The dawn of battle cast its ominous shadow over the frigid landscape of the North, where snowflakes, though withheld for the moment, threatened to cloak the earth once more.
Sansa Stark, accompanied by Littlefinger and the Knights of the Vale, had set camp a prudent distance, of about a quarter of a mile from the impending conflict, stationed atop a nearby hill that afforded them a vantage point to witness the unfolding carnage.
Outside the confines of Sansa and Harry's tent, the muddy expanse of the field, filled with tents of varying colours, lay silent, a prelude to the impending clash of steel and blood. Their colours tinged with the early morning mist, which hung in the air like a translucent veil.
Sansa remained ensconced within hers and Harry's tent. Though the telltale signs of Harry's imminent departure tainting the atmosphere inside. Throughout the restless night prior, Sansa's mind had churned with worry, her feigned slumber a facade crafted to conceal her fears from her husband's gaze, although it was not for his welfare.
As Harry stole away into the night, seeking solace in the company of camp followers provided by Littlefinger, Sansa could not fault him, for she herself had rebuffed his advances, leaving him to seek comfort elsewhere.
Yet amidst her own anxieties for the impending battle, her thoughts strayed to her siblings, most notably Jon. In the recesses of her mind, she clung to the hope that Ramsay's grip upon Arya was not one of imminent danger, and she dared to entertain the possibility that Rickon remained beyond the clutches of their tormentor.
However, it was Jon whose absence weighed heaviest upon her heart, his inspiration a beacon of strength during her trials in the Vale. With a pang of remorse, she longed to express her gratitude and seek forgiveness for her past indifference.
If fate had indeed claimed him, she resolved to honour his memory by bringing his remains to rest within the hallowed crypts of Winterfell, where he would forever be enshrined as a true Stark.
Despite the tumult of her thoughts, Sansa recognized the need to marshal her focus upon the present.
Dutifully, she assisted Harry in donning his armour, a task that might have been more aptly undertaken by his squire. Yet as his wife, regardless of their lack of feelings for one another, Sansa deemed it her obligation to stand by his side, offering him a favour emblazoned with the sigil of his house. A token of her unwavering support, despite the likely indifference it would elicit. And considering his nightly liaisons, it was unlikely to be the first one he had received.
"You're doing it all wrong." Harry grumbled, his dissatisfaction on show, as Sansa secured the buckle of his left pauldron.
Sansa, her patience wearing thin, placed her hands firmly on her hips. "I am merely following your instructions."
"The left buckle should be one notch looser than the right." Harry retorted, his tone tinged with annoyance.
"You never mentioned that." Sansa countered, frustration bubbling beneath her composed exterior.
"You never asked." Harry shot back, his words laced with exasperation.
Sansa fought the urge to unleash a torrent of curses upon her husband. Harry's obstinacy grated on her nerves, and she couldn't help but fear that if he emerged unscathed from the battle, he would boast of single-handedly securing victory. Yet, she must behave like a Lady, for in a few hours, she was likely to become the Lady of Winterfell. Therefore, she kept her tongue.
"I'll summon your squire," Sansa declared tersely, turning to exit the tent. Before she could depart, however, the tent flap parted, admitting the unexpected presence of Lord Baelish.
"My Lord," Sansa greeted with a respectful nod, momentarily setting aside her vexation.
"Lord Baelish." Harry acknowledged, his tone more composed in the presence of the influential nobleman. "What brings you here?"
"Word has reached me regarding the intentions of our allies within Winterfell." Lord Baelish began. "Lord Wyman Manderly, Lord Arnolf Karstark, and Lady Barbrey Dustin have pledged the support of around a thousand soldiers to the Bolton cause. Initially, they will position themselves among the archers, a mere fifty from these houses. However, the bulk of their forces will be scattered throughout the vanguard and cavalry. Their plan is to turn on Ramsay once the chaos of battle ensues."
Littlefinger passed a parchment to Harry, who scrutinized its contents with a furrowed brow.
"They intend to betray Ramsay as soon as the shield wall is formed?" Harry's scepticism was palpable as he regarded the letter. "Can we truly rely on these individuals and these battle plans?"
