On a frosty day a little more than three weeks later, Jon and his party emerged from the Wolfswood just north of Winterfell and halted their horses at the bottom of a low knoll. Beyond, the walls and towers of the castle stood out against the cloudy sky, solid and unshakeable, like a promise. Home.

From where she was standing, it seemed impossible to Charleen that Winterfell should no longer belong to House Stark, but then a group of riders came into view atop the knoll, and her stomach twisted as she caught sight of the Bolton banners flying above their heads.

The riders came cantering down the hillside towards them. Ramsay himself was at the head of the group, flanked by Lord Karstark and a man with long black hair and beard whom Charleen did not recognise. They stopped within a few yards of her and Jon, and scrutinized them in silence.

"Lady Wollard," Ramsay finally said, his face breaking into a smile that sent shivers down Charleen's spine. "I'm glad to see that you've made it back safely." Then, he turned to Jon, and his eyes narrowed. "Now, bastard, why are you leading these poor souls into slaughter? You don't have the men, you don't have the horses, and you don't have Winterfell." His voice cracked with amusement. "There's no need for a battle. Dismount and kneel before me, surrender your army, and proclaim me the true Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. I will pardon you for deserting the Night's Watch. I will pardon these treasonous lords for betraying my House. Just get off your horse and kneel. I am a man of mercy." The corners of his mouth twitched upwards into a triumphant smile, and Charleen's hands balled into fists around the reins of her horse.

There was a brief silence; then, Jon spoke. "You're right," he said calmly, "there's no need for a battle. Thousands of men don't need to die. Only one of us." He paused. "Let's end this the old way – you against me."

At these words, Charleen glanced at Jon in surprise, but his gaze remained fixed on Ramsay's face.

Instead of an answer, Ramsay slowly began to chuckle. "I keep hearing stories about you, bastard," he said. "The way people in the North talk about you, you're the greatest swordsman who ever walked. And maybe you are that good." He shrugged. "Maybe not. I don't know if I'd beat you. But I know that my army will beat yours. I have six thousand men. You have, what, half that? Not even?"

"Aye, you have the numbers," Jon cut in. "But will your men want to fight for you, when they hear you wouldn't fight for them?"

For the first time, Ramsay appeared discomfited. Searching for an answer to Jon's taunt, he ran his tongue over his lips and huffed in frustration.

"He's good, very good" he finally spat, pointing a finger at Jon with a strained attempt at derision. "Tell me, bastard, will you let your little brother die because you're too proud to surrender?"

Emboldened by Jon's success, Charleen attempted another challenge.

"How do we know you have him?"

Ramsay looked at her for a moment, his face inscrutable. Then, he slowly turned to the man with the long black beard and signalled to him with a nod. The other reached into his saddlebag, drew out a large, dark object, and threw it on the ground before Charleen and Jon.

It was the head of a direwolf, his black fur matted with blood. Shaggydog.

Charleen felt as if she had been punched in the gut. With great effort, she tore her gaze away from the sight before her and looked at Ramsay once again.

"He's a fine young lad, your brother," Ramsay smirked at Jon. "My dogs are desperate to meet him." His voice broke into a chuckle. "I haven't fed them for seven days. They're ravenous. I wonder which parts they'll try first. His eyes? His balls?" He paused for a moment, savouring the effect of his words. "We'll find out soon enough. In the morning, then, bastard?"

"Aye," Jon said, his voice hoarse with suppressed emotion. "In the morning."

He lowered his gaze, but Charleen was determined to spoil Ramsay's victory. "You're going to die tomorrow, Lord Bolton," she declared. "Sleep well."

And she turned her horse around, towards the Wolfswood, and spurred him to a gallop, and the others followed suit.

GoTGoTGoTGoTGoTGoTGoT

In the evening, when darkness had fallen, Jon summoned his officers to his tent to discuss the coming battle. On the table in front of him, a map was spread out with painted pebbles upon it representing the two armies that would meet in the morning. Charleen sat by Jon's side, her brow furrowed as she looked at the little group of rocks that was facing off against three rows of Bolton pebbles.

She looked up when Jon's men began to file into the tent. There was a stranger among them, an older man with white hair, but strong and shrewd looking, clad in a full set of plate armour that gleamed dully in the dim light of the candles illuminating the tent.

He took his place at the table with the others, and when they were all seated, Jon rose to his feet.

"My lords and ladies, this is Lord Royce," he said, indicating the stranger, "commander of the Knights of the Vale in the name of Lord Robin Arryn of the Eyrie. Lord Royce, you are most welcome here."

"Thank you, my lord."

Lord Royce rose in his turn, and bowed his head slightly to Jon before turning to address the table at large.

"My lords, my ladies, I have been sent by Lord Arryn to assist his cousins Sansa and Rickon Stark against their enemies, the Boltons," he said. "Since Lord Arryn is not yet of age, the Vale is being ruled in his stead by his stepfather, Lord Petyr Baelish of the Fingers. Lord Baelish brokered the marriage between Sansa Stark and Ramsay Bolton, and the Boltons therefore believe him to be their ally. Tomorrow, they shall find that they are mistaken – to their dismay, I hope."

He resumed his seat, and the others murmured their approval before turning back to Jon.

"If Ramsay Bolton was smart, he'd stay inside the walls of Winterfell and wait us out," he said, and then with a glance at Charleen invited her to contribute.

"That's not his way," she declared. "Ramsay knows the North is watching. If the other houses sense weakness on his part, they'll stop fearing him. He can't have that. Fear is his power."

"It's his weakness, too," Jon added. "His men don't want to fight for him, they're forced to fight for him. If they feel the tide turning –"

"It's not his men that worry me," Tormund cut in, "it's his horses. I know what mounted knights can do to us." He nodded at Ser Davos. "You and Stannis cut through us like piss through snow."

