A/N: Longclaw: This one was probably far more fun to write than the previous one, given that now Jon gets involved directly in the fighting.
And kudos to all that guessed Agincourt. Thinking back to the original battle in which Stannis' force is annihilated, with a stronger army and better tactics, the ground around Winterfell and the strength of both armies make something like Agincourt plausible.
BRuh4: Considering this chapter was supposed to be attached to 7 we were able to update rather quickly. This was sort of an anomaly of sorts, so don't really expect updates this quick for the time being. In fact, it could take a while before 9 is ready to post. I hope this one is enough to tide you over for a bit.
8 is a really special chapter. I for one adore it. It was a really fun one for us to put together.
Hope you enjoy it.
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Chapter 8: Justice
Time slowed. Slowing to a mere crawl… seconds became minutes, minutes became hours. The stink of blood and death already permeated the air of the Wolfswood. Sights of grizzly, mangled corpses of men and beast already littering the small stretch of open field of which House Bolton and House Baratheon fought over. So much death. So much carnage - but it was not over. Nothing was over, the unstoppable force of King Stannis Baratheon meeting the immovable object of Lord Roose Bolton. Stag charging against the sharp blades, with the pawn of thousands of men being the instrument.
In the middle of this was Jon Stark. At the van of half the wildling host of Stannis' army. Lord of Winterfell, but only one quarter of part to play. Joining Tormund Giantsbane, Arstan Selmy, and Alekyne Florent in leading their respective wings into the fray against the Bolton host. He was no coward. Jon didn't shy away from the coming slaughter he knew was imminent. What leader could inspire if he did not fight alongside his men. Jon did not know, so duty found him here.
Running as fast as he could, enemy footsoldiers ballooning in size as they closed the ever shrinking gap between the armies, Jon's mind picked out the oddest things. The shimmer of Ghost's fur in the wind, the faithful companion charging into battle alongside his master. A robin, leaping off an errant bush as it sensed danger coming. The rippling along the Valyrian steel blade he carried, as sharp as the day it was forged. A fleeting murmur in the sky… Jon could have sworn that the images of Eddard and Robb Stark - his father and brother - were looking down upon him that day.
Only a dozen yards separating the armies, Jon sent a silent prayer heavenwards. A single plea of determination. 'I will avenge you, father. Brother.' And Jon Stark bellowed a war cry that echoed across the plains as the opposing sides crashed together.
It started with a shudder, a rippling in the colliding armies as lighter-armored wildlings, northmen, and Stormlanders met the shields of the Bolton hoplites. Some were skewered by the long pikes of those pushing from the rear, but for the first moment of contact it was surreal. A stunned silence of first contact.
Then complete chaos.
Jon found himself in the midst of a veritable slaughterhouse. Drenched in blood - not his own - Longclaw slick with crimson liquid he did not remember spilling, the Lord of Winterfell tossed any thoughts to the side and moved through the battlefield. Blade darted out, stabbing through the weak chainmail of a Bolton man's back. The man gurgled, blood spraying from his mouth as he collapsed to the ground.
But the battle wouldn't let Jon rest from his one-on-one victory. The shrieking cry from behind him of an attacker echoed in his ear - sending him swiveling around with a grace not seen in most men. Valyrian steel met the half-rusted steel of a junior bannermen, but the son of the Dreadfort made up for it in pure ferocity. Lunging and hacking with hate and bloodlust buried in his weathered expression. But he faced the white wolf.
Deflecting, parrying, Jon batted aside the man's sword before swinging Longclaw to slice through his throat. Hot crimson drenched the direwolf sigil upon his chest armor. Spinning Longclaw in his hand, he searched for another target when he suddenly fell to the ground. Looking down, Jon found an arrow imbedded in his thigh. Fuck! He hadn't even felt it.
"WOLF FUCKER!" Two surviving Bolton horsemen were charging right for him, lances leveled… A snarl rang out as Ghost launched himself at one of them, red mist spraying as the massive jaws ripped through flesh and bone. The other stilled his horse long enough for an arrow to slam into his head.
