They were thrust into battle almost immediately. Rickon and the other vulnerable people were instantaneously hoarded to the cells under Castle Black for protection, against those who would show no mercy. Those that could fight pummelled into battle without hesitation; it was simply a battle to the death, the enemy would have to be vanquished for safety to even be considered.
Wun Wun charged at those stupid enough to imagine they could tackle such a huge foe; he merely could swing out his giant arm and would send enormous waves of Bolton men flying through the air, heads bursting from the force of hitting the solid stone walls.
Brienne and Tormund fought as one; swinging and ducking in rhythm; almost dancing jointly to an unheard song. Each fought with unyielding anger and violence, shredding anyone that got in their way to pieces. Tormund fought for his people; he was their protector, the person they relied on, yet he hadn't been able to save those already butchered by those Bolton bastards; so he would do what he could, butcher in return and make sure no one else paid the blood price.
Brienne engaged in combat for those whom she had come to know, most of the residents within Castle Black were decent people which was certainly rare to find in Westeros. She fought for chivalry, for her promise to Jaime Lannister, for those who had previously fought with her and for the future rulers of the North, her pledge to the Starks would stand till death came for her.
So each with their reasons to fight, to happily give their lives if need be; duelled with those who had chosen the wrong house to dedicate their lives to.
Brienne, with her back melded to the muscular back of Tormund, swung Oathkeeper with both hands, creating a shower of crimson liquid spray from the wounds of her opponent. Both were tearing each body almost in half from the strength of their blows, creating rivers of blood upon the snow covered ground, each being the other's shield and sword.
Jon could be seen awash a sea of Bolton swordsmen fending them off without mercy, it easy to see what he wanted most...to get his hands on Ramsay fucking Bolton as it'd be the prize that would make up for all the bloodshed.
Brienne didn't know for certain, since it seemed the battle was never-ending; when a man was knocked to the cold floor another seemed to appear in their place, but it seemed that almost half of the Bolton army had luckily been wiped out, the bodies piling around them proved that. Everyone was desperate and struggled as one to come out of this fight alive, to save their family and be able to wrap their arms around safety once more- unfortunately some individuals who risked their lives for the Starks or for their families would miss out of that opportunity of safety already. The battle worked in the way in which every battle worked, there would always be someone left standing and good people would always lose their lives; it is purely the way it is.
The looming piles of the dead kept rising, each pile filled with bodies of the free folk, nights watch men and Bolton bastards. Battles like these, even if one side lacks fighters, depending on the talent of said limited fighters those battles can last hours, continuing the rage and increasing the death count.
Bitter frost nipped at protected skin, blood that had showered the snow had frozen to crimson ice, making the newly deceased turn into sculptures of grotesque art.
Brienne and Tormund had been parted somewhere within the battle, leaving each to fend for themselves and worry mercilessly if the other would make it through to tomorrow. Brienne slashed, swords clanging, with a simple soldier who seemed surprised to be battling a woman, however he'd probably be thinking about other things he could do with her if she survived. Perhaps he would hit, backslap and beat her, but the answer was obvious; Brienne would burn her soul and body before she would let filth like that touch her.
Her mind flitted back to Tormund, that lovely ginger haired fellow, although he had been an abysmal flirter, he had been so sweet (a little creepy sometimes with all the staring), hadn't pushed her and gave an aroma of feeling safe...
She had to know he was still with her.
Brienne made quick work of the filth that was filled with occupying thoughts of how he could have his way with her, slicing into his abdomen once, twice, then delivering a final blow nearly splitting his body in two.
She fought off some others who tried to charge at her, knocking them down with a swing of her arm and burying Oathkeeper into them, ceasing their last heart beat. She bore the resemblance of Wun Wun should he be smaller and a woman, an extremely powerful woman at that.
Those near the wooden steps in which the drop scaffold resided were the soldiers within battle seen as cowards, pitied but still carried a sword nonetheless, most likely to at least give the impression of brutality. Yet it deemed true, cowardly and weak they were, therefore showing mercy Brienne decided a simple but powerful blow to the head, rendering them unconscious would suffice- besides every war needed its prisoners from the enemy force.