"They each have their motivations for desiring Ramsay's demise." Littlefinger interjected, his gaze shifting to Sansa. "I suspect the Karstarks hope for your influence over your half-brother regarding the matter of the wildlings. It's rumoured that Jon has earmarked lands in the Gift for them. Ramsay cannot afford to provoke conflict with the Night's Watch. Even Cersei understands that reality. Should Ramsay defy this understanding, he risks not only his title but Winterfell itself. The northern Lords would turn upon Lord Bolton, even if they are angry with Lord Commander Snow."
Harry mulled over Littlefinger's words, a contemplative expression gracing his features. "So, we refrain from harming our newfound allies?" he inquired, seeking clarification.
"I would prefer that they remain unharmed." Littlefinger affirmed with a nod. "Sansa, are you prepared to accompany me? Your horse awaits, and it is time we took our positions atop the hill to observe the battle."
Harry's dissatisfaction surfaced once more, as he grumbled about Sansa's help. "Can you send for my squire? Sansa's efforts are proving inadequate."
"Of course." Littlefinger agreed with a placating nod. "I wish you good fortune, Ser Harrold."
The smile on Harry's face never quite reached his eyes. "Thank you, Lord Baelish."
Sansa extended her token to Harry, who accepted it without acknowledgment. "May fortune favour you in the coming battle, my dear husband." She offered with a kiss upon his cheek. Without waiting for a response, she took Lord Baelish outstretched hand, and exited the tent, her resolve unyielding despite the cold dismissal from her spouse.
Upon cresting the hill, where Sansa, Lord Baelish, and Lord Royce stood poised to observe the unfolding conflict, Sansa's gaze fell upon Winterfell for the first time in four years. A pang of nostalgia gripped her heart as the turrets emerged from the morning mist, piercing through the veil of memory. With the dissipating shroud revealing her childhood home in its entirety, Sansa couldn't suppress the lump that formed in her throat.
From their vantage point, Sansa discerned little change in the castle's structure, save for the ominous presence of pink flayed men banners billowing against the sombre grey stone. Even from a distance of a quarter mile, they stood out starkly, their symbolism as chilling as ever.
The landscape, however, bore the unmistakable signs of seasonal transition. Where once green fields, now lay blanketed in a delicate layer of snow, extending even into the depths of the wolfswood. Alongside the snow, a biting wind swept across the land, tugging at Sansa's neatly braided hair and sending tendrils of it dancing in the air. She instinctively pulled her cloak tighter around her body, a futile attempt to ward off the chill that reddened her cheeks and caused her eyes to water against the frigid onslaught.
Though the wintry conditions might have favoured Ramsay, knowledge of disloyal northern lords within his ranks shifted the balance of power. Their readiness to betray him lent an unexpected advantage to their adversaries, despite their lack of experience in snowbound warfare.
As the two armies manoeuvred into position, adhering to the meticulously crafted battle plans, Sansa remained acutely aware of the unfolding strategy. Unbeknownst to Ramsay, Lord Baelish possessed a dossier containing every iteration of the battle plans devised over the past week, courtesy of an anonymous informant within the castle walls. The identity of this informant remained shrouded in secrecy, even from Sansa herself.
In her peripheral vision, Sansa caught sight of Lyn Corbray approaching astride his chestnut destrier. His task was to assess the terrain, scout for potential traps, and await the signal from the secondary troops.
As Corbray engaged in muted conversation with Littlefinger and Lord Royce. Sansa recognised the significance of his report: the confirmation of trap locations and the positioning of the secondary unit within the wolfswood. Ordinarily, Sansa would have been inclined to eavesdrop, but her attention was drawn to a curious sight upon the field.
Four carts traversed the battlefield, each drawn by a solitary horse and accompanied by two soldiers. Their cargo remained obscured from Sansa's view until the first cart came to a halt, revealing its gruesome burden.
The soldiers dismounted with practised efficiency, extracting their grim cargo from the recesses of the carts and erecting them upright upon the field. Each wooden structure bore a striking resemblance to the sigil of House Bolton, save for the absence of the flayed man—until, suddenly, it wasn't.
Hidden beneath the facade of these crosses lay the lifeless bodies of men, their dignity stripped away as they were hoisted upside-down and affixed to the wooden frames. As if this indignity were not enough, the corpses were then engulfed in flames, transforming the macabre scene into a spectacle of horror.