A rough hand appeared in Jon's vision. "Get up, Crow," Karsi stated loudly. Looking down at the wound, Jon gripped and snapped the shaft in half like a twig. There would soon be pain, but Yigritte had given him three and he still stood. Karsi grinned. "That's the fuckin' spirit!" And the two descended back into the din.
Charging uphill, the Bolton men-at-arms lost their tight formation while scrambling up the mud and rocks. Using axes, scavenged swords, hammers, and bone knives, the howling wildlings on both flanks set upon the now disordered and wounded Bolton men-at-arms. Whatever formation remained could not cope with the thousands of unarmored Freefolk warriors, fresh, luxuriating in the almost gentle cold of the 'untrue north,' and unhindered by mud or armor. Within minutes, the flanks turned into a slaughterhouse as the dreaded man flayers of House Bolton finally met an enemy that could match them in savagery.
At the flatter land of the main frontline, the Bolton van had miraculously kept in decent order - if slackened and looser than hoped. Shield wall imposing and pikes lancing forward like scythes through whatever unarmored flesh were presented to them, they initially pushed back the Baratheons. Pushing them back from sheer determination. Filling them with resolve, stoking the pure anger at the men in front of them for the hail of shot for which they were forced to advance through.
They were men of House Bolton. Their blades were sharp. They held the north!
It was not to be, dreams built through rage and wishful thinking dying against baratheon steel. Unlike the archers, the crossbowmen of the Stormlands had not depleted their shot, volleys of powerful, iron-tipped bolts raining on the onrushing hoplites. Punching through their shields. Piercing chainmail like it was nothing. Splattering men with their comrades' blood and brains right beside them. All the while the weak but rested men of House Baratheon, hardened veterans of many battles as much as their foes, slowly hacked and stabbed away.
The charge fizzled out. Rage dying into sheer exhaustion as the wave of fatigue slammed into the phalanx with a force stronger than any mounted charge. Slogging in heavy armour through the mud, the crush of their numbers meant the Bolton hoplites could scarcely lift their weapons. So preoccupied by the Baratheon men-at-arms, they hadn't noticed the more maneuverable mountain clans and wildlings hemming the tight formation on the flanks. The bears of House Mormont punching far out of their weight as they held off triple their number - the hoplites were unable to get up after being knocked to the ground. So tight was the mass they had been packed in.
Into the melee, the Bolton second line - ordered forth by Locke to win the day as he moved to stabilize the flanks - also joined the attack. They too were swallowed up, the Boltons at the back of their deep formation literally attempting to drive forward by sheer force of weight. This tightened the mass of men to the front, many trying to pull back in order to gain space to move. Any attempt to drive through the melee were met with furious steel, Stannis himself joining the fray as he fought alongside the men of House Mormont. Soon, scores of bodies were piled up on top of the corpses of the failed cavalry charge, many fighting over and on the bodies of those who had fallen before them. The cold air was banished by the pack of bodies, blood and excrement steaming and suffocating the men.
And then the blow of horns. The bellow of the massive giant. Eyes turned to the two hundred mounted cavalry of House Hornwood and House Mazin, lances leveled, charging alongside the towering leviathan of Wun Wun. Reserves. Fresh reserves not lost in the slaughterhouse of battle.
When the crossbowmen and archers let loose one final, stockpiled volley, the Bolton line finally fell apart.
Jon slammed his torso into a hoplite's shield. Deprived of the protection of the phalanx, the hoplite fell upon the ground from Jon's assault right upon the center of the flayed man. The man looked up, mouth dropping open in a panicked cry as Longclaw caved in the top of his skull. "Devan!" he cried out for his squire.
"My Lord!" Devan emerged, cut across his forehead and both eyes black - his sword was filthy with blood and brain. Good lad.
"Find Tormund! Tell him to close the fucking trap and let no fuckers escape!" Davos' son nodded, racing to find the ginger wildling in all this mess. Black locks matted to his forehead with sweat and grime, blood soaking his leathers and undertunic, Jon shouted aimlessly into the air as he hunted for other targets.