"We're digging trenches all along our flanks," Jon told him. "They won't be able to hit us the way that Stannis hit you, in a double envelopment."

Clearly uncomprehending, Tormund simply stared at him.

"A pincer move," Jon explained, but Tormund's face remained blank.

"They won't be able to hit you from the sides," Jon offered, and finally, Tormund nodded.

"Good."

There was a pause; then, Ser Davos spoke up.

"It's crucial that we let them charge at us. They've got the numbers, we need the patience. If we let him buckle our centre, he'll pursue. Then we'll have him surrounded on three sides."

"At which point the Knights of the Vale are going to attack him from the rear," Jon added. He exchanged a look with Lord Royce, and they both nodded. "We'll have Ramsay in a full encirclement."

"Did you really think that cunt would fight you man-to-man?" Tormund asked.

Jon shook his head.

"No. But I wanted to make him angry. I want him coming at us full tilt." He took a deep breath. "We should all get some sleep. We make ready at first light."

As the others rose and made to leave their tent, Charleen turned to look at Jon, but his gaze was fixed upon the retreating backs of his captains.

"Lady Lyanna," he called, "may I have a word?"

Lyanna Mormont had almost reached the opening of the tent, and she turned around with a look of surprise on her face.

"Of course," she said, moving to resume her former seat at the table.

Jon waited until all the others had left the tent, and then turned to the two women with a grave look upon his face.

"Lady Lyanna, I have a favour to ask of you," he said. "If the battle goes badly tomorrow, if I fall, I am asking you to protect Lady Charleen. Take her back to Bear Island with you. Keep her safe."

Lyanna looked from him to Charleen, and nodded.

"You have my word," she said. "Lady Charleen, whatever may happen tomorrow, you will always find safety with House Mormont."

Struggling against the lump in her throat, Charleen took a moment to find her voice.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"You have my thanks, Lady Lyanna," Jon echoed. "Goodnight."

When Lyanna had left, Charleen turned to look at Jon with tears brimming in her eyes.

"Jon, if you fall –"

"I don't expect the Lady Melisandre to bring me back a second time."

Stifling a sob, Charleen rose from her chair and slipped into Jon's outstretched arms. A moment later, however, the flap of the tent was opened from the outside and she drew back hastily.

It was one of Tormund's men.

"There's someone here asking to see you, Lord Snow," he said. "She walked right up to guards and demanded to speak to the commander of the camp."

She?

Charleen's heart leapt – could Sansa, by some miracle, have escaped the castle and come to find her brother?

When, at Jon's command, the man moved aside and let the newcomer enter, however, her hope was disappointed. The woman who stepped into the tent appeared to be almost twice Sansa's size – in width certainly if not quite in height. She was clad in plate and mail, with a sword girt around her waist, and her yellow hair was cropped short like a man's. Behind her came a young man, a boy almost, wearing leather armour, whose uncertain demeanour stood in stark contrast to the woman's apparent confidence.

"My lord, my lady," she said, drawing herself up to her full height, "my name is Brienne of Tarth, and this is Podrick Payne. I served Lady Catelyn Stark as her sworn sword. I promised that I would find her daughters and protect them. And I intend to keep that promise. Will you allow me to fight with you for Lady Sansa's freedom?"

"Anyone who wishes to fight for House Stark is welcome in my camp, my lady," Jon replied, "but our enemies are cunning, and I don't know that I can trust you."

"I have news of your other sister," Brienne replied. "She made it out of King's Landing alive. I saw her in the Riverlands, with a man. I don't think he hurt her. She didn't want to leave him, and he didn't want to leave her."

Jon looked at her sceptically.

"You don't know where she went?"

"I spent three days looking for her. She disappeared."

"How did she look?"

"She looked good." Brienne hesitated. "She wasn't exactly dressed like a lady."

A smile flickered across Jon's face. "No, she wouldn't be."

"And she was carrying a weapon – a smallsword," Brienne continued. "She seemed to know how to use it, too. Said it was called Needle."

Needle.

Charleen stared at Brienne, hardly daring to believe what she was hearing. There was silence for a moment; then, Jon said,

"Lady Brienne, you are welcome in my camp. I wish you good fortune in the battle."

His voice was husky, and he turned away from her as soon as he had finished speaking.

"Thank you, my lord."

She made to leave the tent, signalling to the boy, Podrick, to follow her, and when they had gone, Charleen looked at Jon, fresh tears brimming in her eyes.

"Arya –"

Jon reached out and clasped her hand tightly in his.

"One more reason for us to retake Winterfell."

"You have to be careful tomorrow," Charleen pleaded. "Ramsay likes to play with people. He knows you're fighting for your home, for your family. Don't let him use that against you."

Jon's face darkened.

"You mean that whatever he might say, we're not getting Rickon back alive."

Charleen hesitated for a second. "Rickon is Ned Stark's trueborn son," she said. "As long as he lives, Ramsay's claim to Winterfell will be contested, which means –" she looked away, " – he won't live long."

Jon exhaled deeply.

"And what about Sansa?" he finally said. "Ramsay didn't mention her at all this morning."

"I don't like that," Charleen admitted. "I still believe what I said at Castle Black – that Sansa's too valuable for Ramsay to use her as leverage – but I still would have expected him at least to taunt you on her account."

Jon stared down at the map, and as his gaze swept across the painted rocks, his face hardened.

"I'm not giving up on my siblings," he said. "I've fought against worse than Ramsay Bolton. I've defeated worse than Ramsay Bolton."

He looked up at Charleen, his dark eyes burning in the dim light.

"Tomorrow, Winterfell will belong to the Starks again."