A/N: Longclaw: The countdown to the big moment is coming, and we're at a pretty big moment right here!

I've been thinking of a new story idea, one for a series of stories rather. I'd like to do a Jonerys tale where Jon grows up a Prince, but the story begins before Jon and Dany in an alternate life of Rhaegar and Lyanna. Where it isn't Robert that rebels against the Targaryens, but Rhaegar rebelling against Aerys after marrying Lyanna. Would all of you be interested in such a story?

BRuh4: This is a really special chapter, one of the ones we had highlighted really early into the process of starting this. We're finally getting into the bigger chapters. It's taken a while, but we're finally here. The best part is after this it's only going to get wilder.

Hope you enjoy it.

Follow, fav, and review!

Chapter 14: Wrath of the North

For longer than she knew, her whole existence revolved around the ship. Waking up, eating what small food they allowed her, walk around the boat, go back to sleep then repeat. Her body ached for action, but nothing was around she could punch or stab. Especially after she found some sacks of wheat, and then stabbed Needle through several of them, the captain was furious. Resulting in the subsequent barring of her from swinging her sword around, or else be thrown overboard. Without her sword, she became merely bored for the remainder of the journey.

Eventually, after what felt like years, the ship arrived at White Harbor. Before the ship even dock she knew she was hope. All the way in the cabin, she could smell it. Mostly because the aromas that she'd encountered recently had been sweat and seawater. The North doesn't smell like either one of those things. The North smelled like home.

As fast as her feet would carry her, she bolted to the top deck. Sure enough, when she reached the bow, White Harbor lay just in front of her.

Arya had little in the way of possessions, just Needle, a small bag of silver, and clothes on her back. So as soon as the ship docked she was the first off.

The feeling was indescribable, being in the North again so being away for so long. Ever since that fateful day she left with her father and Sansa. So many years ago now, she was but a girl then, she's supposed to be woman now. Parts of her feel older now, yet being back home makes the little want to come back out. Though she pushes that down, she's not that person anymore.

She's changed.

Calm and collected, she strolled through the docks, many of the crew left with her, and she passed some Manderly bannermen carrying tridents. She half expected someone to recognize her, yet walking around totally unnoticed was probably better. If she was recognized, likely the whole north would find out. Which wasn't what she wanted… yet.

Finally, she had learned some news from the North on the boat. How recent, she didn't know, a few of the crew were from White Harbor and she'd heard about the Boltons controlling Winterfell. But that was as of those men leaving White Harbor, about a month or so ago. Much had changed since then.

As she strutted towards town, she truly realize the great drop in temperature. Even though it wasn't full blown winter yet, it was still quite cold. Much colder than Braavos, the rags she wore wouldn't suffice for long. Even as she walked, her teeth began to chatter.

The sound of voices lead her to the plaza in the dead center of New Castle, coming from what appeared to be a tavern. Warm yellow light peered through the closed shutters and under the wooden door. Just the sight heated her bones.

But what caught her eye was what lay directly before her. A fountain. She'd seen many of these in Braavos so they weren't foreign to her. Yet she didn't ever expect to see one in the North, not ever. She remembered from her history lessons with Old Nan that White Harbor is the only port in the North, aside from Eastwatch. But New Castle has many different types of people come through often, from far and different lands, it didn't seem impossible for one of those people to be able to craft a magnificent sight such as this fountain.

It truly was beautiful. The pool of water surrounded a merman, holding his trident high above his head. How they managed to get water to shoot out of his mouth, she didn't know. Arya stared at it until she began to shiver, signaling it was time to get warm. Nearly running to the tavern, she approached. Once inside, a small smile came to her face, the sight of a full house, many people gathered together, merrymaking. Every table was full, but one chair remained at the bar. She took the stool there.

The inkeep came up to her from behind the bar and frowned, not expecting to see a girl of her age. "What are you doing in here, little lady?"

Arya cocked her head to the side and replied, "I'm not a lady."

He laughed, a bright smile coming to countenance, "Sounds like something mine own daughter would say, perhaps you two would be friends."

Arya smirked, "Perhaps."

Suddenly, the door to the tavern swung open, a breathless man racing in. "Easy lad," said the innkeeper. "What's the matter?"