There were plenty. All around them, the battle among the flanks was growing in scope, whatever forced order collapsing as the retreating center of the Bolton line collapsed. Northern horsemen cut through the massive cluster of men like a scythe through wheat, lances breaking after multiple hits and swords drawn. Ghost's white fur was masked with crimson, Wun Wun littered with arrows as he used the flailing bodies of hapless Boltons as his personal flails against their comrades.
Blade slicing open the stomach of a wildling, Locke looked around at the chaos. "Come on you fucking cowards!" He grabbed at a fleeing hoplite, practically throwing him back into the fray. "Don't die unless you kill ten fucking stags!" Predatory gaze searching, his eyes widened as he found someone he had been personally searching for. "Ah… Bastard," Locke scoffed, taking a second to breath amongst the chaos around him.
Jon rocked back, hands tightening around Longclaw, "Locke."
"I'll kill you, Bastard," Locke grinned, drawing a hand-axe from his belt. "Perhaps Lord Bolton will give me the Dreadfort for presenting your head to him."
Scoffing, Jon twirled his blade, readying himself for a fight, "You won't have the chance." With that, he dashed forward putting himself on the offensive.
Steel clashed on steel, Locke's two handed fighting style faced with Jon's dexterous movements. "You think you're a lord," Locke taunted, using his bulk to shove Jon back. He had far more experience than the former brother of the Night's Watch, fought in far more battles and personal scuffles. "But you're not, just a lowly bastard." Jon may have been stronger, but Locke was cunning.
Well-placed shoves sent Jon's nimble feet upon corpses, only agility keeping him from toppling upon the ground. Frenzied down strikes were parried away, Jon letting himself fall on the snow and rolling out of harm's way. "You aspire to be a Lord, and such is your undoing, bastard." Jon leapt to his feet, only for Locke to kick a shower of mud at him, leaving him open for a coming axe swing - Jon only managed to dart back at the last minute. The axe sliced through his shoulder armor, leather ripping away to leave the skin bare. "I am what you should be, but you fight like a Lord." He brought both weapons down upon Jon, Longclaw only just blocking the blow before it decapitated him.
In the distance, Ghost raced to save his master, but charging hoplites distracted him. Blocked him. Cornered, the beast set to work upon his attackers with teeth and claw.
"You fight with honor." What normally would be a compliment left Locke like a sneer, sword and axe slowly pushing Longclaw down… rough iron axehead biting through the skin of his shoulder, forcing a whimper of pain out despite Jon's efforts. "There is no honor in war, bastard. Only victory… and death."
Jon suddenly felt the inferno return. Engulfing him, charging him with the fury of a thousand bonfires. Transforming him into a different man - a man determined to win at all costs.
Without hesitation he spat in Locke's face, the hot, sticky liquid forcing the man back with a grunt of annoyance. Annoyance followed with surprise, shortness of breath punching through Locke like a powerful hook to the stomach… only more than a fist had slammed into him. Savage eyes gazed into fiery gray, Jon's expression dark as he pushed the blade further into Locke's gut. "Winter comes for you, Locke," came the words, the last the loyal bannerman for House Bolton would hear before death took him in its grim embrace.
Drawing out Longclaw from Locke, Jon snarled as the lifeless husk fell. Eyes seeing nothing but red, he brought the blade up and brought it down again… and another time for good measure. Blood and brains splattering about as his heart was nearly exploding in his chest - red expanding in his vision till Jon could see nothing else…
Until a hard thump slammed into his shoulder. "Lord Crow!" Eyes a blazing fire, Jon turned with a savage growl. Sword swinging only to clang against an axe - a wilding axe. "Fuckin prick," Tormund shouted, staring Jon down… till he calmed down. "The fuckers are in retreat!"
"They're surrendering in droves!" Devan said, pride in his voice.
Blinking, shaking away his sudden bloodlust, Jon sucked in a breath of fetid air. Air contaminated with the stench of death, blood, and loosened bowels. He gulped it down like a drowning man nonetheless. "Fuck, the gates!" If they slammed the Winterfell gates shut, Roose could drown the army in its own wounded and disease until winter was over - after which they were all dead.
