None of them had lit torches so they were able to easily disguise themselves.
Sitting atop his horse with glee, Ramsay Snow watched from afar as the Hornwood forest—now completely on fire—and observed with grim satisfaction of the Stark forces scattering throughout the area upon being taken completely by surprise.
Smalljon and Harald grin. They like this surprise attack.
"If this keeps up, the fire will soon engulf our entire army!" Theon exclaimed. "Robb, we can't stay here! We have to get out now!"
Robb coughed. "Move out! Everyone, get out of the forest!" he ordered.
The Stark loyalist infantry, cavalry and Free Folk scattered to get out of the raging inferno – a great charge across a vast, snow-filled field wolf banners flapping, but the flames were quick to spread and consume whatever nearby dry tree and leaves it came into contact to. Dozens of men either fell to the flames or were crushed when the enflamed trees collapsed and fell on top of them.
Mance and Tormund weren't going to go out like this. With a rebel yell, they signal their wildling forces to converge on them. The Free Folk were just as startled as they were angry. Wun Wun runs forward and knocks over branches and dead oak.
During the escape into the open field, the Stark armies felt their feet sinking into deep snowbanks and tripped over each other before sliding down the hills. Manderly cavalry had a hard time keeping their horses from slipping; Dacey yanked back the reins of her horse harness, the stallion neighed and steered its legs up to keep itself from falling. The scene was just pure pandemonium; dark skies, a raging blizzard storm and a wall of fire surrounding them. Within the first hour, more than 800 Stark loyalists were killed and 500 either wounded or missing.
Ser Lucius and Olyvar both recover from their spill in the snow, their faces covered with ash and soot during the escape. When Robb and Jon get back on their feet and sprint back towards their horses as Theon and the Greatjon both convened on their location. Grey Wind, Shaggydog and Ghost shook off the snow and ash, turning their heads towards their attackers and snarling—the direwolves had keen eyesight that worked effectively in the darkness due to keen night vision, but their sense of hearing was just as sharp.
Lucius turns towards Dacey.
"Lady Mormont!" he called out.
Dacey noticed him in the snow. "We're scattered pretty badly, but there's bound to be more of us! Don't worry about us, old man! We're tougher than we look!"
Nodding, the Old Bull turned with his mace drawn as Olyvar unsheathed his blade. Then it got even darker again. Looking straight up, Lucius noticed several thin, dark objects being repeatedly shot into the sky. Once the clouds moved aside the give room to the bright, full moon did it provide enough light for the Old Bull to see what would soon be raining down on them.
"Tuck tail!" he warned.
A few nearby Northmen were lucky enough to hear Ser Lucius's warning. 'Tuck tail' was another warning for 'incoming arrows.' Raising whatever shields or defenses they could hide behind, a hail of arrows came raining down against them. Those who were furthest away or weren't able to react in time felled by the dozens. Arrows planted themselves into the ground a few yards apart from each other.
"Bolton cowards," Tormund growled in frustration.
On the other side, the Smalljon smiles as he drinks, finding the scene to be quite entertaining with Ramsay smiling beside him.
'Perfect. Right where I want them to be,' he thought with arrogant confidence. He walks back to his horse in no hurry and then nods towards the Bolton archers.
"Nock arrows!" the captain yells.
The Bolton archers nock arrows.
"Draw!"
*STRETCHING!*
They draw. Ramsay swings back into the saddle of his horse in time to watch. Harald looks to Ramsay, with an expression on his face wondering when they'd get a chance to fight. But Ramsay is still holding a psychotic look, watching the Starks getting picked off one by one as more waves of arrows flying through the air.
"Loose!"
*THWANG!*
*SCHHWAFF!*
Robb and Jon duck for cover as a wave of Bolton arrows land all around them; an arrow drills through the neck of both their horses. Both animals whine in agony and quickly go down, nearly crushing both the Young and White Wolves beneath them. Ramsay turns to the Karstark host and nods at them.
"Now," he orders.
"Cavalry! Charge!"
Out goes the joint Karstark-Bolton cavalry down the hill towards the Stark loyalists. They had lost much of their ground forces—infantry and cavalry—but still retained a formidable host. Robb looked up just in time to see the enemy cavalry unit descending from their vantage point and turns to the Manderly commander.
"Ser Wendel, incoming cavalry on the horizon!" the Young Wolf shouted.