"King… Kingslayer," the man breathed, hacking between breaths. "The Kingslayer…"

The entire inn fell silent. Arya as well, staring at the man. What… what about the Kingslayer? Dread coursed through her - were the Lannisters actually coming north?

Finally, the man caught his breath. "King Stannis and Lord Jon annihilated the Kingslayer's army at the Muddy Hill! The Twins are under siege and the Lannisters have abandoned the Riverlands!"

It was barely a moment before the entire tavern erupted into cheers. Drunken and not so drunken hollars echoing loudly within the walls, mugs of ale hoisted in the air. While reactions to the Battle of Winterfell were confused and muted - no one liking when Northerners fought Northerners - the defeat of the hated Lannisters and the soon to be defeat of the blood-sucking Freys united the Northmen unlike any other.

"The Red Wedding is avenged!"

"Fuck the Lannisters and their incest spawn!"

"All hail Jon Stark! Warden of the North!" That drew the most cheers, nearly every patron howling to the ceilings in their best imitation of a howl of a direwolf.

"WHITE WOLF! WHITE WOLF! WHITE WOLF!"

But for Arya… she sat at the counter, shock still, her mouth hung open. Jon… As in her brother Jon? Warden of the North? Jon Stark?! So many questions ran through her head, what in seven hells had happened while she was gone?

"Not 'appy, young lass?" She was brought out of her shock by the tavern owner, smiling down at her with a jolly expression. "Join the celebration!"

"Who is Jon Stark?"

The proprieter gave her a queer look. "'Ave ya been in a cave for the last year, lass?"

"No, Braavos." Arya pouted, hoping to retain some of her childhood innocence. "Please, ser, tell me. I thought the Boltons ruled Winterfell."

He chuckled. "Roose and Ramsay Bolton are dead, lass. Stannis Baratheon and Jon Snow came down from Castle Black with knights and wildings and retook Winterfell. Stannis even legitimized him, and he's down in the Riverlands avenging the North." A fat hand smacked the table. "Eddard Stark's daughter and son now rule Winterfell in the lad's absence, and it's about time too. Nothin's right in the world lest a Stark sits in that castle, if I do say so mi'self."

Arya's breath hitched, her entire body a tempest of emotions. Shock. Confusion. Anger. Relief. Joy. Excitement…

Just a few minutes ago, her plan had been to gather some supplies, travel to Winterfell and kill Roose Bolton and his son. Now… Now she didn't know what to do. She could go home, Winterfell. She'd just learned that Sansa must be there, and one of her other brothers? That could either be Bran or Rickon. But Jon's not there, Jon is at the Twins. She very much wanted to see her favorite brother again.

So the Twins it is, maybe she start crossing off a few names while she's there.

"Come out! Come out, Lord Frey!" Splayed out on several Bolton crosses, the captured scouts of House Frey were pissing themselves as Smalljon Umber taunted the men defending the western keep of the Twins. Walder Frey was likely on the eastern side, but the Lord of Last Hearth wasn't keen on taking the skiff to the other side where the Manderleys and Mallisters completed the siege. "We'll give you an honorable death, head from body. Better than my father got from you!" Ya' wrinkled old cunt.

"I don't think the southern fucker is gettin' the message, southerner," Tormund growled, punching the side of one of the prisoners. Letting his cry of pain be heard from the gatehouse - they were a bit away, out of crossbow range.

Smalljon glared. "I ain't no southerner, wildling," he mumbled.

"Yer south of da wall, so a southern kneeler." The two of them despised each other, but… there was an odd respect. Both blunt and tough, fierce as foes, but even fiercer as allies. "Hear that, southern kneeling fuck!" Tormund yelled at the gatehouse. "Ya' want a good death, surrender now. Otherwise we give ya to the Thenns!" The Free Folk leader motioned for someone.

A hulking Thenn warrior, face pockmarked with decorative mutilations, strode forth. Face contorted in a malevolent grin. Looking over each of the tied up men. "Mmmmm…" He licked his lips. Voice bellowing for the benefit of the watching Freys. "These lads are good eatin!"

One of the prisoners fainted, while the rest developed a growing stain in their trousers. Most yellow liquid, but for one it was the other form of human waste. "This is disturbing, even for me," Smalljon whispered to Tormund. "We're delving into shit even the Boltons wouldn't touch."