Before long she had bounded steadily up the wooden steps and stood in front of the gallows. Her bright, unwavering eyes moved rapidly over the crowd of those in battle and the numerous heaps of the deceased, seeking out that ginger wildling she was ever so fond of.
The beauty of a champion heard the rough, Northern voice before she saw in which direction it was coming from.
"Brienne! Look out!"
Luckily this noblewoman was a natural born killer with superior reflexes, those of such would make any knight tremble with envy. Brienne didn't need to turn around for her to know there was no one behind her; even though one does not have room to breathe or think during life or death combat- one does have the split second to tune into their senses. Warriors' senses were a form of protection that could save their life better than any regular armour at any time. The best fighters learnt to wield a sword with their eyes closed, with only their hearing and mind for body defence.
Already knowing the general space around her was clear within a second, she turned her attention to below the gallows in which she had previously clambered upon. Having sighted the pathetic Bolton soldier scum who held his metallic sword raised in the air, ready to strike, her conclusion was a split second one at best.
Acting immediately, Brienne gave a vigorous kick to the blade of her enemies' weapon, surprising her assailant and forcing him to turn around briefly to gain balance. The beast of a lady made certain the man had no time to regain himself before she wildly leapt from the gallows ledge and landed roughly onto the shocked soldier below. She clung to him like a Mamba snake clings to its feathered prey, suffocating before delivering deathly venom; she resembled death and Brienne knew how to wield scythes good enough as the grim reaper himself.
Before long, Oathkeeper had met with shivering skin, painting lines of red as the life oozed out of the nameless fighter. As Brienne the Beauty landed with a thump upon ground once more, she set her sights on protecting her man.
Roughly swinging; calloused hands handling smooth steel forcing into the flesh of one body straight after another. Rows of traitors disappearing just by the hands of a brazen woman alone; determination was a powerful incentive, one that rarely showed mercy in the hands of danger.
Within an unknown amount of time her bright blue eyes held tears that she refused to release from the sight of such calming, familiar ginger hair.
As Brienne inched closer to the man who was the other side of her coin, she began to notice a growing red swelling erupting from Tormunds' side.
Immediately she composed herself; yet internally she screamed bloody murder, yelled for vengeance, suddenly becoming immobile from the pain within her bruised heart. Yet physically she bore no resemblance to one with such pain within; instead Brienne appeared the ferocious warrior whom she was imagined to be, strict in her manner and bloodthirsty in her attacks.
Seeing the crimson leak out of the wildling she'd become so attached to, despite being in such short amount of time, brought her back to reality. The lady of Tarth knew what had to be done. The battle had to be won, else all be lost to the dark tiers of purgatory itself.
With everyone still conscious, aided by those who fought through their injured pain- the battle ended up winning in their favour. Only the Seven Gods knew the total death count before the flames licked each body ad rendered them truly passed. Brienne couldn't actually believe that she had survived the day, silently thanking those whom her father had tasked with making her the fearsome death bringer she was at that day. All she knew for what it was worth was that Ramsay fucking Bolton, sat mauled underground Castle Black- mutilated and rotting. The Lady Sansa and her family would be safe from the Bolton grasp and now the North, their home, was back for the conquering.
Theons' Point of View-
Meereen sang with the beauty of a thousand orbs lighting up the sky, rejoicing in their songs of gratitude for freedom. Theon could hear their melodies, their cries of consolation, merciful to the reigning Dragon Queen as he walked down the cobbled streets making his destination to the peaceful company of the boats.
A tortured body eased against the cool, metal of the barriers overlooking this foreign land. He rest his clammy hands, sighing pleasantly as his eyelids drifted shut- breathing in the sweet air of retribution.
It wasn't long till his peace and clarity became quickly broken by a less relaxing, scratchier sound of a young lad wanting to attain his attention.
There was a time, oh so long ago, when he would have treated this young servant boy with distaste, a loathing. He would have spoken at this boy like he was nought than dirt upon his tailored boot and would tell him to 'fuck off and find him a whore with a great, large pair of tits and a tight, wet cunt'.