The heir of White Harbor, Ser Wendel, rallied his unit and lowered his lance. "Cavalry, converge on my location!" he ordered. "Spears out! Ready? Charge!"
Ser Lucius calls the charge. "Go! Go! Go! Follow your commander!"
What consisted of the Stark cavalry rushed to get back on their horses and pushed forward – a great charge across the field. Now that they were back on their feet, the Free Folk were ready and eager to shed some blood.
"Free Folk!" Mance ordered. "Run and fight! Show 'em how we wage war!"
"Rrrraahhh!" Wun Wun roared and runs forward to join his wildlings. Despite his size, the giant is fast.
The bulk of the Stark loyalists then forced a charge across the field towards the Bolton cavalry. Robb, Theon and Jon each stagger to their feet and traded glances with each other; thousands of Bolton cavalry galloped towards them, lances leveled. All three of them readied themselves for the bloodiest battle the North had ever seen.
"Am I your brother? Now and always?" Theon asks.
Robb nods. "Now and always."
"Then let's take as many fuckers down with us," Jon boldly declared.
Robb unsheathes his sword from his scabbard, Jon draws Longclaw and readies himself while Theon drew his bowstring back—aiming his arrow straight at the enemy. The sound of pounding hooves and war cries is so loud that the Stark cavalry swoops past all three, colliding with the Bolton cavalry. The impact was massive: horse on horse, rider on rider. Grey Wind, Shaggydog and Ghost all lunged at their targets, knocking them off their horses and tearing into their throats.
Olyvar held his own in the snow, swinging his blade to decapitate a dislodged Bolton rider. "Yaaah!" he shouted. "Come on, you fucks! Bring it on!"
Ser Lucius fought off a dozen men, bashing his mace into one's skull until it caved into the bone with a sickening crack/crunch. Despite his old age, the Old Bull was still as agile and maneuverable.
"We may as well be taking shits here," he panted. "No way do we plan on letting the young'uns have all the fun!"
As more die the pile of dead men and horses is becoming a feature of battlefield geography, blocking forward motion.
At one of Stannis's camps…
Stannis knew his forces were trapped in an icy blizzard; Davos observed his Lord of Dragonstone's men as they cough and huddle around each other as the violent snowstorm battered the cold, weary Baratheon soldiers. Icicles form on several tent flaps, solidifying the encampment. The Onion Knight knew it would be quite some time before the storm finally subsided, but by that time chances are they'd run out of food and the horses would freeze to death before everyone did.
Davos stepped inside Stannis's tent; the Lord of Dragonstone stood next to a lit brazier. He didn't acknowledge his presence, just continued glancing down at a detailed geographical map of the North.
"Our food storages are running low," he informed Stannis. "We can't open the supply line until the snow clears."
Stannis huffed. "What else?" he asks.
"We still have a hard march and we won't be marching anywhere in this weather?"
"And?"
"We should head back to Castle Black when the snow clears."
Stannis shook his head and turned around. "Winter is coming, Ser Davos. Those aren't just Stark words, it's a fact. If we march back to Castle Black, we winter at Castle Black. And who can say how many years this winter will last."
"It's better to wait for an opening to present itself rather than risk everything."
"I will risk everything. And the only way we go is forward and only forward, whether we march to victory or we march to defeat."
Melisandre soon enters the tent. "I just received a vision, my lord; a great battle in the snow, one that is underway as we speak."
Stannis didn't look at her. "I've trusted in the visions and prophecies you see in the flames for years."
"You saw it yourself," she insisted. "Trust yourself."
"And you, do you trust yourself?"
This is a much more problematic question for the red priestess than it once was, to be sure. She is not a supremely confident seer she used to be. Melisandre did not budge, but she refused to allow Stannis to see how much her faith's wavering at this moment.
"I trust in the Lord," she answered. "I… interpret His signs." 'As well as I can.'
Stannis sensed her hesitation. "Are you sure?" he pressed.
The red priestess brushed her fingertips along the map. "I have seen myself walking along the battlements of Winterfell. I have seen the flayed men banners lowered to the ground of the Dreadfort," she flips the Bolton pieces on the board. "I have shown you the power of King's blood. The Usurper Renly Baratheon. The Usurper Balon Greyjoy."
Davos felt suspicious. "Trying to sacrifice another soul to this fire god of yours again?" he said sarcastically.
