A/N: BRuh4: Okay people, prepare yourselves. This one and the next are going to actually blow your minds. Two of the best chapters so far and more to come.

We're real excited.

Big shoutout to my co-writer here guys, he did a whole lot to with the battle stuff.

Also, huge TRIGGER WARNING for the first scene here. If you had issues with the scene in chapter 3 you might wanna skip ahead a bit. It's pretty intense, no lie. Please if it gets to bad please don't feel like you have to read it.

Longclaw: I was eager to write this chapter, as the battle scenes are a favorite of mine. It's hard to write battles, given they are so easily romanticized but in reality are complex moving parts of chaos, death, and muck. With the limits of viewpoint characters, I try to use a more objective writing style to capture everything.

Regarding the size of the armies, Roose Bolton has 13,000 men (both the Boltons and Karstarks avoided the chaos of the Red Wedding and had their armies intact for the most part) and Stannis has about 9,400.

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Chapter 7: Winterfell

He watched his battered bride lay face down on the feather bed. Exhausted after another round of a one-sided affair. Ramsay Bolton sat at their table, slicing through a slab of meat with a thick steak knife, guzzling down gulps of ale between bites in the wee morning hours. Every couple minutes he'd shake his head, still feeling the missing piece of his ear. The missing chunk was lost to the snow, so the Bolton just sported part of his right ear. Anyone would who stared too long at it got a fist to the face. Anyone who commented on it getting flayed upon the Winterfell battlements.

Except one, though. The shame from his father was abundant, the only man Ramsay couldn't touch. But the heir to the North would make it up to him in tomorrow's battle. Presenting his father Jon Snow's head.

As always, Theon stood by the door, quiet as always, head hung low. His master turned to him after he drank the last of his goblet, "Reek, go get some more ale. I'm thirsty this morning." His servant bowed, then left.

The only light in the room being the lit candles on the table, and the moonlight coming through one of the windows. All is quiet. Despite the Baratheon army lingering close to Winterfell's walls.

"I'm to go fight upon the dawn, wife," Ramsay said, chewing. "Aren't you going to wish me off in the morn'?" He waited for a response, but Sansa didn't move a muscle. "Wife? I'm talking to you."

The Bolton had taken her again - this time Sansa didn't much fight back. Even with the possibility of being rescued, she couldn't find a reason. She was just so weak. 'He will do whatever he wants no matter what I do.' So there she was, laying down, not that much fight left. She couldn't bother to respond to her monster of a husband. A terrible man, seeing her now would make any young girl swear off men forever. Even if she survived this, Sansa wasn't too sure she could stand the sight of a man again, especially in an intimate way.

"Wife?!" Ramsay growled, utensils clattering against the table. "I'm talking to you!"

Finally, at the possible threat of more of the same, Sansa moved. She shifted around until she could sit up straight on the bed, rubbing her eyes until her vision returned. Though once she saw the grin on his face, she almost wished she couldn't see at all. Thankfully, he stayed where was for the time being.

She spoke up, her voice hoarse, the body still weak, "What is it?" All down her arms, she could feel where he gripped her, how hard he held on. Remembering how now all she could do was go limp, even that brought pain.

"I've been talking to you. Have you heard a word I said?"

Despite her mind blank, she had caught a few words. She breathed out, "Yes, you're to go fight tomorrow."

"Who am I fighting?"

"Stannis Baratheon."

"And?"

"My brother."

"That's right, sweet wife," Ramsay said, smirking. "You know what's gonna happen to him?"

She wished she could say for sure. Hoping that he'd come to save her, cut down anyone in his way. But in truth, she didn't even know if he knew she was here. But, deep down, a part of her knew that he was coming for her. A flutter of hope bubbled up in her belly, only to flatten out when she looked upon her husband again.

She must have smiled by accident again. Knowing it was probably her brother who tore through his ear didn't help.

He rose up with a scowl, "Wife, you do know what's going to happen to your bastard brother, right?" He came over near to her, "Don't you?" Frowning, he grabbed her by the legs and pulled her to him, lifting her off the bed, he held her close. She tried to avoid his gaze, but he gripped her by the neck, restraining her.

"Look at me," he said. "When we crush the Stag King and his fucking army, I'll drag your bastard brother by his feet across the battlefield. I'll bring him here. I'll flay him right in front of you, make sure that you watch as he dies." He breathed in her face, eyes wide, "That's what's going to happen to your brother."

