The Battle of the Bastards gave me an opportunity for some more hurt/comfort, and of course I couldn't resist. ;)
Also, a warning: here be non-canon character death.
Please read and review!

Among the dense trees of the wolfswood, the noise of the battle sounded faint and muffled, but to Charleen, the sounds seemed sharp and clear, as though she were herself standing on the battlefield among the clashing of weapons and the screams of dying men. Her horse fidgeted nervously underneath her, and she gripped the reins with shaking fingers.

Don't watch, Jon had told her. Ready your horse, and if the battle goes ill, ride north with Lady Lyanna at once.

But she couldn't. Ever since Jon and his men had left their camp at daybreak, she had been inching closer and closer to the field of battle, and Lyanna Mormont had followed her in silence, determined, it seemed, not to let her out of her sight.

In this way, the edge of the trees had finally come into view, and Charleen once again found herself loosening her grip on her horse's reins, allowing him to take a few steps forward. She could not see much of what was happening beyond the forest, but the battle seemed to have moved further away, towards the castle.

All of a sudden, her eyes fell upon a single rider galloping across the battlefield away from Winterfell, and without thinking, she dug her heels into her horse's flanks and rushed forward to meet him.

It was Ser Davos. Catching sight of her, he raised an arm above his head in greeting and called out to her.

"Victory!" he shouted, "victory! Winterfell is ours, my lady."

Charleen pulled on her horse's reins so hard that he reared a little, his hooves skidding on the muddy ground as he came to a halt.

"Jon?"

"Alive, last I saw him," Ser Davos panted.

Charleen did not wait for more. Urging her horse forward with a kick, she charged up the side of the hill and out across the level field where the battle had taken place.

She had expected bodies scattered upon the ground, a grisly sight of men and horses lying in pools of their own blood, but what she saw instead was so far beyond her imagination that it took her a moment to comprehend.

It was a mound of bodies, piled one on top of the other to at least twice the height of a man.

At the same instant, the stench reached Charleen's nostrils – a sickly-sweet whiff of blood mixed with the foetid tang of excrement – and she averted her face in horror, fighting to keep control of her shying horse as she urged him on up the hill towards Winterfell.

She looked up again only once they had passed the grisly heap. Beyond, still more bodies littered her path, but she kept her eyes fixed upon the walls of the castle until the North Gate finally came into her sight.

The gate appeared to stand open – or rather, Charleen realised as she approached, it had been smashed with such force that the great wooden door bar had splintered like a stick. Just inside the door, an enormous shape was lying upon the ground. It was the giant, Wun Wun, peppered with dozens upon dozens of arrows.

Charleen tore through the gate into the courtyard and jumped off her horse almost at full gallop. A few yards behind the corpse of the giant, Jon was kneeling over the prone figure of Ramsay Bolton, pounding his face with his fist. He was covered from head to toe in blood, mud, and gore, his breath coming in heavy gasps as he punched Ramsay again, and again, and again.

"Where's Sansa?" Jon growled. "Where's my sister?"

At this, Ramsay's face suddenly split into a grin, his teeth gleaming white between blood-smeared lips.

"She's dead," he spluttered. "Tried to run away. Didn't make it. We found her body in the woods near the Long Lake."

All the fight seemed to go out of Jon at once. His hands fell limply to his sides, and he let his head sink down upon his chest. Slowly, very slowly, he pushed himself up on one knee and stood, his gaze still fixed upon Ramsay's face.

"Take him away," he ordered tonelessly.

At once, several men hurried forward. They grabbed Ramsay by the arms and dragged him across the muddy ground in the direction of the dungeons.

Jon remained where he was, staring after the retreating group. Suddenly, his knees seemed to grow weak beneath him and he stumbled. Charleen was by his side in an instant, taking some of his weight against her own body and steadying him with her arm around his waist.

"Are you hurt?" she asked him urgently.

Jon turned to look at her and slowly shook his head, but his face was completely blank, his gaze unfocused as though he were looking right through her.

"Come on," Charleen said, "let's go inside."

She guided him across the courtyard and into the Great Keep, where a group of servants was huddled just inside the door, their faces pale with fear.

