A/N: BRuh4: This was one of the first chapters that were a real joy for us to write. In fact these next three are awesome. Realize that this story is now rated Explicit on Ao3, it will be treated as such. Those of you that had problems reading chapter 3 should be especially aware of this. I'm preparing you ahead of time.
Anyways, I do hope you think this one. It's a goodie.
Longclaw: Hey guys. This is a big chapter for Jon's development and the beginning of the three part War for the North. Gonna try something a bit different with Ramsay coming up, and I hope you enjoy it :D
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Chapter 6: Blizzard
The Winterfell War Room hadn't been used for its named purpose in centuries. Perhaps the Dance of Dragons, perhaps all the way back to Aegon's Conquest when Torrhen Stark planned the ultimately futile defense against the Targaryens. Piled with books and chairs, it mostly served as an informal audience room for the Stark Wardens in the interim.
Now, with the Flayed Man having evicted the Direwolf, the War Room was back to being used for war. "So Stannis has arrived on the main road from Castle Black," Locke said, pointing to a line of Stag figurines in the Gift. "Apparently his trip north of the Wall was a success. He's got about four thousand wildling warriors with him."
Muffled curses came from those huddled around the table. "Fuck. That's basically doubling his fucking army!" Steelshanks Walton was not happy.
"They're just wildlings. Basically food for the dogs against Bolton hoplites," Ramsay retorted, arms crossed over his chest. "Have any Northern houses declared for him and Jon Snow?" No one dared acknowledge Ned Stark's bastard son's legitimacy in Winterfell. A squire slipped up once - one night with Ramsay and Myranda later, his flayed corpse in the courtyard served as a clear message.
"Some, my Lord," replied Locke, rearranging several markers atop the map table. At the head, Roose Bolton scowled. "House Mormont, along with Mazin, Hornwood, and the Mountain Clans. Altogether, about 660 men in total. All foot."
Chuckles came from around the table. "That's it?!" Harald Karstark laughed. "Jon Snow means to claim the North with that?!" Robb Stark's execution of Rickard Karstark was not forgotten in the North - The North Remembers. House Karstark stood with House Bolton… the only one that did so. "Still, I wished we could have some more reinforcements. Smalljon Umber declined my requests, as did the Manderlys. Latter just wants to stay out of it, while the Umbers know that Stannis could just as easily sack Last Hearth on his way to Winterfell. We aren't getting reinforcements."
"Neither are they," pointed out Walton. "We've still got the advantage."
"But I have a feeling the weather will be more of a problem for House Baratheon." Ramsay waived his hand over the table. "A blizzard is coming. One that would even bring a northern force to heel. He's gonna have to stop, and that gives us the advantage to strike first."
It was then that Roose spoke, quiet thus far during the session. "Are you asking me to give you a strong portion of our force, risking annihilation? Our best advantage is our numerical one, and I am not risking that just because you say you can take Stannis down with several thousand men."
A scoff. "I'm saying give me several dozen men in white coats. Stannis will be crippled before ten minutes tick by and we'll be long gone."
Roose, looking up from the map table, narrowed his eyes at his son. "Several dozen against Stannis Baratheon? The entirety of the Reach couldn't dispatch him during the Siege of Storm's End, and you're telling me several dozen will?"
"We are of the North, father." Ramsay's grin widened, taking a consistency of that of a hyena. "Let us give them a proper Northern welcome. Stannis rules the storms, but we rule the blizzards, and our blades are sharp."
A tempting idea - Roose couldn't deny he lusted to see a southern pretender humbled once more by the North - but… "Jon Snow is of the North, and he rides with Stannis." Still, it was too tempting. End Stannis' threat before the Stag King could arrive. "Be careful."
Ramsay only grinned evilly in response.
Since the dawn of time, honor demanded that before a battle, the opposing forces ride out to meet each other. Oftentimes a formality, likely that there will be a fight no matter what, but sometimes one side surrenders. Sometimes both sides accepted terms to settle the matter peaceably. Not true of the occasion before the forces assembled on that unseasonably snowy day in the north - neither side willing to give an inch.
In the vastness of the land before Winterfell, Stannis and his subordinates galloped out to already waiting Boltons. The only noise around being the thumping of the hooves, horses coming to rest across from the others. Each camp toting the corresponding flag of their house, whipping in the wind. Fresh snow falling from the sky, piling below them.
Winterfell behind them, the Boltons stayed quiet. Roose was out front, a solemn scowl adorning his face. Ramsay and Locke waited close behind him, a leering smirk gracing the former - he was enjoying himself. Harald Karstark looking on with a frown as he stood astride his horse with the bannermen and flag bearers.