Within the span of mere minutes, four flaming crosses, each adorned with a grotesque effigy of death, illuminated the battlefield with their ghastly glow. Sansa turned to find Littlefinger, Lord Royce, and Ser Lyn engaged in a sombre discussion, their expressions betraying a shared understanding of the significance of this grim display.
Sansa's intuition whispered of a deeper purpose behind these morbid markers. They were not merely for show; they served as ground markers, likely pointing out the locations of hidden traps strewn across the battlefield. She moved to convey her suspicions to Lord Baelish, but before she could utter a word, Ser Lyn's gesture confirmed her hunch—Littlefinger was already privy to the locations of the traps, further simplifying their impending endeavour.
Sansa had never witnessed the brutal dance of warfare. But now she found herself entranced by the unfolding spectacle. Despite the sombre awareness of the impending carnage, she couldn't help but be drawn to the intricate manoeuvres playing out before her. The process of the soldiers gathering in their formations stretched longer than she anticipated, each passing moment adding to the tension that hung heavy in the air. Three agonizing hours slipped by before both armies stood poised for the clash ahead.
From her elevated position, Sansa surveyed the scene below, her gaze sweeping over the field with a mix of apprehension and calculation. Ramsay's forces seemed to hold all the advantages: numerical superiority, the strategic advantage of the hill, and the safety of Winterfell as a fallback position. Yet, nestled within her understanding was the realization that appearances could be deceiving.
Ramsay, no stranger to the art of war, would not be easily swayed by superficial advantages. Though Littlefinger had attempted to cloak the true strength of their forces in secrecy, Sansa knew that Ramsay's keen eye would have discerned the subtle signs of additional troops hidden amidst the landscape. The Knights of the Vale were no mere afterthought; they were a calculated gamble, a carefully concealed ace waiting to be played. For Ramsay would have knowledge of the cavalry which arrived at White Harbor. By hiding them in the woods, they were masking the troops who had ridden north through the Neck.
As the final pieces of the intricate puzzle fell into place, Sansa observed the departure of Lyn Corbray, leaving behind a host brimming with anticipation and apprehension. Harry the Heir, reluctantly thrust into the forefront, led the vanguard with a mixture of determination and resentment. Meanwhile, Donnel Waynwood, Symond Templeton, and Lord Benedar Belmore lay in wait within the depths of the wolfswood, their presence a silent promise of impending doom for the unwary.
Ser Lyn seamlessly integrated himself among the ranks of archers, his keen eyes scanning the field for any sign of movement. He awaited the signal from Harry, poised to unleash a deadly volley upon the enemy lines. Yet fate had other plans in store.
A path cleared amidst the Bolton ranks, drawing Sansa's attention. At first, obscured from view, the sight that greeted her chilled her to the core. A young boy, his distinctive mop of copper curls unmistakable even from a distance, was being dragged forward, bound by a rope. Sansa's heart seized in her chest as realization dawned—it was her brother, Rickon. Panic clawed at her, her hand flying to her mouth, a futile attempt to stifle the scream that threatened to escape.
"He's just a child." She whispered, her voice trembling with desperation. "Please, don't let him harm my brother."
Turning to Littlefinger, her eyes pleaded for action, for some semblance of hope amidst the impending despair. But his response, though measured, offered little comfort.
"It's a trap, sweetling." He cautioned, his voice tinged with false regret.
Beside him, Lord Royce offered a sympathetic smile, his expression mirroring the anguish etched upon Sansa's face.
"We cannot afford to abandon our strategy." He explained gently. "As much as it pains me to say, rushing headlong into Ramsay's snare would mean certain death for us all."
Sansa's resolve wavered, torn between the fierce desire to save her brother and the grim reality of their situation. With a heavy heart, she nodded in reluctant agreement, swallowing back the tears that threatened to overwhelm her.
"I'm sorry, Rickon." She whispered to herself. "I love you."
The echoes of her father's execution had long haunted Sansa's nightmares, a harrowing vision of cruelty and injustice that she believed to be the pinnacle of horror. But as she bore witness to the events unfolding before her now, she realised the depths of her naivety. Ramsay's sadistic display, orchestrated with calculated precision, shattered any illusion of humanity she had left.