A loud bellow caught his attention. He turned to see Wun Wun, the massive giant peppered with arrows and two broken off speartips - much like Jon's own wound - but still going strong. Still killing as he tossed the broken body of a Bolton hoplite onto the ground. "Staark!" he stated gruffly, pointing in the near distance.
Jon found a cluster of northern cavalry. At least two dozen reforming as hundreds of remaining Boltons began to surrender. Motioning to Wun Wun, he found Larence Snow, the bastard head of House Hornwood and the commander of the mounted forces. The man bowed quickly. "My Lord…"
"No fucking time!" Jon scrambled quickly onto a riderless horse, Devan leaping onto another - that two were there being a miracle in and of itself. "To the gates!" Ghost, his jaws and fur stained with the same crimson that formed his eyes, bounded over to him. "If we don't take Winterfell, this will be for nothing!"
Larence Snow nodded, raising his blade into the air. "To Winterfell!" The northerners screamed wolf howls into the air as two dozen horses, over a hundred wildlings, a giant, a direwolf, and the Lord of Winterfell himself surged with one last gasp of fighting spirit towards the gates.
To claim their victory.
"Close the damn gate!" Roose Bolton screamed, what bannermen he had left within the castle scrambling to comply. "Man the battlements! Any of the fuckers get close, put arrows in them!" Without another word, he stormed into the keep. A sullen glower about him.
Such was warranted, for his entire army had been annihilated on the field. But the flayed man still controlled Winterfell. A consolation prize.
"Archers! To the battlements!" bellowed the master-at-arms of the castle, men scrambling forth.
Screams left the gatehouse, the greenest of men left within while the more experienced had sallied forth and died with the army. "Giant!"
"Kill it!" A loud slam echoed from the door. The master-at-arms drew his sword. "Don't let the fucker get…" His voice died with a gurgle as Valyrian Steel stabbed through his head.
"To arms!" yelled Brienne, engaging with another bannerman as Podrick led the smallfolk of Winterfell in uprising on the usurpers. Pitchforks, pickaxes, and hoes had no comparison to castle-forged steel and crossbows, but there were far more of the former than of the latter. Brienne led the battle within the courtyard while her squire advanced upon the gatehouse, inexperienced hand managing to emerge victorious against unprepared Bolton men.
With a snarl, the former Baratheon Kingsguard, decapitated an archer, bow dropped in the mud and axe drawn in an ultimately fruitless attempt to attack Brienne. Fearful, his comrade notched an arrow and aimed it at the attacker.
At point blank range, the arrow punched through Brienne's breastplate. The tough steel kept it from penetrating the bone and shattering it, but it still hurt like a bitch. Teeth gritting in a snarl, Brienne tore out the arrow with a loud, piercing cry of anger before raising Oathkeeper and charging back into the fray.
Jon watched as Wun Wun pounded his form against the already closed gate. The wood bending at the excessive force. The cries of panic of those inside evident even over the loudness of the battle ongoing. The giant's fist crashed through the oak, rearing back to repeat the process.
The bulk of the Baratheon forces gathered before the gate, rearing for entry. Bolton crossbowmen fired upon them from atop the walls. Forcing their targets to retreat back, or hide behind shields. Several caught arrows in the neck and torso, falling to the ground. Thankfully, some wildling archers fired back. Suppressive fire making the Boltons take cover.
Having retreated back, Jon, Devan, and Tormund hid near a rock, out of reach of the onslaught. Behind the crest of the hill rested the northern cavalry, most dismounted.
"We have to get through the fucking gate!" Tormund yelled.
"That's a bit obvious," Jon scoffed, resting on his knees, taking the chance for a breather. "The fuckers can wait us out for months if we don't. All this fighting will be for naught."