A larger group for the Baratheons. Stannis, grimaced as always - leg bothering him greatly, though he did not intend to show it - along with Jon and Ser Davos nearest him. In the back of the pack being Tormund, Karsi, Melisandre, and Lord Arstan Selmy of Harvest Hall.
"Must be a strange feeling, bastard," Ramsay called out, glaring at Jon. He opened her arms, "To be home, Winterfell, to come all this to be starchly defeated by the same house that killed your brother. We Boltons are quite good at killing Starks… it seems. Not that you are one, really."
"Are you done?" Jon scoffed. "You question my legitimacy but you yourself are a bastard."
Ramsay leaned forward, eyes wide, "My legitimacy came with a royal decree. Not the false words of a false King."
"Enough!" Stannis raised his voice. "We've come to talk terms of your surrender."
"Surrender?" Roose chuckled, looking back to his men behind him. Soon they all laughed.
Stannis narrowed his eyes. "Is something funny?"
"And they say we Northerns are dull," Roose said, smirking.
Ser Davos cleared his throat to draw attention to himself, "It would be wise to surrender, less bloodshed."
"You think we Boltons are scared of a little blood?" Ramsay snorted, he turned and pointed to his banner. "We flay men. They hang from the ramparts. We are blood."
"You can slay plenty of men in my service," Stannis retorted. "Slay many Lannisters, the ones who killed your men during the last war. Pledge yourself to me," he looked back at Jon. "Pledge yourselves to Jon Stark as your leige lord and release Sansa Stark back to him, and you'll get the Dreadfort, plus your choosing of the spoils when I take Lannisport and Casterly Rock. When your wife births your child, I'll grant him or her Moat Cailin by my decree as an added incentive."
Generous terms, ones Stannis would not be likely to give in normal times - a seller's market for Roose Bolton. Jon knew they would reject them all - and the Boltons didn't disappoint. "We'll take our chances on the battlefield," Locke spoke up.
Jon's voice aired out, "Whether you like it or not, I'm a Stark now." His finger raised in the direction of Winterfell, "That's my home. The ancestral rest of my house, Stark. You have no claim to it. You wrested it from my brother dishonorably." He glared daggers at the Lord of the Dreadfort. "Roose Bolton, you murdered my brother, your King, at a wedding. You will die for that, hopefully by my own hand." His fist clenched, "Ramsay Snow, you've taken my sister against her will. Gods willing, I'll take your own life for that… The rest of you who stand with House Bolton will die with them. King Stannis' army is unparalleled to yours. My own blade won't be sated until all of you are dead." The words flowed from his tongue with a fury he didn't know he possessed. Nothing angered him more than thinking of how his family was slaughtered as he was powerless to stop it.
He was not powerless now.
As Jon spoke, no one dared interrupted as to not feel the flame of his words. Ser Davos stared at him as if he didn't know who he was looking at. Stannis looked proud, in his own way. Even Roose, remembering a glimpse of a shy, whipped dog of a bastard during his own pre-war visits to Winterfell, blinked in surprise.
Suddenly, the silence was broken with a cackling laugh. "A nice sentiment," Ramsay said. "To bad it won't come to fruition."
"It must if I say it will."
Stannis grumbled, "If you do not wish to surrender. Then we will meet you on the battlefield. Your defeat will be swift."
"I must disagree, Lord Baratheon," Roose said, defiant. "Till we meet again." He began to turn his horse around.
"The Night is Dark and Full of Terrors, Lord Bolton," Melisandre called out, smirk on her face as she guided her horse right between Jon and her King. Looking at her from over his shoulder, Roose couldn't help but feel a shudder course through him.
His sleep was restless, dreams slamming into his mind with the vicious power of a giant charge. Dark dreams, dreams of his family. His father Ned Stark, head falling from his body. Of his brother Robb, watching as his entire family and retinue was butchered in front of him before Roose Bolton slit his throat. Of his sister Sansa, being mercilessly tortured by the bastard of the Dreadfort. Their pained screams calling to Jon, berating him for not being there. For not protecting him.
And suddenly, the images changed to one unfamiliar. A dragon, colored the purest silver, roaring as winged demons surrounded her. Alone, begging for help. For another. As blackness surrounded the scene, Jon found himself wishing he could be the one answering the beast's call…
"ARRRRGGGHHHHH!"
