The vibrant yellow strategy tent strained under the weight of its occupants, brimming with anticipation and tension. Atop fluttered a tapestry of banners, each bearing the sigil of its respective house. A black mockingbird emblazoned against a field of yellow denoted House Baelish, while House Royce's banner boasted black iron studs on bronze, bordered with ancient runes. House Arryn's emblem, a sky-blue falcon soaring beneath a white moon against a backdrop of blue, added a regal touch to the ensemble. Above them all, a banner adorned with a field of red and white diamonds proudly represented House Hardyng, its colours dancing in the wind.
Until that morning, these banners had stood as the sole representatives of those gathered within the tent. But today marked a significant shift. A new standard had been raised—a grey direwolf on a white background, set upon a green escutcheon. House Stark had officially joined the assembly.
Of course, the addition of House Stark wasn't merely a symbolic gesture. Sansa Stark herself stood at the heart of their purpose; a fact carefully concealed until this very morning.
Emerging from the tent she shared with her husband Harry, Sansa's bleary eyes fell upon the Stark banner billowing above the strategy tent. The sight filled her with a mixture of surprise and dismay. Her presence had been shrouded in secrecy, known only to those closest to her and Wynafryd Manderly, whose aid had facilitated their journey up the White Knife river.
As Sansa approached the tent, her mind buzzed with questions. Had Lord Baelish betrayed them? Despite her misgivings, she couldn't shake the memory of his plan—to seize Winterfell with minimal casualties, entering under the guise of friendship and royal envoyship, then striking from within. The cavalry, advancing north past Moat Cailin, had been intended as a contingency, a safeguard against the discovery of their intentions.
The stretch of land between Sansa's tent and the bustling yellow strategy tent was a morass of mud, despite the recent blanket of snowfall. For two nights, they had made camp in this sodden terrain, forced to abandon their boat along the White Knife river due to treacherous conditions. High winds, icy formations in the river, and an impending blizzard had driven them to seek refuge, awaiting the passing of the worst of the weather.
During this time, Sansa had found herself mostly confined to either the strategy tent or the red and white shelter she shared with Harry. Typically, she would have occupied herself with embroidery or knitting beside a warm brazier, but the biting cold had rendered her usual pastimes impractical. Instead, she had turned to the Targaryen histories gifted to her by Lord Baelish, though the reason for his gesture remained a mystery to her.
Though the blizzard had since abated, the air maintained its chill, and the ground had transformed into a quagmire of mud and slush. The large cook-fires scattered between the tents had melted away the snow, leaving behind a desolate landscape.
Drawing her grey woollen cloak, adorned with a white rabbit-fur collar, tighter around her frame, Sansa hitched up her grey woollen dress above her black leather boots, endeavouring to keep her skirts clean. With purposeful steps, she made her way to the neighbouring tent, flanked by two guards stationed outside.
Within the spacious confines of the tent, the radiance of three blazing braziers cast a warm glow, instantly flushing Sansa's cheeks with colour as she crossed the threshold. The sharp contrast between the cosy interior and the biting chill outside was a familiar sensation for Sansa, a true child of the North accustomed to such harsh conditions. Yet, she noted with a hint of amusement, the men of the Vale, unaccustomed to the rigours of snow, seemed to require additional measures to ward off the cold.
Upon entering, Sansa's gaze fell upon Lord Baelish, already seated at the head of the long oak table. He was draped in a grey coat, reminiscent of his attire in King's Landing but now fashioned from warm wool instead of cool silk. His black leather-gloved hand cradled a rolled-up scroll, his fingers tapping upon the table with a pensive rhythm. Upon catching sight of her, his eyes lit up, and he rose from his seat with a courteous bow.
"My Lady," he greeted her respectfully.
"Lord Baelish," Sansa returned the nod with a polite smile.
With a graceful gesture, Littlefinger invited her to the seat on his right. "Come, sweetling, sit next to me," he urged, extending his hand to assist her.
Though inwardly hesitant, Sansa complied, her apprehension masked by a facade of courtesy. She knew all too well that Lord Baelish's motivations extended beyond mere altruism—his ambitions intertwined with hers in complex and often dubious ways.