"My lady!" they exclaimed when Charleen and Jon stepped across the threshold, "oh, thank the Gods!"

"House Stark has returned," Charleen told them. "Prepare the lord's chamber, and draw a bath for Lord Jon. And have some fresh water brought to my chamber, please."

While the servants hastened to do as she had bid, Charleen helped Jon up the stairs and into her own chamber on the first floor of the Keep.

The room was exactly as she had left it on the night of her escape from Winterfell, right down to the mortar on the table where she had been grinding up dried herbs for a salve.

"Here, Jon, sit down," Charleen said gently, guiding Jon across the room to her chair.

"But –" Jon hesitated, clumsily motioning at his clothes, "I'm covered in filth…"

"It doesn't matter," Charleen insisted, "I'll clean up later."

She gently pressed Jon down into the chair, and he looked up at her with the same distant expression on his face that he had worn ever since he had learned of Sansa's fate.

"Rickon's gone," he said faintly. "It was as you said – Ramsay used him to bait me and then put an arrow through his heart."

It was no more than Charleen had expected, but to hear the truth of it still felt like a punch in the gut. Without a word, she wrapped her arms around Jon and held him close, fighting back tears. Rickon was dead, and so was Sansa, sweet, strong, beautiful Sansa, whose suffering should have not ended like this.

There was a knock on the door, and Charleen let go of Jon, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

"Come in."

It was a young servant girl whom Charleen did not recognize, carrying a large pitcher of water. The girl stared in horror at Charleen's cloak and dress, which were soiled with gore from where they had touched Jon's body, but Charleen ignored her look.

"Thank you," she said, taking the pitcher from her and setting it down on the table. She took a cup from a shelf at the far end of the room and poured Jon some water.

"Here," she said softly, handing Jon the cup, "you must be thirsty."

Nodding, Jon reached for the cup with a shaking hand and gulped down the water. Underneath the blood and grime caked on his face, he was very pale, and Charleen worried that he was going into shock.

"Jon, we need to get you out of these clothes," she said. "I need to make sure you're not injured."

The metal clasps of Jon's armour were slick with blood, and Charleen unfastened them with some difficulty. The quilted gambeson underneath appeared comparatively clean, and Charleen breathed a sigh of relief when she saw that on Jon's torso, at least, there were no bloodstains coming from inside the garment.

She gently pulled Jon's gloves off his hands and began to undo the strings of his gambeson when there was another knock at the door, and an elderly servant of the Starks, Palla, stuck her head into the room.

"We've a bath ready, my lady," she said, "upstairs, in the lord's bath chamber."

"Thank you, Palla," Charleen replied. She waited until the woman had closed the door behind her and then turned back to Jon.

"Can you stand?"

Without a word, Jon leaned forward and got to his feet. He was still shaking, however, and leaned heavily against Charleen's side as they made their way out of the room and up the stairs to the topmost floor but one of the keep.

In the bath chamber, a fire was burning in the grate, suffusing the room with a dim orange glow. In the middle of the room, steam was rising from the bathtub filled with water, and on a chair beside it sat a pile of fresh clothes for Jon.

Charleen moved the clothes aside and helped Jon to sit down. His breathing was heavy with exertion and he was still very pale, but the sight of the tub of hot water seemed slowly to bring him back to the here and now.

While Charleen went to fetch a small wooden bucket, a pitcher and some cloths and towels from a shelf, he bent down to pull off his boots and then shrugged out of his gambeson. The shirt underneath was soaked with sweat, but there was no sign of blood. Charleen helped Jon pull the shirt over his head and steadied him with her arm around his waist as he got to his feet and took off his hose and smallclothes.

Fully naked, he let Charleen help him into the bathtub and lowered himself into the hot water with a sigh of relief. He scooped some water up in his hands and doused his face with it, then leaned back, resting his head on the edge of the tub.

"Charleen…" he murmured.

"Hm?"

"Thank you."

He reached out for her with his hand, and she pressed it tightly for a moment, swallowing against the lump that was rising in her throat. Then, she picked up the pitcher and filled it with water from the bath.

"Don't move," she said softly. She lifted the pitcher above Jon's head and rinsed his hair, washing out the sweat and dirt from the battle.