Suddenly, something in her snapped. A wolf, restrained for so long by sheer brutality and fear, suddenly let loose with a raging fury. Sansa surged forward, kneeing him in the crotch as hard as she could. Ramsay gasped, falling on the floor - stunned that his wife actually struck him. Now, the sight of her horrible husband holding onto his groin in pain, that did bring a smile to her face.

"You… bitch!"

Before he could come back at her, she jumped out of the way. His leap missed, flipping over the bed. She retreated to the table, trying to find something to defend herself with. Her eyes set on the knife but before she could grab it, Ramsay crashed into her. Both of them colliding into the table, sending it over on its side, the noise echoing through the room. All the plates shattered against the ground, food sent flying, if not for the stone floor the candle might've sparked a flame.

Sansa hit the ground, the air leaving her lungs. Ramsay landed nearby.

Her eyes wandered around, looking for the knife. She found it, just out of arm's reach, to her right, near one of the legs of the bed. Slowly, her hand moved out to try to grab it.

But her vision blotted out all of the sudden, Ramsay's hand had hit her. Fist or palm, she didn't know. All she knew is that her eyes went blurry. When she regained her sight, Ramsay crouched next to her. "See what you make me do?"

She tried to get to the knife, ignoring him. Of course, he saw this. Cackling as he stomped on her wrist, pain coursed through her. He picked it up, "You wanted this? What were you gonna do? Stab me?" He shrugged and tossed it over his shoulder near the door.

Only faintly able to move her fingers on her right hand, Sansa cried out, tears forthcoming.

"Come on, dear wife," Ramsay sighed. Picking her up, "You brought this on yourself." Like he had many times over the past few weeks, he tossed her lifeless body onto the bedding. Some might think that doing this over and over would bore him - not Ramsay Bolton. He turned her over onto her back, then slapped her around a few more times, just because he could.

Behind him, the door slowly slid open, frail Theon moved through the door, shaking so much that some of the ale in the pitcher he carried spilled out.

Ramsay heard him, turning around from his conquest, "Oh! Reek. I'd say put that on the table… but as you can see the wife and I are having a disagreement." He exhaled, standing up a moment to undo his pants. Theon lingered near the doorway, so Ramsay beckoned to him, "Come on in, Reek. Put that pitcher down anywhere. It'll be but a moment. Have to save my strength for when I flay Jon Snow."

"Fuck you... you animal," Sansa croaked out, defiant.

Sluggishly, Theon fully entered the room, unable to fully look upon the scene before him. He just held on tighter to the pitcher, watching as Ramsay crawled over Sansa. He twitched, trying to look away but he knew his master wanted him to watch. Somehow, he'd know if he didn't watch. Nothing was more horrible to see, in all his years of life, nothing made his stomach turn more. Whatever he'd eaten would come up in his throat just as quick as it went down.

His eyes widened, as Sansa's red hair flashed up. A girl he once knew, grew up with. Cared for.

For her, it was all nothing. Nothing left. It kept happening, nothing she could do about it. She was completely helpless.

Until it stopped, suddenly. The sound of something smacking against the floor, liquid spilling.

Ramsay lurched forward over her, he groaned in pain. "Ah! What the fuck?!" He crawled off his wife, feet hitting the floor, arms reaching for his back.

His body hit against the stone walls nearest him, a knife sticking out from the middle of his back. Buried deep, but so much as to kill him immediately. He tried to reach it, but somehow the knife was placed in the spot that neither hands can reach. Looking like there's a spot he can't itch. Also a shaking Theon, backing up, staring at his hands.

"Reek?" Ramsay gasped, still grimacing, managing to get his pants back up. He slid along the wall towards his creation, reaching out to him. "Come here, Reek."

Theon retreated further until he hit the far wall, trying to find any place to get away. Ramsay bounded off the wall towards him, knife still lodged in his back. He banged against Theon, both of them hitting the wall, heads knocking together. Theon moved away, trying to regain his senses. Being small and thin, he was nimble. Whereas Ramsay was stumbling, after taking the blade to his back.

Gathering his courage, Theon ran straight into Ramsay with all his power. It was enough to force Ramsay back far enough until he hit the far wall again. This time with his hind toward it, so the knife only dug further into his flesh.

He yelped, "Fuck!" His shirt soaking in crimson fluid. Theon was close to him now, though. He grabbed him by the neck, large palms fully encapsulating his throat, lifting up, Theon's feet leaving the ground. Theon's thin legs kicked against the Bolton, while he failed to breathe. While he no longer had much a groin, Ramsay did, so an aimed foot to his crotch did force to him to release Theon.