"Thank you, Lord Baelish," she murmured as she took her seat, mustering the most subservient demeanour she could manage.
"Food will arrive shortly, where we can all break our fast and discuss the news I have just received," he informed her, his expression clouding with concern. "Have you not slept? Has Harry kept you up all night?"
Sansa shook her head. "I had a terrible dream about my brother."
"Little Rickon? He is safe for now. Lord Bolton won't touch him," Littlefinger assured her.
"Not Rickon," Sansa admitted, her voice tinged with worry. Summoning her courage, she continued, "I mean Jon." The mention of her half-brother, now the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, filled her with a swell of pride, with simultaneous dread at the pit of her stomach.
Littlefinger's smile faltered, replaced by a thoughtful frown that sent a jolt of apprehension through Sansa. Had he received troubling news? "Ah yes, probably the second most unpopular man in the North, after Ramsay Bolton," he mused, stroking his beard in contemplation.
"Why?" Sansa inquired, her curiosity piqued.
"He has been allowing the wildlings to settle south of the Wall, for some unfathomable reason. Although it provided me with an excellent excuse to assist Lord Ramsay," Littlefinger explained, his smile returning.
Sansa couldn't help but wonder how Littlefinger was able to convince Ramsay that the approaching forces were there to aid him. If Ramsay could fend off Stannis, why would he fear any rebellion from his fellow Northerners?
The answer was now clear—her own brother, Jon, served as the pretext for Littlefinger's northern expedition. But Sansa desired more insight.
"What does he think Jon is going to do with the wildlings?" she probed further.
"You know as much as I, sweetling. But the duty of the Warden of the North is to protect the Northerners, and if the wildlings cause trouble, Ramsay will use this as an excuse to go to war with them. The Vale knights are what he needs to ensure the wildlings are wiped out." Littlefinger explained.
As the discussion unfolded, the tent flap was abruptly lifted, admitting a rush of cold wind and the entrance of Sansa's husband, Harry, along with Bronze Yohn Royce and Lyn Corbray. The flap was swiftly closed behind them, and the men took their seats, exchanging greetings.
Harry, despite kissing the back of Sansa's hand and settling beside her, bore a sour mood—a lingering resentment stemming from her refusal to share his bed since their departure from Runestone. Sansa couldn't help but feel a surge of relief as she recalled how he had feigned sleep before slipping away to share a cot with one of the camp followers, sparing her the discomfort of his presence.
Sansa harboured no feelings of jealousy, despite societal expectations dictating otherwise. As Harry's wife, she should have felt aggrieved by his infidelity, viewing it as a dishonour upon her name. Yet she found herself strangely indifferent to his dalliances. War had a way of reshaping priorities, rendering frivolous concerns insignificant.
That was the justification she offered, at least. In truth, she had no desire to fulfil her wifely duties, fearing the prospect of bearing a child amidst the chaos of conflict. Fortunately, her moonblood had only ceased three days prior, meaning she was not yet carrying a child.
With breakfast consumed and plates cleared, the assembly turned their attention to more pressing matters. Harry's inquiry about the Stark banner above the tent prompted Littlefinger to divulge the latest developments. "Last night, I received a raven," he began, his tone grave. "Ramsay knows Lady Sansa is among us. He has declared war. We are to ride to Winterfell within the hour. We should reach the castle within five days."
Concerns about the progress of the cavalrymen were raised by Lyn Corbray, prompting Lord Royce to address the issue. "They will arrive when we do, although they will be kept hidden from view. Should Ramsay get wind of their presence..." he trailed off, leaving the implication clear.
Littlefinger interjected with a reassuring smile. "I have made contingencies, Lord Royce. Ravens are being scrutinised by the Winterfell maester. Another man on the inside is assisting with such measures. I have also taken extra steps to ensure nobody will let Lord Bolton know of the existence of the Vale forces coming from the south. I have already sent men to protect our... interests."