Of course he certainly wasn't like that anymore, especially not after…
He definitely could never lay with a woman again; it was merely impossible with his 'situation' nonetheless.
So he gave the boy what he was after, a coin and his undivided attention, "What is it lad?"
The young squire gleamed at the coin miraculously, as though such a simple gesture had never occurred before and thrust out the barely wrapped package in which he held under his scrawny arm. "For you sire."
Theon gave a firm nod of acknowledgement and with that the boy vanished from sight. He looked down at the oddly weighted box and ran his scarred hand over it, not knowing whether to open it or not. Yet he realized with certainty that he was safe here, in this slave ridden city protected by a Dragon Queen, and with a new bought of bravery he opened the box.
Silence spread over the city it seemed. Time stopped completely.
Theon stood frozen in place. Eyes fixed onto the content within the box. He trembled. Shook with fear.
Theon managed to reach inside and gather the note attached to the 'gift'.
It read,
'Theon,
I do sincerely hope you find peace in the gift I have sent to you.
I owe you a great deal for helping me escape such evil grasps, but I wanted to let you know that you should fear no more- those evil hands are dead.
Winterfell belongs to the Starks once more.
Many Regards,
Lady Sansa Stark.'
Quivering hands put down the parchment, eyes surveying the contents of the box once again. The tears fell quick and hard; Theon himself fell to his knees, the sobbing shaking his entire body.
As the box made contact with the solid ground, the cargo became known. Pale, flesh rolled from within the package, for it was a male's member that had Theon bawling unceremoniously, the one precisely that had belonged to his torturer.
He was free. Revenge had finally come for the devil himself. Theon didn't know why he cried as he did, but as he looked the sky, he knew a new age was coming.
A new dawn soon approached, with it, tears for the lost but a newfound glimmer of hope that things lost may become righteous once again shone through. Brienne tried not to look those who had lost in the eye as she strode throughout Castle Black, yet she couldn't help but feel partially responsible for what happened; of course, she knew nothing that had occurred was her burden- but the aftermath of any battle was never a pleasant one. You may feel charged, melodramatic at first- that was just the adrenaline, the victory of the winning side. After some time, the true realization sets in, were we the true winners? Most of our people are dead, was it all in vain? Though Brienne's father had always taught her to try and never wallow in such issues, such frames of mind, for it drives even the strongest warrior to their grave.
Whilst her mind fleeted through these thoughts she came across someone alone whom most certainly shouldn't be anywhere near mourning and despair, "Master Rickon, what in the seven hells are you doing out here? You should not be witnessing this sight."
Rickon raised his head full of brown curls towards his sister's guard, "Father once said, 'The man who gives the sentence should swing the blade.'"
The blond warrior of Tarth sighed and calmly sat down next to the boy on such cold steps, "Master Rickon, what happened wasn't your fault."
"These people died trying to save me."
She turned to look the boy straight in the eyes, as she spoke the firm reassurance slowly came to the young Stark's face. "Rickon. Listen to me. This-" She pointed around them. "This, is not your fault. Ramsay did this, no one else. These people, especially the ones who didn't make it, they fought because it was what they believed to be right; there's nothing better dying for than that."
"She's right, lad." Both raised their eyes upon the strong voice which boomed from seemingly nowhere, only to be met with the sight of Tormund Giantsbane; pain etched into his features.
Rickon nodded having honestly appreciated their kind words and departed, sensing the two had somethings to converse about.
Brienne stood, inches away from Tormund, but not noticing in the slightest. "How are you?" She sighed. "Sorry, stupid question. I mean, how is your wound?"
Neither moved away despite the proximity, "All treated, Lady Brienne. Are you hurt?"
"Luckily not…Tormund, I don't know what to say."
Tormund nudged Brienne's chin up with a large finger, "Eh, Brienne, there is nothing to say. War is war. A battle is a battle. People die. It's just how it works lass. These were good people, an' we'll remember 'em, but for now we have to focus on the living."
There was a comfortable silence between them, both simply longingly gazing at one another, both knowing what was about to occur.
Their lips touched, light, akin to a whisper traced against skin, and then it was over. Neither spoke, just smiled and somehow Brienne knew everything was going to be okay.