He fell to his rear, trying to return the air to his lungs. Ramsay didn't give him much time to recover, pushing the attack. The larger man jumped onto Theon, quickly delivering fists to the face. Just that was enough to weaken Theon to barely conscious.

Pushing up on the bed, Sansa watched with wide eyes. "Theon!" she shouted, though somewhat quietly. Her shout sending a livewire through him. He would not betray Sansa as he did all other Starks.

Laughing, Ramsay spat on Theon, "What are you doing, Reek? Trying to rise up against me?" He got down close to his face, within inches, whispering, "Do you want to die that bad-"

He couldn't finish.

Mostly because Theon's teeth latched onto his throat, digging into the soft flesh.

Ramsay croaked, "Reek-" Was all he could get out before Theon jerked his head around, tearing through Ramsay's jugular. Blood flowed through the wound like a flood. Covering Theon's face in crimson, yet undeterred, he went back in. Ripping another piece of Ramsay's throat out - finishing what Jon started. Calling upon what part of him that was a Stark, the direwolf in him, coming out fiercely. Remembering how Greywind used to do it, rip through a man's throat. Tables turning, Ramsay became the who's helpless as couldn't even attempt to halt the flow of his blood. That being enough to make his body go lifeless, falling onto Theon, blood still coming.

On the bed, Sansa used what strength she had left to lift up. She saw Ramsay on top of Theon, neither moving in the slightest. "Theon?" Her small voice called out.

All she got in response was a quiet moan from under Ramsay, then a hand reached out into the air. Slowly, Theon pushed Ramsay off of him. The body flopping over like a wet piece of meat. Theon still didn't get up, he struggled to get all the blood out of his mouth. He spat parts of Ramsay's flesh out of his mouth, wondering if the taste would ever leave his tongue, bland iron.

"Theon, are you alright?"

Finally, her rescuer sat up, soaking in blood, so much it dripped off his shoulders. His breathing ragged, heart beating out of its cage. He looked over to Ramsay, the man who had taken more from him than imaginable. His eyes rolled back, neck left in torrid shape, blood pooling on the cold stone floor.

Then he looked over to Sansa, with blood-stained teeth, he said:

"Sansa… we need to leave."

Just as sudden as the autumn blizzard came, it had vanished. The sky was overcast, but only a thin cloud cover blocking out the northern sun. Snow beginning to melt, the ground of the clearing between the Wolfswood losing the icy hardness of days past. Beginning to soften.

Such was an advantage to the attacking force before Winterfell's walls… one of the only advantages. Banners flew high, those of the Stag, Direwolf, and several other smaller houses fluttering in the cold wind of the north. Lined up along the open ground between the tree cover, formations thick with the dismounted men-at-arms, mounted Northerners, and scattered Wildling reserves. Wracked with cold, many malnourished and suffering from various camp illnesses, they were hard. They were weak. And with their King at the frontline with them - mounted atop his feet like the rest of them - whatever pain or fear or discomfort was swept away. They had marched through and endured this gods forsaken land, and would end this fight one way or another.

Before them were over thirteen thousand elite forces under the Bolton banner. Putrid smoke wafting from several staves mounted in the ground, each hosting a flayed prisoner, doused in pitch and burned alive. Before the wall of cavalry in the van, Locke gazed upon the enemy force with a smirk. "They can't be serious. No cavalry? Mostly dismounted men at arms?" He laughed, spitting on the ground. "And barely any wildlings! Only a thousand at most, give or take."

"Fuckers must have deserted him." Harald Karstark laughed. "Told ya' they were nothin' but savages."

Locke felt his dander rising, eager to notch more victories on his belt. He would enjoy having Bear Island as a prize for his loyalty. "We should attack in full."

Roose merely frowned. "Where is my son?" There was no sign of him. "He is supposed to lead the charge?"

"Perhaps he's still fucking his bride?" Locke suggested. Both knew what the term 'fucking' meant in connection to Ramsay.

"The Stag King won't wait, neither can we," Roose grimaced, nodded slowly. "That boy has tested my patience for far to long… Fuck him. He can rot for all I care." Roose was not a sentimental man. "Loose arrows. Show them who holds the north."

"Nock!" bellowed the command, as over five hundred archers plucked their arrows from the ground in front of them and sheathed them to their bows, drawing their strings. Across the field, the Baratheon archers - nearly one hundred elite bowmen from House Florent of the Reach - followed suit. "Loose!" Hundreds of arrows filled the air, arcing upwards in a commingling swarm before plunging down in an unseeing, unfeeling mission of death. Shields were raised, men crouching as the malevolent rain began to sprinkle among them. Seeking out all unprotected flesh, spurts of blood and brain staining the snow and grass below.