Her brother's desperate flight towards safety, the taunting arrows that whistled past with deliberate inaccuracy—all part of Ramsay's macabre game, designed to provoke a response, to test the resolve of his adversaries. Yet, faced with such blatant manipulation, the Knights of the Vale remained resolute, their ranks unbroken by the cruel whims of their enemy.
With each agonizing step Rickon took, Sansa's heart clenched with a mixture of dread and despair. She knew, deep down, that his chances of survival grew slimmer with every passing moment, yet hope flickered stubbornly within her breast. But hope, as fragile as it was, proved no match for Ramsay's twisted machinations.
As her brother fell, a final, anguished cry tearing from his lips, Sansa's world fractured irreparably. Memories of happier times flooded her mind—of laughter and innocence, of a brother taken too soon by the merciless hand of fate. The weight of her grief threatened to crush her, a relentless tide of sorrow that threatened to consume her whole.
But amidst the suffocating despair, Sansa found a sliver of resolve, a flicker of determination that burned bright within her soul. For Arya, still trapped within the clutches of their tormentor, she would steel herself. She would swallow back her tears, banish the echoes of her brother's cries, and face the horrors that awaited with a newfound strength—one born not of vengeance, but of unwavering determination.
As the horn sounded, heralding the onset of battle, Sansa watched with eyes blazing with a fury that surpassed even her hatred of Joffrey. Blind hatred coursed through her veins, a searing torrent of rage and despair that threatened to consume her whole. But amidst the chaos and bloodshed, one thing remained clear—she would not rest until justice had been served, until her sister was safe once more, and Ramsay Bolton was dead.
The air was thick with the acrid scent of smoke and blood, the din of thousands of horses charging at one another was deafening. As the Vale cavalry thundered forward, their horses' hooves kicking up clouds of the powdery snow, forming faint mist-like trails behind them. Sansa felt a surge of hope swell within her. They were outnumbered, but their courage was unmatched. Arrows rained down upon them from all sides, the sky darkened by their deadly descent. But still they pressed on, undeterred by the onslaught.
The sound of galloping hooves grew louder, as Ramsay Bolton's own cavalry charged forth to meet them. Sansa's heart clenched in fear as she watched the two forces collide with a deafening crash. Swords flashed in the sunlight, glinting like silver as they clashed in a deadly dance of steel.
Ramsay appeared to have a larger cavalry, but good archers could take some of those men down, although the Bolton forces could do the same. Although Sansa couldn't hear the commands, she knew both Ramsay and Ser Lyn, were calling the words nock, draw, loose. The archers letting loose a rain of arrows, sharp enough to pierce armour.
As the cavalries met, horses dropped to the ground, throwing their riders. Arrows pierced uncovered parts of the bodies. Two of the Vale cavalry fell into one of Ramsay's traps, killing both horses and their riders. To Sansa's untrained eye, the battlefield looked like chaos. The Vale archers stopped shooting, as they were just as likely to kill their own men, or so Lord Royce explained.
Sansa could hear the distant shouts and cries of men, the clash of steel against steel echoing across the field
The Lord of Runestone tried to talk Sansa through the battle as it unfolded, but she couldn't see how he could discern which men belonged to which side, especially when they were covered in blood and mud. The only thing she knew was going to happen, and that was the shield wall, where they intended to surround the Knights of the Vale.
As the thunderous clash of hooves subsided, the battlefield was engulfed in a tense silence, broken only by the heavy footfalls of marching soldiers. Sansa's heart raced as she watched the foot soldiers of both sides converge, their shields held high as they formed a formidable wall of steel.
The ground beneath her trembled with the weight of their advance, sending shivers down her spine. She could feel the tension in the air thickening, a palpable sense of anticipation hanging over the battlefield like a dark cloud.
With a resounding clash, the two shield walls collided, the impact sending shockwaves rippling through the earth. The sound was deafening, a cacophony of shouts and screams mingling with the clash of weapons as men fought tooth and nail for every inch of ground.
Sansa watched in horror as the melee unfolded before her, her stomach churning with a mixture of fear and dread. The soldiers fought with a ferocity born of desperation, their faces twisted in grimaces of pain and determination.