Jon bolted out of bed into a literal nightmare. Orange-red glowed through his tent, a brilliant mosaic of color flowing in a fluid dance. On near instinct, grabbing Longclaw and racing outside, the beauty transformed into terror as he was brought face to face with the fire. The northern weather had picked up since he retired to his tent, now snow fell heavy from the sky. The flakes danced with red flames reaching up to the sky.
"My Lord!" it was Devan, his squire. "We're under attack!"
"I can fucking see that! Who?!" he finally asked, eyes wide and searching among the chaos - Baratheon bannermen scrambling every which way in a panicked frenzy.
"No one fucking knows!" The young man looked terrified, swordhand shaking. "It just happened out of nowhere!"
Running a hand through his hair, curly locks loose and wild, Jon spotted something odd - a virtue of keeping a clear, calm mind. While hundreds panicked, two men weren't. Clad in mere homespun cloaks, Jon spotted a flash of pure white underneath. Whitecloaks. Northern winter warriors… One man carried a torch, creeping towards the tents holding the siege weapons.
It clicked. "Raiders!" Jon hollard into the din, Longclaw drawn as he charged towards the raiders. Having just thrown the torch into the tent, the raider had just noticed the attacking lord when the blade hacked off his head. The other raised his axe to set upon Jon, but was instead set upon by the snarling white direwolf. A sharp jerk of Ghost's jaw ripped out the raider's throat, leaving him bleeding and gurgling upon the snow. A quick peek into the tent. The torch hadn't yet caught, but was close to some dry wood. "Fuck!" Jon spotted movement. "You two! Kick snow on that torch! Now!"
"Jon!" It was Davos, panting alongside his son. "What the fuck happened?! Half of our siege tents are ablaze and our horses are being butchered!"
"Boltons." Jon watched as Tormund, Karsi, and about two dozen wildling warriors arrived on scene. "The Northern way, harass and bushwhack until enemies turn back. Kept us independent until Aegon Targaryen."
"Kept the crows from fucking with us," added Tormund, axes in hand and eager to rip apart those that interrupted his sleep. "Cunts did their damage. Probably forming up somewhere on the edge of camp."
Jon couldn't fault Tormund's logic. "Davos, get bucket brigades to put out the fires! Karsi, go get Wun Wun and more warriors in case we need support." Twin nods. "Tormund, Devan, with me!" Ghost whined. A split second of levity that grounded Jon. "You too boy, let's go!"
Chaos still reigned within the Baratheon camp. Rule one of any raid - wreak havoc on certain, specific areas and then let the panic of one's foes turn it into a complete clusterfuck. And such was Ramsay's genius at work. Setting fires in the artillery tents, releasing the horses upon the camp. The chaos they brewed up only resulted in a maze of friendly fire incidents, usually involving the cavalry. Only enterprising efforts of the King and Ser Davos were able to control the insanity.
Work done to near perfection, the Bolton infiltrators gathered near the outskirts of the camp. Near a useless supply dump, one that the Baratheons would be obvious to abandon to protect the siege weapons and horses. They shed their grey cloaks, ready to use their snow-white shrouds to blend into the vast late autumn snowdrifts. "Keep lively men," Ramsay announced, sheathing his skinning knife, slick with Stormlander blood. "Rest for a moment, and then…"
A scream cut him off as a blur of white leapt out of the snowdrifts. One of his men was taken by a massive direwolf, teeth sinking into flesh and blood spurting on the snow. What followed was a bellowing, savage cry as the wildlings emerged. Like ice demons sprouting out of nowhere. The warriors of always winter.
Ramsay drew out his knife once more, cursing under his breath. Rage building inside him as his brilliant plan was unraveling at the hands of Wildlings. "Flay the cunts alive!" he snarled, leaping at a wildling as the rendezvous point descended into a furious melee. He quickly slashed through the man in front of him.
Since the days of the Kings of Winter, House Bolton had been the noble house infamous for brutality. Their sigil a flayed man, their motto 'Our Blades Are Sharp,' the savagery of House Bolton extended far into the past - when the Red Kings of the Dreadfort battled the Kings of Winter in Winterfell for control of the north. Many a Lannister or Tyrell trembled at the sight of Bolton banners during the War of the Five Kings, their reputation causing quite a few routs while fighting for Harrenhal.
But against wildlings, they were civilized. They were out of their element. Wild and crazed, almost to the point of enchantment, Tormund and his warriors were upon them like unholy demons of childhood ghost stories. Axes swung, swords glinted, spears spilled crimson blood upon the snow. All semblance of order disintegrated as Bolton fought FreeFolk.