"You think that's all we do, Ser Davos?" she countered. "The High Priestess of Asshai has… contacted me."
"How recent?"
"Just now."
"What did she say?"
Melisandre glanced outside the tent. "There is another way to melt the snow and move Stannis' army forward… one that requires no sacrifice. But basic instructions that were provided to me in High Valyrian—a language only I understand and can translate."
"Then why didn't you tell us sooner?" the Onion Knight asked frustrated.
"If I knew this when we first met, then I wouldn't have said anything. Do you still doubt me? After all that you've seen?" She was in no mood to argue. "You wanted another way, Ser Davos? Here it is. It must be done before the Long Night begins. Only the Lord's destined ones can lead the living against the dead."
As the red priestess stepped out of Stannis' tent, only Davos and Stannis followed close behind her – curious as to her earlier plural statement of 'the Lord's destined ones.' The Onion Knight still had his reservations, but the look on Stannis' face was one of confusion and inner frustrations; the last few years since he converted to the Lord of Light, Stannis believed he himself was the destined Chosen One as per the Lord of Light's prophecy. To hear now that there could be more than one other than himself, it threw him off balance.
Melisandre knelt before the snow, unmoved by the freezing temperatures as more of Stannis' men gathered around her still cold.
"Āeksiot Ōño, dohaeragon aōha tikor se aōhos ōñoso īlōn jehikās! (Lord of Light, aid your servant and cast your light upon us!)" she recited. "Āeksiot Ōño, se ñuhoso gō īlva iksis kelitan. Ōños se ñuhoso se dohaeragon jemagon īlva naejot mēre hen aōha Iderēbagon Mēre. Kesrio syt bantis zōbrie issa se ossȳngnoti lēdys! (Lord of Light, the path before us is blocked. Light the way and help lead us to one of your Chosen Ones. For the night is dark and full of terrors!)"
*SHUBOOOO!*
In that instant, flames shot up from beneath the ground and began to quickly melt the snow impeding their path forward. A couple of soldiers were startled and backed up in surprise; the horses were startled and couldn't back away. Stannis and Davos both watched as the flames began to quickly move downwards to create a pathway to the south.
Icicles quickly melted down from the tents, refracting the flame's intense heat. Much of a rivulet of snow had melted away. Once the way forward was clear, Melisandre stood back up and the flames dissipated. She was somewhat pleased, somewhat perplexed.
"See? The Lord of Light has made good on his promise," she demonstrated. "His fires have melted the snows away. The way ahead is clear."
Stannis does not look at her, but rather tightens the straps on his epaulets, puts on two gauntlets and straps on his sword belt—pulling his sword partway from his scabbard, checks its edge before returning it to its scabbard.
"What else has your God shown you?" he asks simply.
Melisandre's eye contact broke momentarily. "The Lord has shown me a forest burning, a castle besieged, Bolton banners burning. But as we speak one of the Lord's favored candidates are fighting in the battle. Should this one be ignored, it would bring great misfortune in the long-term."
Stannis marches through his camp; although the way forward was cleared, it was still cold but didn't let it get to him. Melisandre and Davos are by his side.
"General," Stannis orders, "prepare to form up. I want the men on the march at once."
The Baratheon General nodded. "Understood, my lord. Where do you want us to go?" he asked.
"We march on the Dreadfort. It's time for us to join the fray."
Chapter End
Author's Note: So guys, the Battle for the North has begun (aka the new Battle of the Bastards) and will once again be split into two parts. Robb Stark and Jon Snow versus Ramsay Snow, Harald Karstark and Smalljon Umber; the Bolton bastard has made the first move with a surprise fire attack on the much larger Stark army at the Hornwood forest before raining arrows down on them and sending in the cavalry. Think how the battle will turn out quite differently than the TV series? Thoughts? Let me know.
RHatch89: Awesome update :)
MrKristoffer1994: I wonder how many men Stannis have that he will command to reinforce the Northern loyalist army. Anyway, Ramsay Snow, Smalljon Umber and Harald Karstark are fucked! :3
birdy: i cant wait for the next chapter
10868letsgo: Stannis is coming, but i worried about Shireen Baratheon.
jgs237: Good chapter!
Stannis to the rescue! I
Stannis was defeated by Ramsey in the show now it will be reversed.
Hear My Fury: Ramsay got lucky nothing more. With Stannis heading there his army will be routed.