They turned behind, hearing the approach of a horse, then seeing Stannis atop it. Appearance not unlike theirs, easier to count the places on his skin and clothes not drenched in mud or blood, the Stag had gotten fully into the fray. He came to a halt before them, watching the carnage before him, "We can't stop now. I'll call for the battering ram."
"No," Jon shook his head. "We need to get in now. They can't be allowed to regroup."
"Then how in fucks name will we do that, Stark?" Stannis gritted his teeth.
"We can try another gate," Jon sighed. "There are others."
The argument would've continued if it weren't for Wun Wun bellowing in the air. Trying to call attention to himself. All eyes shooting in his direction.
The gate swung open, allowing the entry of Baratheons. Almost as if it had been opened for them, compounded by the fact of seeing a man on the walls waving to them. Beckoning them to come forth.
"What in seven hells?" Stannis frowned.
"Guess were in luck, Your Grace," Jon half-laughed, dumbfounded at the sight.
Stannis grumbled, "Best not second guess it." Raising his sword, he motioned for the line of Northmen, Wildlings, and his own bannermen behind him. "Take the castle!"
A chorus of battlecries rang out as the men surged forward, ready to face whatever trap or trick waited within the walls of Winterfell. Jon and the mounted King at the van, they covered the muddy ground rather quickly… only to be greeted by a rather unexpected sight. The Bolton bannermen within had been subdued, crossbows and swords turned against them as the various smallfolk watched intently. One young girl, recognizing Jon underneath the blood and grime, pointed. "It's him! The Lord of Winterfell!" The smallfolk cheered their new Lord… House Stark returned for the first time since the Greyjoys captured the great castle.
Walking from the group was a blonde woman, clad in plate armor and nursing a wound to her shonulder. "My Lord," she bowed slightly, though the respect soon grew… guarded. "Your Grace," the woman said almost reluctantly. "I am…"
"Brienne of Tarth," Stannis stated flatly, intrigued as to why she was here. "I know your father, Lord Selwyn… you were in my brother's Kingsguard. They said you killed him."
Brienne narrowed her eyes. Both she and Stannis knew the truth, and the look in his eyes told her that he knew that she knew exactly who did. But she wouldn't act on it… for now. "Lady Stark knew I didn't, which is why I swore myself to her service. She entrusted me with protecting her daughter Sansa, and thus I am here." She turned to Jon. "Lord Stark, Winterfell is yours."
Jon nodded. "Thank you, Lady Brienne." His gaze hardened. "Where is Roose Bolton?"
Everyone stood on, a crowd gathering in the courtyard, watching as the new Lord of Winterfell approached. Face covered in mud and blood, along with the rest of his body. Expression solemn even though the battle was won. Limping a bit after taking the arrow to his thigh, he wasn't looking forward to the maester pulling the pointy end out of his flesh. Longclaw gripped tightly in his right, the blade caked in the blood of any Bolton, Karstark, or anyone that stood in his way.
Now, Roose Bolton stood before him. One of the men responsible for the descent of his family. The man that stabbed his beloved brother in the heart. Thinking of it only made Jon angrier, wishing he had been there that day. But also knowing if he had he likely wouldn't be standing where he is. About to take vengeance.
He stopped before Roose, who was restrained by a pair of Baratheon bannermen. Another came from the left, toting a wooden block, setting it before the Bolton.
Roose looked around at all the people surrounding, then up to the sky, he exhaled, with a smirk, "Ah… It's time then?"
Jon nodded, "It is."
"You earned it at least," Roose said. "I imagine that was your plan. Drawing us out into the open… smart."
"Doesn't really matter who's plan it was… it did work though, didn't it?" Jon cocked his head to the side.
"I did all I did for my house," Roose sighed, looking to the sky again. "If I had to do over again, knowing this is where I end up…" He regarded Jon, "I'd still do it the same."
"I'm sure you would," Jon scowled, then spat on the ground. "Kingslayer."
"I'd do it again. Kill your brother." Roose inclined his chin. "Nothing brought me greater joy. All I regret was not having you killed at the same moment."
Flaring his nostrils, Jon dug Longclaw into the dirt, putting both hands on it. He asked Roose, "Do you have any last words?"