And Jon was in the middle of the melee, Longclaw whetting a taste for Bolton blood. A raider swung wildly at him, but the former brother of the Night's Watch glided fluidly through the snow. Dodging the blow and delivering one of his own, splattering blood through a deep gash in the back. His cuirass was covered in blood, cold infecting his very core, but Jon ignored it all. Blocked it all. Hacking and slashing like a dancer. A one man army. He stabbed another raider through the middle as Ghost took on another setting up to attack him.
"Jon Snow!" Jon had barely turned his head before he scrambled back from a wild knife slash. The grinning visage of Ramsay Bolton was before him in the low orange light. "The bastard shows himself." Shield clutched in the other hand, Ramsay darted forward, massive skinning knife thirsty for the flesh of the rightful Lord of Winterfell. "I'm gonna enjoy flaying you alive for your sister to watch!"
Jon nimbly darted out of yet another slash. "Not today, Bolton." With a snarl he went on the offensive, slashing Longclaw down repeatedly. Ramsay parried with his shield, but upon the third blow the iron-lined wood snapped in two, material shattering from the sharp Valyrian steel. Jon readied to launch a final strike but was sent sprawling back from a wild punch.
"Stupid stupid, Jon Snow," Ramsay's laugh echoed through the melee. Cackling a pure evil worse than the howling wind itself. "Thinking you can tangle with me?" A Freefolk ran at him, But Ramsay dodged the wild axe swing, blade sinking into his chest before the Bolton kicked him off. "The man stuck on the ends of the earth while his own brother died like a dog?"
Spitting blood onto the ground, Jon charged at Ramsay, knocking them onto the snow. One punch landed on a rib, responded to with a duo of punches to his side. He reached for Longclaw, rippled steel lying close in the drifts. But Ramsay took the moment to knock Jon off balance, flipping them and sending his own skinning dagger down towards Jon's chest. Only a quick block stopped the thrust… a stalemate, muscles straining to gain advantage.
The knife glinted in the orange-red light of the distant fires, as if the blade of a demon. Face to face with Ramsay's malevolent grin, the comparison was apt. "Enjoy your last moments, bastard. Enjoy as I end your life…" The steel inched lower and lower towards his heart, the Bolton heir's voice a hissing whisper, eyes glowing with madness and mania. "Enjoy, knowing that your head will be in the room. Every. Time. I take your whore of a sister…"
It was as if a sudden fire filled Jon. Coursing through his body, flames licking and blazing in an uncontrollable inferno. Heating him to near wildfire. Eyes glowing in white hot rage. With a strength he did not know before, Jon forced the knife back with a sudden thrust of his arm, batting it aside. Headbutting Ramsay square in the forehead, he surged ahead. Maw agape in the snarl of a wolf.
The snarl ceased, replaced by an anguished cry. Ramsay screamed in pain as the metallic taste of blood filled Jon's mouth. Soon the weight upon his chest disappeared. His foe scrambling up, hand clutching the side of his head and face contorted in agony as he fled backwards.
Leaping to his feet, Jon spat something onto the snow. He cared not for the bruises dotting him, the small cuts that likely pierced his skin. Furious eyes, still blazing a burning fury, searched for Ramsay. For the monster that brutalized his sister. But he was gone… vanished into the snow amongst the other Bolton raiders.
Raiders that were about to get the better of his Wildlings.
Just then, Jon's rage-filled haze was broken with the guttural bellow of legend. There, behind him charged Wun Wun, over a hundred FreeFolk behind him charging through the snowdrifts. The giant entered the fray with a kick to a lone raider - the man flew over fifty feet, journey broken only as his body shattered against a tree trunk.
Wildlings passing him, shrieking with a savage bloodlust as the Thenns and Whitefoots set upon the Bolton raiders that hadn't fled the field into the icy deluge beyond, Jon felt his body slacken. His rage flee him as fast as it came. Reaching down to pick up his sword, he found himself looking upon the object he had spat upon the ground.
An ear… rather the top half of an ear. Crimson flecks of blood staining the snow beneath it. Ramsay Bolton's ear. The anger returned, this time not the white hot intensity seemingly out of nowhere. More the simmering rage of a wolf. I will finish what I started tonight, Ramsay Bolton. he thought, gripping Longclaw as he charged with the wildlings.
Even to those that knew him intimately, Stannis Baratheon seemed to only have two expressions: dour… and angry. Right now, he was enraged… though trying his damndest to control his temper - and temper his raging leg pain. "What is the status of our cavalry?" he hissed.