Sansa was all too aware of Littlefinger's ruthless methods to safeguard his interests. Anyone who caught sight of the approaching knights and hastened north would meet a grisly fate before ever reaching Winterfell. Despite understanding the necessity of silencing potential informants, the notion left her feeling queasy, knowing all too well that it could very well be innocent children who unwittingly relayed the message to Ramsay.
As the discussion turned to battle strategy, Sansa struggled to focus, her weariness clouding her thoughts. The revelation of Jon's decision to permit the wildlings through the Wall only deepened her anxieties, particularly after the ominous dream she had, foretelling her brother's demise. Beside her, Harry stifled a yawn, drawing attention from Littlefinger.
"Are we keeping you awake, Ser Harry?" Littlefinger interjected, breaking Sansa's reverie.
"My dear wife woke me, something about the bastard Lord Commander of the Night's Watch," Harry replied with a yawn. "Didn't sleep after that."
Sansa shot Harry a disdainful glance, her disgust palpable. The others in the tent chuckled, likely assuming the newly weds were preoccupied with marital affairs. However, Sansa knew Littlefinger was well aware of Harry's nocturnal activities, given that he provided the camp followers from his brothel in Gulltown.
Sansa recognized this as the opportune moment to address her concerns regarding Jon's welfare. She intertwined her fingers and turned to Lord Baelish. "Lord Baelish, I was considering if I might be the one to reach out to my brother regarding the wildling situation. Once we reclaim Winterfell, this issue is likely to become paramount, and swift action could garner significant support in the north. As his sister, I understand him and believe I can appeal to his conscience. The Umbers have aligned with Ramsay due to their disagreement with my brother's choices. Perhaps I could persuade him to reconsider. If I could correspond with him now, we might regain favour with some northern lords." She proposed.
"Lady Sansa raises a valid point." Lord Royce concurred.
Littlefinger offered a smile. "Lady Sansa, I had hoped you would wish to address the wildling predicament with the Lord Commander. However, it must wait until Winterfell is under our control. The weather grows more unpredictable, and we require every raven for our war efforts. I have none to spare at present. But I assure you, it will be among your foremost tasks upon our arrival." He reassured, his smile masking Sansa's feelings of sickness and indignation at his dismissal.
Two moons had passed since Sansa and Harry were wed. Within a sennight of their wedding, they departed the Gates of the Moon, ready to take back Winterfell from the Boltons. Their journey had led them to Runestone before setting sail for White Harbor to rendezvous with Wynafryd Manderly.
Lord Baelish, ever the schemer, had deliberately kept Sansa in the shadows concerning certain aspects of their campaign, deeming it unnecessary to burden her gentle mind. What little she grasped was the overarching objective: to reclaim Winterfell and rescue Arya and Rickon from the clutches of their foes.
Sansa had known Ramsay was aware of their approach, and had been led to believe Lord Baelish was coming to his aide, but Sansa knew nothing more of that, until three days ago, where she had discovered Jon had let the wildlings through the wall, and her own brother was all the excuse Littlefinger needed.
The Vale forces stood logistically divided, with Littlefinger meticulously devising strategies for every eventuality. Whether infiltrating Winterfell to undermine Ramsay Bolton from within, or preparing for outright conflict. Ever since Sansa's discovery was made, the realization dawned that battle was inevitable. Sansa, feigning disinterest, immersed herself in the discussions, albeit discreetly and with minimal contribution.
The bright yellow strategy tent was now called the War Tent. It bore witness to minor alterations, marked chiefly by its relocation and the addition of two more braziers to stave off the encroaching chill of winter and maps of the area surrounding Winterfell.
The one aspect of the discussion Sansa would have been of some use, but being a woman, rendered her voice unheard. Gathered within the tent, were all the assembled commanders, save for Lord Benedar Belmore, who was riding north via Moat Cailin with the clandestine cavalry.
Despite his lack of martial prowess, Littlefinger, who was acting Lord Protector of the Vale, presided over the meetings, with Sansa Stark invariably seated at his right hand. Though her understanding of warfare was scant, her diligent attention granted her insights into the intricacies of their plans with each passing day.