This done, she set aside the pitcher, soaked a clean cloth in the water and gently, very gently washed Jon's face. Jon closed his eyes while she worked, and did not open them again immediately when she was done.

"Hey, no falling asleep yet, all right?" Charleen told him, gently but firmly cupping his cheek with her hand. "Let's get you out of the bath and to your bed, and then you can rest."

She draped a large towel over the chair and helped Jon out of the tub. He was no longer shaking, but his movements as he sat down and began to dry himself off were slow and clumsy with exhaustion.

Charleen helped him to get dressed, but just as Jon was about to stand up from the chair, he paused suddenly and ran a hand across his face.

"Jon?" Charleen asked. "What is it?"

"It's fine, I'm just a bit dizzy," he said, closing his eyes.

"It's all right," Charleen reassured him, "just take it easy for a moment. Deep breaths. That's it."

When Jon had recovered a little, Charleen put her arm around his waist and helped him to his feet.

"All right?" she asked, and Jon nodded.

Slowly, they made their way out of the bath chamber, along the corridor, and into the lord's chamber at the far end.

The stone floor of the chamber was still damp – clearly, the maids had only just finished scouring. They had also removed all of Ramsay's things and exchanged the bedding. Charleen folded back the crisp, new blankets and furs for Jon, and he sank down upon the bed with a groan of relief.

"There," Charleen said gently, "that's it now." She pulled the blanket up over Jon's prone form and placed some of the furs on top.

"Are you comfortable?"

"Aye," Jon murmured, "but could I have some more water, please?"

"Of course."

Charleen hurried back downstairs to her chamber and returned to Jon's side a moment later with the cup and pitcher in her hands. She poured Jon some water and helped him drink, and when he was done, he reached out and clasped her hand in his.

"Thank you," he whispered. "My love."

Charleen looked at him for a moment; then, she bent down and very gently brushed her lips against his forehead.

"I love you, Jon."

A smile flitted across his face even as his eyes drifted closed. A moment later, his hand slackened in hers, and Charleen very gently laid it down and covered it with the blanket.

She remained sitting by Jon's side for a few minutes and then, noticing the chill in the room, she rose to light a fire.

When she straightened up again from the hearth a few moments later and turned back to the bed, her eyes fell on the carved headpiece, where two direwolves were facing each other under a smiling heart tree. In her girlhood years, the bed had belonged to Eddard Stark, the Lord of Winterfell, and his wife Lady Catelyn, but now, the face on the pillow beneath the direwolves was neither that of Eddard nor of Catelyn, but of Jon Snow.

Jon Snow, whom she loved. Jon Snow, who had promised to wed her.

Lost in thought, Charleen drew a chair up to the fire and sat down, but her musings were soon interrupted by a soft knock on the door. Without stood Maester Wolkan, his robes dishevelled and a harried look upon his face.

"My apologies for the intrusion, Lady Charleen," he said. "How is Lord Jon?"

"It's just fatigue," Charleen replied. "He's resting now."

"If he doesn't need your attention right at this moment –" Maester Wolkan hesitated, "– they are bringing in the wounded, and we could well use another pair of skilled hands."

"Of course, maester," Charleen said. "I'll be with you in a moment."

"Thank you, my lady." The maester retreated, closing the door softly behind him, and Charleen went over to the bed and touched Jon's shoulder.

"Jon," she said gently, "Jon, I'm sorry, but you have to wake up for a moment."

"Hm?" Jon grunted, fighting for consciousness.

"I'm going to have to leave you alone for a while, all right?" Charleen told him. "Maester Wolkan needs help tending to the wounded men. There's more water here if you need it, and I'm going to tell the servants to clean out the other rooms up here, so that there's someone around in case you need anything else."

"Aye," Jon murmured, his eyelids heavy, "go help. I'll be fine."

Charleen gently touched her hand to the side of his face for a moment, then left the room and headed downstairs to her chamber. Around her, the castle seemed slowly to be coming back to life – there were servants bustling around to whom she imparted her instructions, and she saw from one of the narrow windows in the staircase that the doors of the Great Hall stood open and a fire had been lit inside. She quickly gathered some supplies from her chamber, put an apron on over her dress, and then went outside to the courtyard to find Maester Wolkan.