Davos shifted on his feet. He hated to give Stannis bad news, but giving a rosy interpretation of everything wouldn't solve anything. "Bad, your Grace. The Bolton raid and subsequent fires took out almost half our mounts. And that's not all…" He set his lips in a grim expression. "A sellsword company, the Stormcrows, rode off with most of our other horses. We have about a hundred left that aren't wounded."
"Fucking sellswords." Stannis spat on the ground. "Probably offering themselves to Roose Bolton like whores." He looked in the direction of the pens where they kept the captured raiders. "Did we get the Bolton bastard?"
Ser Gerald Gower shook his head. "No, your Grace. He is presumed free." Curses from both the King and the Lord of Winterfell at that. "What should I do with those we did capture? The Lady Melisandre wishes to burn them…"
"Do as she says," the King responded abruptly. Gower bowed and darted off. Stannis ran a hand down his face. "Please tell me there is some good news in this mess." It was a half question, half plea.
Surprisingly, Jon had some to give him. "The Northern Houses arrived this morning." The King's brow rose. "Sixty-two Mormont and men-at-arms. One-hundred forty-three Mazin and two hundred Hornwood horses. Not the same number but should replace the Stormcrows. And two hundred warriors from the Mountain clans…"
Stannis huffed. "Practically wildlings themself." Further curses. "Most of my wildlings are archers, a third of my infantry are archers or crossbowmen, and Bolton destroyed all my siege weapons. I'm worse off." A light chuckle escaped him, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Even with a giant in my army, I'm fucking worse off."
"Your Grace, if I may?" Jon waited, eventually getting a gruff nod from the King. "Roose can wait us out for months if he has to. He has Winterfell, a protracted siege only hurts him. We need to face him in open battle, and our apparent... weakness would make him more likely to both give us such a battle and be overconfident in fighting it."
Resolve welling within him, the wheels turned inside the King's mind. Battle strategies, tactical movements mapping themselves out, plotting over the topography of the ground between them and Winterfell. As if by magic, it all began to piece itself together.
Stannis met the gaze of each and every one of his war council. Making sure they knew what duty and necessity would demand in the coming days. "Butcher the wounded horses, and get ready for a march." Above, he could see the sun spearing through the swirling grey clouds for the first time in weeks. "One way or another, it will end soon, My Lords. Either we have Winterfell, or we die."
The rag slid along the smooth Valyrian steel, motion repeated for the fiftieth time in an empty gesture. Brienne of Tarth knew that Oathkeeper was clean. Shining just as brightly in the weak northern sun as it had in the bright sun of the Crownlands when Jaime Lannister gave it to her. But the simple act of cleaning the blade calmed her, a habit picked up from the days of her childhood when her father began training her. Calmed Brienne in times of the greatest stress.
Which this time was.
Ever since Podrick raced over to her with tales of Baratheon banners and an army of Wildlings advancing through the snow, Brienne had been a haze. She looked down on her sword. 'Oathkeeper.' How ironic, considering her current circumstance. Brienne would have laughed had it not been so serious.
Two oaths. Two liege lords to keep fealty to. One, Renly Baratheon, herself a sworn member of his Kingsguard and her childhood protector - sworn to protect him and to avenge his death. Killed by Stannis Baratheon through black magic. The other, Catelyn Stark. Sworn in the Stormlands, sworn to find her daughters and bring them to her, to the North. An oath she nearly died fighting the Hound over.
But which to follow? Hence the rag ghosting over the gleaming steel.
She had sworn to Renly first, and Catelyn Stark was dead - one stab of her blade could end Stannis' life and avenge Renly. But Renly was also dead, while Sansa Stark was alive. Tortured within Winterfell, if the rumors were to be believed. 'You know them to be true.' Her brother was within Stannis' army, the closest glimmer of safety Sansa could have.
Brienne couldn't save Renly, only avenge him. But she could save Sansa.
In that moment, her hand stilled. She knew what she had to do.
After the war council, Jon retreated to his tent. Fully feeling his body remind him of his injury. In the moment, slashing through all those Boltons didn't wear him down. But hours later, it did. His chest tightened up, breaths hurting. He wondered if through all his exertions he had reopened the wound.
Once out of the wind and snow, Jon nearly collapsed right then and there. He buckled his sword belt and tossed it aside, his body fell onto the bed before he knew what was happening. Mere seconds later, his eyes closed he felt himself drift off to sleep. But before his mind went blank, the tarp allowing entrance to his tent flew open, letting the wind through.