To the left of Lord Baelish, Bronze Yohn Royce, the imposing commander of the Vale troops, held court. Towering like the Hound, his portly figure belied a commanding presence, his weathered face etched with experience, framed by slate-grey eyes and bushy eyebrows. His voice resonated through the tent, carrying the weight of authority. Despite his formidable demeanour, Sansa found solace in his presence, reminiscent of the father figure she had lost with the passing of Ned Stark three years prior.
Beside Lord Royce sat Ser Symond Templeton, his piercing blue eyes and prominent beaked nose giving him an air of severity. As the Knight of the Ninestars and head of House Templeton, he stood second in command under Lord Benedar Belmore. Following the finalisation of today's battle plans, he would depart to relay crucial formations to the troops marching north, ensuring their precise deployment.
Next to Ser Symond was Ser Lyn Corbray, a striking figure with shoulder-length dark locks. Though many presumed discord between him and Littlefinger, Sansa recognized him as one of Littlefinger's trusted confidants. Officially tasked with providing additional insights, Sansa harboured suspicions of more clandestine motives behind his presence, though the exact nature eluded her.
Seated to Sansa's right was her husband, Ser Harrold Hardyng. Tall and handsome with sandy blonde hair, deep blue eyes, and charming dimples, he possessed an allure that would captivate most women. Yet, Sansa could not ignore the true nature of his character, revealed during their time in the Vale when he believed her to be the bastard Alayne Stone. His treatment of her tarnished any superficial charm, rendering him unattractive in her eyes. No amount of dimples could redeem his actions.
In their early days of marriage, Harry attempted reconciliation, but for Sansa, the wounds ran too deep. He failed to see Sansa Stark; instead, all he beheld in her was Winterfell. His attempts at intimacy only reminded her of the home she longed to reclaim.
Beside Harry stood the stout figure of Ser Donnel Waynwood, his brown hair contrasting with his stocky frame. Son of the formidable Lady Anya Waynwood, matriarch of House Waynwood, Ser Donnel commanded the five thousand troops stationed near the White Knife river, with Harry being his second in command.
With the battle looming just two days away, this gathering marked their final preparations. Ser Symond was slated to depart southward to join the secondary troops under Lord Benedar, currently encamped five miles south of Castle Cerwyn.
Having swapped places with Lord Baelish, Bronze Yohn Royce stood tall at the head of the strategy tent, his presence commanding attention from the gathered commanders.
"Gentlemen." Lord Royce began, his voice steady and authoritative. "We stand on the precipice of war. Time is of the essence, and we must ensure every aspect of our strategy is meticulously planned."
Donnel Waynwood, his brow furrowed in thought, spoke up first. "My lord, our archers are our greatest strength. With nearly fifteen hundred skilled bowmen at our disposal, we have the power to rain death upon Ramsay's forces before they even reach our lines."
Bronze Yohn nodded in agreement. "Indeed, Donnel. We shall position our archers strategically, using their ranged attacks to soften the enemy's ranks before our footmen and knights engage them directly."
Symond Templeton, his expression grave, added, "My lord, our forces to the south, under Lord Belmore's command are poised to strike at Ramsay's flank from the south-west. They await further orders, ready to move at a moment's notice."
Bronze Yohn Royce surveyed the map spread out before him, his brow furrowed in contemplation. "Symond," he began, turning to his trusted advisor, "As I suggested yesterday, I want to finalise our strategy for deploying Lord Belmore's covert troops near Winterfell."
Symond Templeton leaned forward, his gaze meeting Bronze Yohn's with a sense of readiness. "Of course, my Lord, I remember your request."
Bronze Yohn gestured to the map, pointing to the position of Winterfell and the surrounding terrain. "We know that Ramsay's forces will probably be concentrated around Winterfell itself." He explained. "We need to disrupt their movements and prevent them from retreating or reinforcing their position. Have you come up with any suitable solutions?"