GoTGoTGoTGoTGoTGoTGoT

The first light of the new day was already visible in the eastern sky when Charleen finally took a break from her work. Being a medic, she had spent many a night tending to her patients, but never such a one as this. Her apron was stained with the blood and sweat of countless men, and her hair had escaped from its braid, loose strands clinging to her face and neck.

Charleen was not squeamish, but now her knees felt weak and her stomach was churning. Never before in her life had she seen so many grisly injuries in such short succession, deep cuts down to the bone, limbs severed, or worse, hanging on by bits of skin and flesh which she then had to cut herself, and arrows, hundreds upon hundreds of arrows sticking out of bodies contorted with pain.

More than once, a man had been brought before her dead or so near to it that there was nothing she could do. Worse, however, were the men for whose lives she desperately struggled only to watch them lose the fight, their pulses finally ebbing beneath her fingers, faces slackening as the final breath left their bodies.

Physically, too, the night had taken its toll. Some of the men, delirious with pain and fever, had fought her off as she tried to work on their injuries, and Charleen had had to hold them down even as she treated them. More than once, it had taken the combined strength of both her and Maester Wolkan in order to subdue one of the wounded men. And even those who did not struggle would sometimes insult her in their agony, or beg for her to kill them, or cry out for their mothers, or simply scream through the piece of cloth that she had given them to bite.

Their makeshift infirmary had been set up in the guards' hall, and when Charleen finally left the building and stepped outside into the icy morning air, she took a deep breath, glad to be away from the noise and stench. Across the courtyard, a faint light was coming from the windows of the Great Hall, and Charleen slowly wandered towards it, her head still spinning with the images of the past hours.

Inside the hall, a fire was burning in the great fireplace at the end of the room. The long tables had been cleared away, and only the benches stood on either side of the hall, dotted here and there with people, mostly servants of House Stark. In the middle of the room stood a single, smaller table with a dark shape upon it, and Charleen advanced towards it, a heavy feeling settling about her heart.

It was Rickon Stark.

His eyes were closed, his face white as snow. From his chest protruded the tip of an arrow, and a trail of dried blood led from the corner of his mouth across his cheek and into the tangled curls of his hair.

For a long moment, Charleen stood by Rickon's side, remembering the little boy that had scampered around Winterfell, tagging along after his older brothers as they practiced swordplay with Ser Rodrik, watching his mother at her needlework, curling up in Old Nan's lap to listen to one of her stories. She remembered, too, the charred corpses that Theon Greyjoy had displayed above the main gate of Winterfell, and her amazement when, almost four years later, Sansa whispered the truth to her in the little chamber where Ramsay was keeping her – they weren't Bran and Rickon! Theon couldn't find them, so he had two farm boys killed instead and burned their bodies so no one would know.

And now, here he was, Rickon Stark, who had escaped from Winterfell and returned home only to meet an enemy more ruthless than the first. No longer a boy and not yet a man, his life had been cut off at the first, tender budding.

A wave of grief washed over Charleen, and she closed her eyes for a moment. Slowly, she turned and went to sit down on the bench nearest to Rickon's body. The people who had gathered to mourn him murmured a respectful greeting as she approached, and she acknowledged their sympathy with a nod.

She did not know how long she sat there, her head bowed with grief and exhaustion. It was only when there were footsteps in the passage leading out of the hall to the left of the fireplace that she lifted her gaze.

Jon had appeared in the doorway, dressed in leather armour, his sword girt at his side.

At once, everybody in the room got to their feet, but Jon held up his hand.

"Please sit," he said.

Charleen, however, did not resume her seat. She went over to Rickon's bier, and Jon crossed the room to stand beside her. Together, they looked down at Rickon for a moment; then, Jon put a comforting hand on Charleen's shoulder and raised his eyes to the people in the hall.

"We're going to bury my brother in the crypt, next to my father."

He spoke quietly, but his voice carried around the room without effort.

"As for Ramsay," he continued, his fingers tightening on Charleen's shoulder, "he hasn't fed his dogs in days. They're starving. Ease their suffering. Let them feast upon their master. And when they have satisfied their hunger, put them to the sword."