Being as though they were just attacked, he should've leaped up, blade at the ready. Yet, his eyes didn't open at first. The presence of whoever entered didn't seem threatening. In fact, a welcoming heat flooded the room. Forcing Jon to finally open his eyes.
He saw Melisandre approaching him, wearing that same old thin gown, and a smirk upon her face.
"My Lady, what are you doing here? It's late," Jon said, sitting up.
"I've come to see you, Lord Stark." She drew near to him.
Feeling unsettled - as always - around her, Jon cleared his throat, "Why?"
Standing over him, she smiled, her hand grasping his chin, "The Lord of Light sees something in you, Jon Stark."
Slowly, he moved her hand away, "I still don't know what that means."
Melisandre moved to sit next to him, and he resisted the urge to stand up and leave. Jon wasn't not sure what exactly unnerved him about her. Her incessant need to be near him, and her blind loyalty to this 'Lord' of hers. It all sounded like horseshit to him. But Stannis believed in whatever she was spouting, that made him honestly curious.
Nevertheless, he still doesn't wanna be this close to her. He couldn't work out what her intentions were.
"You have a role to play," she said, her hand snaking over his back.
"You keep saying that," Jon snapped, impatiently. "Tell me what that means? I have a role… to play?"
She slid even closer to him, not backing down, "Whether you know it or not, you serve the Lord's purpose. The Great War is coming, the only war that matters. Let me show you what you're fighting for."
Jon scoffed, "You gonna show me a vision in the fire?"
"No visions, no magic, just life," she whispered softly to him, then shifted herself to straddle him. His initial surprise melted away his sourness, feeling her heat against his chest. Heart picking up it's pace as she undid her gown, revealing her breasts to him. His breath caught in his throat at the sight, long since his encounters with his Wildling lover. She brought his hand up, brushing over her chest, then over her heart. "You feel that? My heart beating? It's life."
Jon nodded, "Aye." His voice low.
She cups his face, "There's power in you and you resist it, that's your mistake. I've seen it appear only a few times. We have power… together, you and I. A male and a woman, together can make life, and light." Her face drew but a few inches away from him.
"I don't think Stannis would like that very much."
"Then we mustn't tell him." With that she moved in, their lips brushed against each other. Her hands moving to undo his tunic.
"I loved another."
She smirked, "The dead don't need lovers, Lord Stark. Only the living."
Despite his body very much wanting to give in, remembering the joys of coming together with a woman. That only made her face flash across his mind, memories flooding his brain. How they made love in that cave, climbing the wall, embracing at the top.
Her dying in his arms, watching the light leave her eyes, her last breath hitting his face. Forgetting all around him, the fighting, and just clutching her tight to him, pleading for her to come back to him. When she didn't he wanted to cry, but no tears ever came. Even when he burned her body.
Any lust he felt flushed away then, Jon pushed against Melisandre, nearly tossing her onto the ground. "I loved her. I still love her. Doesn't matter if she's gone, I still remember her."
She stood, a small frown on her face, tying her gown back together. Jon watched as she went to leave, but before she stepped out, she turned back and glared at him. "You know nothing Jon Snow." With that, she was gone.
Lying down in the darkness, Jon felt his mind whirr in thought. 'She is gone.' A voice told him. 'You hung up the black. You have no reason to resist.' All true… but something held him back. Call it hesitance, call it respect for the dead, call it… a feeling about his fate, Jon just couldn't.
Drifting back to sleep, his last thought was that it wasn't necessarily Ygritte. But the memory of her, and the happiness she brought him, also the pain of losing her.
He wondered if he could ever endure something like that again.
A/N: Longclaw: With someone who actually knows Northern warfare, the Bolton raid went far differently. I had fun writing the Ramsay scene, Jon learning what Karl Tanner taught him in a far different way... this time, it's his own initiative. I know, he won't be completely shorn of his bastard identity, but officially being a Stark would make some difference.
I hope y'all notice the foreshadowing. We actually know what we're doing here, and we intend it to actually be good.
The Battle of Winterfell will be out in two parts. Be sure to review :D
BRuh4: Damn, love the ride out scene, I really do. I ended up writing most of it and that speech by Jon felt so good off the fingertips. We mean it when we say we love badass Jon, and he got some action in this one... with more to come.
7 and 8 are fucking amazing (Longclaw: they are, believe me). I'm not even gonna sit here and not mention it. We're really putting some good shit out here. I'm not sure when they'll drop. But we're probably pretty close.
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