But amidst the chaos, there were moments of bravery and heroism. Knights of the Vale, clad in shining armour, led the charge, their swords flashing in the sunlight as they cleaved through the ranks of their enemies with ease.
But for every victory, there was a price to be paid. The ground was littered with the bodies of the fallen, their blood staining the earth and trodden-in slush, crimson as the battle raged on around them. Sansa felt a pang of sorrow grip her heart as she watched the carnage unfold, knowing that many would not live to see another day.
Lord Royce's almost-smile did not go unnoticed by Sansa, who strained to hear his words amidst the chaos of battle. His fascination with the unfolding events hinted at a shift in the tide, a turning point that could spell victory for their cause.
As Lord Royce spoke, Sansa's heart quickened with hope. They had turned on him; he said. Sansa's gaze darted to Lord Baelish, who stood tall and resolute amidst the turmoil. She wondered what thoughts churned behind his calculating eyes, but there was no time for contemplation.
The horn sounded, its mournful cry cutting through the clamour of battle. Sansa's breath caught in her throat as Lord Royce blew on it once, signalling the arrival of the remaining cavalry. Two blasts meant they were to head to the rear of Ramsay's forces, cutting off his retreat and sealing his fate.
With bated breath, Sansa watched as the wolfswood came alive with the glint of steel and the thunder of hooves. Ser Donnel Waynwood, his green shield emblazoned with a broken wheel, stood out among the ranks, leading the charge with a determination that mirrored Sansa's own.
The sight of the cavalry, their armour gleaming in the harsh sunlight, filled Sansa with a renewed sense of hope. They rode with a fierce determination, their loyalty to House Arryn clear in every stride of their steeds.
As they thundered forward, Sansa felt a surge of adrenaline course through her veins. This was the moment they had been waiting for. The chance to turn the tide of battle in their favour.
Lord Royce raised the horn to his lips once more, but this time it was two blasts that resounded across the battlefield. Sansa's heart swelled with a mixture of relief and anticipation as she watched more armoured men emerge from the depths of the wolfswood, riding towards the Hunters Gate. "We're winning," she thought, a glimmer of hope kindling within her.
Ramsay had spotted them. He turned his horse around and spurred it towards the safety of the castle walls, his retreat swift and calculated. Sansa's breath caught in her throat as she realised he hadn't even fought on the battlefield, opting instead for a cowardly escape surrounded by a mere handful of soldiers.
Turning to Littlefinger, Sansa's panic threatened to overwhelm her, but a small smile crossed his lips, his eyes betraying a flicker of satisfaction. He leaned in close, his voice low and conspiratorial. "Lady Dustin's men continued to fight for Ramsay, just in case such a situation should come to pass. The men accompanying him now are Dustin men," he explained, his words sending a chill down Sansa's spine. "They are the ones who will turn on him once inside the castle and open the gates for us."
Sansa's gaze flickered to Lord Royce, who smiled and nodded, confirming Littlefinger's words. But his next words sent a shiver of dread coursing through her veins. "It won't happen immediately though, sweetling," Littlefinger cautioned. Arya was inside the castle with Ramsay, vulnerable and at his mercy. He'd kill her before they could intervene.
"We must go, now." Sansa insisted, her voice trembling with urgency. "He's got Arya." The weight of her sister's fate hung heavy in the air, driving Sansa forward with a fierce determination to rescue her before it was too late.
Petyr Baelish's mind churned with calculated precision as he watched the chaos unfold. He knew all too well that Arya Stark was not within the castle walls. Instead, she had been replaced by Sansa's childhood friend, Jeyne Poole. He harboured no affection for the girl, in fact she could become a problem for him, should she still be living. Instead, he preferred to let Ramsay Bolton's cruelty bring about her demise before they made their move.
"The battle is nearly won. It won't be long, Lady Sansa." Lord Royce declared, a note of triumph ringing in his voice as the gates to Winterfell finally creaked open. His smile spoke volumes, a silent acknowledgment of their impending victory.
Sansa had waited patiently on her horse for what felt like an eternity, her gaze fixed on the castle gates as she braced herself for the moment of reckoning. With a sense of resolve that belied her years, she turned her dapple grey mare and began the journey towards Winterfell, flanked by Lord Baelish and Lord Royce.
Winterfell was hers.