One volley was enough for Stannis. "Men!" Despite his injury, and the agony it still sent coursing through his system, he still bellowed with the Baratheon fury. "Advance to the rear!" And just like that, the men of the Stormlands fell back. Some in good order. Others in less than good order. The latter hurting the image of the former toward any onlookers.

With his fellow cavalrymen of Karkold, Harald Karstark smirked. "Look at that boys!" he announced with a flourish. "Southerners flee at the sight of northern steel, weak from the gales of northern snow!" Whoops left the throats of the Karstark men, anger still burning bright at their lord being killed by Robb Stark merely for seeking justice against the Lannisters.

The fact that their new liege lord had killed Robb Stark on behalf of the Lannisters was lost on them.

Haughty, arrogantly, Harald raised his sword high in the air. "Let's show the bastard Jon Snow a taste of justice!" With a harsh battlecry, the five hundred men and mounts of Karhold charged straight for the withdrawing Baratheons.

"What the fuck is Karstark doing?!" Bolton was furious at the lack of discipline.

Locke didn't see it that way. "My Lord, Lord Karstark is not wrong to charge. They are pulling back…"

"Could be a trap," Roose mused, but conceded Locke's point. The Baratheon army likely had every manner of pox, and wildlings were best fighting in raids and bushwhacks. They were cut to pieces by Stannis' cavalry, and would be cut to pieces again by his. "Very well. Send in Steelshanks. Also have our infantry march on the double behind." Locke grinned a predatory leer and ordered forth the trumpeter.

And such the main line of over fifteen hundred Bolton cavalry surged forth with their flayed man banners fluttering like mad and throats open with a sadistic fury… a full five minutes behind that of the Karstarks - the infantry marching forward behind them. Plenty of time for Stannis' forces to successfully redeploy to the gently sloping hill a mere two hundred yards behind. And leaving their archers well out of range.

"By the fuckin' gods…" Such profanity graced the lips of every Freefolk watching the sight before them. Many far more obscene regarding the human anatomy than Karsi. "Are all southerners this fucking stupid?" Even as she leveled insults, she kept her bow ready all the same.

Jon shrugged, hoping his boiled leather blended in with the smoky pines as did the furs and mottled brown-greys of the wildlings. "All they see are his Grace's men, not us. Likely think most of you deserted." He smiled at Karsi's ice cold glare. A freefolk's word was his bond - not easily given, but as strong as steel when obtained. The Karstarks had just passed into the clearing and were being slowed by the mud… not enough to slow the charge from the larger Bolton host. Now. "Ready men!" Jon heard a similar command from Tormund across the open ground in the western Wolfswood. "Nock!"

Two thousand bows immediately found arrows lodged in their bowstrings, Wildling archers eager to showcase their skills that had kept the Hardhome palisade secure for so long. Within the main Baratheon line, The lines had formed up once more, grabbing staves off the ground - where they had been left in the night - and plunging them into the mud. Creating a nest of sharpened wooden pikes ready to block any cavalry charge…

Not that Stannis intended the Boltons or Karstarks to reach his line.

Gazing upon the onrushing cavalry, still an awesome sight despite the charge slowing in the mud, Jon felt a heat of anger coursing through him. These were the men that betrayed Robb. These were the men that abandoned him for his honor. These were the men that helped slaughter his brother and take his - their - home all for a kingslayer working for the Lannisters. An anger that swept across him.

But now Jon could do something about it.

"LOOSE!"

So focused on the gathered Baratheons - so focused on the massive giant that drew stares and gazes like a towering bonfire - neither the Karstark nor the Bolton cavalry noticed the bowmen waiting within the forested hills on the flanks. Such an error proved deadly… hells, disastrous. Staggered behind due to the premature Karstark charge, the first volley slammed fully into them. Blood spilled everywhere, barbed wildling arrows tearing through all unprotected flesh while the more powerful crossbow bolts from the main line punched through chainmail like it was parchment. The freefolk, not obeying the honors of war, deliberately targeted the horses. Armoured only on the head, the high-elevation long range shots ripping through their flesh sent the horses out of control. They panicked, terror sending them every which way as the charge just dissolved. Lord Karstark tried to rally his men for a last ditch attempt to hit Stannis' main line, only for the staves and swords to fell him in a bloody heap.

"LOOSE!"

"LOOSE!"