"Well… Let's see," Roose cleared his throat. "I fought, I lost, now it's time for me to rest. But you, you'll keep fighting these battles for a long time, Jon Snow... Our Blades are Sharp... A naked man holds few secrets, but a flayed man holds none."
Jon could only thing of his father as Roose was lowered to his knees, head forced to the stump. Ned Stark, the most honorable man he'd ever met, what would he say if he lived to this day? Would he be proud? Jon wasn't sure. All he wanted was to be half the man his father was. Live half the life he lived. Now, moments before taking the life of a man who'd deeply wronged his family, Jon thought he'd feel elated. Or at the very least satisfied. He felt neither of those things. Just… empty. Just another man he has to kill. All the men he had ended, he'd never liked any of it, never liked killing. Yet it was the only thing he's truly good at.
A part of him was scared of that fact.
'He who passes the judgment must swing the sword.' He remembered as he brought Longclaw up from the dirt, moving into position next to Roose. The man's eyes stayed locked on the mud just below his nose.
Taking a deep breath, Jon brought Longclaw above his head, and in a quick motion, the blade severed Roose's head from his shoulders. The Valyrian steel slashed through the flesh like a hot knife to butter. The skull bounced off the ground then came to rest, blood spewing like a fountain. The latest drops of blood to grace the bastard sword on that day.
Half expecting the crowd to break out in a cheer, Jon placed Longclaw back in it's sheath. His eyes lingered on Roose's corpse for a few more moments before he disappeared into the crowd behind him.
He shoved through the crowd, not regarding anyone, heading directly to the Godswood. Instinct propelling him for no particular reason. When he made it through the people, something caught his eye on the ramparts above him.
Red hair.
He gasped, nearly collapsing. His sister Sansa stood above him, her eyes locked with his. Seconds later, she took off in a brisk walk towards the downward stairs nearest her. Jon watched as she stepped onto the courtyard, not bothering wading through the thick mud. She had what looked like a bed sheet wrapped around her shoulders, for reasons unknown to Jon. Clearly the clothes under aren't modest.
Words failed Jon as she approached him. She looked worse for wear, her hair tangled and unkempt. He had heard she was here, but didn't know for sure. All the rumors of what was happening to her made him wish she wasn't. Though seeing her now, a bright grin came upon his face. His first glimpse of his long lost family since leaving Winterfell that bright summer's day long ago.
They closed the distance between them, arms thrown around each other in a tight embrace. Sansa started to weep onto his shoulder, reunited with the semblance of safety she's been long looking for. Her hands clenched against Jon's leathers, unable to contain her emotions.
Jon lifted her up, closing his eyes. Finally feeling he'd accomplished something worthwhile.
Saving his sister.
A/N: BRuh4: Ah... I tasked myself with writing Roose's execution and the reunion of Jon and Sansa. I wanted both scenes to have very different feels then the canon version. Roose's death in the show is rather lackluster, it's not at all satisfying. With this, we knew it had to be Jon. I put it together in a way that felt fitting for Roose and allowing Jon to take justice for Robb's murder.
When Sansa comes to Jon at Castle Black, it's Jon that comes down to meet her. With our story I wanted it to be the opposite. For a number of reasons but one of which is I wanted to symbolize this version of Sansa. The canon version of her really left a bad taste in our mouths and she will be different here. Way it played out here sticks out in my mind and I'm proud of it. After all Jon's just done, he's just happy he's saved his sister. For Sansa, it's finally being able to let her guard down and finally feel somewhat safe. She's thankful to Jon and her actions will correspond. We won't let her be an idiot backstabber.
We appreciate all the comments, guys. It helps a lot. Keep 'em coming.
Longclaw: And there you have it. Hope y'all liked.
I highly doubt the people of Winterfell would have any loyalty for House Bolton. If there's a chance that they would take up arms, then they would probably take it.
Jon does not go unscathed in this battle. We've pretty much said in previous chapters our policy on that.
Stannis is now back in contention for the throne, but... there will soon be a third contender ;)
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