Symond nodded. He understood the importance of controlling the battlefield and limiting the enemy's options. "I propose we split Lord Belmore's troops into two groups," he suggested, picking up two purple markers and placing them over the Wolfswood on the map. "One group will join the main battle, bolstering our forces and adding to the pressure on Ramsay's front lines." He pushed one marker to the battlefield. "The other group will position themselves between the ongoing battle and Winterfell, effectively cutting off any potential retreat route for the enemy." Symond pushed the other purple marker to the entrance of Hunters Gate.
Bronze Yohn considered Symond's proposal carefully, weighing the risks and benefits of such a manoeuvrer "It's a bold plan." He admitted, "But it could give us a decisive advantage on the battlefield. By blocking their retreat, we force Ramsay's forces to fight to the bitter end, with no hope of escape."
Symond nodded, his confidence unwavering. "Exactly, my lord. It's a calculated risk, but one that could pay off handsomely if executed correctly."
Bronze Yohn studied Symond for a moment, impressed by his strategic insight and tactical acumen. "Very well," he conceded, "let's proceed with your plan. Make sure Lord Belmore understands the importance of his role in this operation."
Symond bowed respectfully. "I will see to it myself, My Lord. Lord Belmore and his troops will be ready to execute their orders with precision."
"Excellent." Bronze Yohn replied, impressed by the efficiency of their preparations. "We shall keep our covert forces hidden in the Wolfswood until the opportune moment, then unleash them upon Ramsay's unsuspecting troops."
Ser Lyn Corbray, his eyes scanning the map spread out before them, spoke next. "My lord, the terrain around Winterfell is treacherous. We must be wary of any traps or ambushes that Ramsay may have set."
Bronze Yohn nodded in agreement. "Indeed, Ser Lyn. We shall send scouts ahead to assess the terrain and report back to us and send a raven, if need be, to Lord Belmore, with any potential dangers."
"Of course, my Lord." Ser Lyn nodded.
Bronze Yohn Royce, his voice a steady baritone, addressed the assembly. "Now, onto our strategy. Donnel, what are your thoughts on our formation?"
Donnel Waynwood, his demeanour resolute, replied, "My lord, I propose we maintain a solid defensive formation with our infantry holding the centre. We can utilise natural obstacles to our advantage and create choke points to funnel Ramsay's forces."
"A prudent approach, Donnel," Bronze Yohn acknowledged with a nod. "We'll need to weather Ramsay's initial assault and wait for the right moment to counterattack. Ser Harrold, do you have any suggestions for Ser Donnel's cavalry?"
"My lord, I recommend we keep as many of our cavalry reserves hidden until the opportune moment. Once Ramsay's forces are engaged, we can strike from the flanks and rear, disrupting their formations and causing chaos. Does he know our numbers?" Harry asked.
"I did not give him any firm numbers." Littlefinger offered. "Although he will question why most of the legendary Knights of the Vale are on foot, rather than horseback."
"Why would the Knights of the Vale send their best horse to fight wildlings?" Ser Lyn asked. "We would send mainly archers and swords. I agree with Ser Harrold, keep two hundred mounts in the Wolfswood, they can join the secondary cavalry, and attack the flanks."
"A sound plan, Ser Lyn," Bronze Yohn affirmed. "We'll use our cavalry to exploit any weaknesses in Ramsay's defences." Lord Royce turned his gaze to Littlefinger. "My Lord Baelish, have your spies uncovered any valuable intelligence?"
Littlefinger, ever the master of whispers, leaned forward. "My lord, our informants within Winterfell have reported unrest among Ramsay's ranks. Some of his men are questioning his leadership, which could work to our advantage."
"Good to know," Bronze Yohn remarked. "We'll need to capitalise on any dissent within Ramsay's forces. Symond, ensure Lord Belmore is aware of this development."
Symond Templeton, his expression solemn, nodded in agreement. "I'll make sure they're briefed, my lord. We must watch for any signs of his men turning against him."
"Excellent," Bronze Yohn concluded, his tone resolute. "Let's finalise our preparations and ensure our troops are ready for the coming battle. We have a long road ahead, but together, we will emerge victorious and reclaim Winterfell for House Stark." They turned to Sansa and raised their goblets of wine in her honour.
Sansa stood and smiled. "To house Stark."