The Bolton cavalrymen received the same furor from Jon and the wildlings. Steelshanks Walton tried to keep his larger host together and peel them off to assault up the hills at the wildling archers so plaguing them, but it proved to be impossible. Seeing the dead Karstarks, seeing their own dead, horses bloodied and struggling in the churned mud... the mounted charge broke onto a full on rout. Wounded and panicked horses and riders galloped through the advancing infantry, scattering them and trampling them down in their headlong frenzy to escape the slaughter.

Only dogged determination by Locke and the supreme discipline of the Bolton hoplites kept them in formation, but the morale advantage deliberately shifted. "FORWARD!" Locke screamed, sending his infantry into the muddy charnel house, hooting cry answered by the bellow from the giant just as a new volley of arrows slammed into them.

Slow moving, armor thicker and shields wide, the hoplites fared better under the terrifying hail of arrow shot than their mounted counterparts. But it took its toll. Volley after volley fell among them, Bolton men huddling behind their shields and bending their heads so as to present their thick helmet plates towards where the arrows came from, protecting themselves as much as possible. This restricted their breathing and their vision in the increasingly fetid air, slowing them through the few hundred yards trudge through thick mud and sticky clay. Soon, knights and officers urged them through the broken bodies of fallen comrades or the thrashing forms of wounded horses.

As such, the infamous and terrifying Bolton shield wall was disorganized and worn down as it reached within charging distance of Stannis' forces. Hampered by mud and the sheer volume of arrows that had descended upon them from within the bowels of the seven hells. So much that the Baratheons had run out of shot. Fire slackening, Locke rallied his men. "Who holds the north!" A weak hoot shouted out, blood starting to rise as anger replaced fear. "WHO HOLDS THE NORTH!" The hoot grew louder, though nowhere near the volume as that before the advance began. "With me!" The line surged, one half aiming for the three divisions of the Baratheon line - Alekyne Florent on the left, Arstan Selmy on the right, and Stannis himself in the center. A quarter each charged the hills for the wildlings.

Stannis drew his sword, levelling it directly at the onrushing Bolton horde. "Bring me Winterfell!" The roar of Wun Wun did more to spur the men, charging valiantly forth through the snow.

Arrows depleted, Jon watched as the wildlings hefted their bone axes, knives, and short swords, tensed and licking their lips for the fight. Raising Longclaw, he howled into the air. Ghost joined him, and soon the entirety of the Freefolk let loose a wolf howl that resonated over the entire field. "WITH ME!" Himself at the van - Tormund Giantsbane doing the same across the flat ground - fifteen hundred wildlings erupted from their positions to engage the Boltons.

It was the sight of the century for the residents of Winterfell castle. Gathered atop the battlements… atop hills and through holes in the thatch roofs of Wintertown, all watched the gathering battle with rapt attention. Of differing levels of mood, as the guards within the ancient fortification were patrons of House Bolton while the smallfolk still held loyalty for House Stark. Of the noble Eddard and the dashing Robb, of the kind Sansa and wild Arya.

As the battle progressed, the whoops and leers of the guards and patrons began to sour into a creeping fear, while the dread in the smallfolk melted into a long-lost hope not seen since the Young Wolf rode south to his death.

In this, the two lone figures walked through the gates. Hoods drawn over their heads and horses piled with sacks of 'grain.' Normally astute guards didn't notice the hidden armor underneath their cloaks. The flashes of steel swords kept out of sight. Both had picked the perfect moment to enter - and waited for the second perfect moment to strike.

A/N: Longclaw: The battle was far too long, so I split it into two. Already, Jon and Stannis have the advantage, but those Bolton hoplites are fucking strong as shit. Still very much in the balance :D

I used a famous historical battle as a baseline for this one. Plaudits to anyone who can guess which one it is.

Ramsay's death was unique, I hope. Little shit didn't even get to participate in the battle, so I think the indignity of getting ripped apart by Theon was fitting.

BRuh4: Kinda a cliffy for you there. Don't worry, the next one is on the way pretty soon so you don't have to wait too long. Besides this was just a taste of the battle. More of it to come.

I'm not going to comment much on the Ramsay scene. I also don't want to any of you infer anything about it other than that's what it was. I wrote it and we were both okay with it. This is an explicit story now.

I thought the end of Ramsay was interesting. Theon doing the deed I think adds to his story more. He stood by and let it happen for so long, but then stepped in and saved Sansa. The throat tearing open I thought was badass.

Anyhoo, hope you enjoyed, more on the way.

The next chapter is ready to post. If we can get 25 reviews, we'll update Monday :D

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