"Don't tell me, I fuckin' hate Thenns," Tormund hissed back. "But hey, this shit works. If I'm terrified, a bunch of pussy southerners are shittin' their pants up there."

The Thenn was clearly having fun. "Hear that, you fucking cunts! Which one of these men should I eat first?!"

Only about two seconds later, an arrow slammed into the Thenn's chest. Sending him sprawling back. "Fuck you! Cannibal wildling motherfucker!" came the cry from atop the Frey battlements.

Before the archers could return fire, the Thenn leapt up. Arrow not having hit anything vital, he snapped off the shaft, rage in his eyes. "So that's how ya want to play?! Huh?!" Grabbing his axe, he let it swing.

"AAAAAHHHHH!" One of the prisoners started screaming his lungs out, leg cleaved clean off. Blood gushing from the wound onto the muddy ground below. None of the northerners, Rivermen engineers, or Free Folk batted an eye - the man was caught raping a local smallfolk woman and sentenced to death by Lord Stark. Turns out, the Warden of the North had more on his mind than executing a lowly Frey prisoner, so Tormund and Smalljon brought him here for their own purposes. Dead is fuckin' dead.

The rest of the Thenns cheered as the warrior lifted the leg, drinking some of the pouring blood. "We eat good tonight, boys!" More cheers.

"They aren't gonna surrender," Smalljon shrugged. "Well, at least they're pissin' themselves."

Listening to another of the catapults lob the severed heads of executed prisoners into the walls of the Twins, Jon let out a sigh. Such tactics disgusted him as his father's son, but Stannis had given him both the authority and an order to take the Twins by any means necessary. "Seven Hells, Devan," he muttered, stalking into his tent with Davos' son following.

"I know, my Lord. Sieges… they take a lot out of a man." He had been inside Storm's End, helping his father run weapons and food during Robert's Rebellion. It was not pretty.

"Two months, Devan! Two bloody months." Jon tossed another log on the fire, hoping it would ease away the bitter cold. At least the rains have passed. Those had nearly killed off hundreds from dysentery and fever had they continued. "I know Stannis reclaimed Riverrun and the Lannisters are weak from our victory at Muddy Hill, but the longer Walder Frey holds out the worse our position." They had tried everything. Bribes, bombardment, intimidation… hells, a group of miners from the Stormlands had tried to tunnel under the walls of the Twins - nothing worked. Jon didn't wish for a full frontal assault and the bodies of his men it would require, but it was either that or wait another two months or longer for the Freys to starve. "That old fucker Walder is laughing at us right now!" He slammed his fist on the table, frustrated.

Suddenly, a page boy peeked inside the tent. "Mi'lord… a raven from Winterfell. They say it's your sister's seal."

"A raven? From Sansa?" Jon frowned, taking the scroll from the lad.

"Yes, Lord Stark," the boy nodded, before turning to leave.

Jon brushed his thumb of the sigil of his house before tearing it open to read the words. He recognized Sansa's intricate handwriting immediately, yet the cursive appeared hastily composed. The parchment seemingly ruffled, appearing as if the letter had come together rather rapidly. Once Jon's eyes scanned over it he knew why. His face contorted in surprise as he read. After he'd finished with it, he tossed it onto the table.

Devan came over, "What's it say?"

Jon didn't look at his squire, he only uttered, "Get me Howland, Tormund, and Smalljon." After Devan didn't move right away, Jon finally turned to him with a scowl on his face, "Now."

The young squire squeaked and bolted out of the tent.

Having the men that were requested brought to him, the Lord of Winterfell held up the scroll then passed to Howland to read. They gathered around the table in his tent, a hand-drawn map of the Twins on it.

"My sister Sansa sent me a raven," Jon explained. "Littlefinger wants to negotiate."

"I see," Howland replied, seeing the words for himself.

"What the fuck does that mean for us?" Smalljon snorted. "Who cares about that cunt?"

"He controls the Vale," Jon huffed. "We need his support. Sansa has spent ample time with him, she will be essential in acquiring his men."

"Why?" Tormund asked.

Jon's fists clenched. "He's in love with her."

"Ah," Howland nodded, all the pieces coming together in his head, ideas forming. "The letter also says that Littlefinger would be more…" He frowned, the word leaving him. Therefore his eyes snapped back to the raven scroll. "Open-minded, if we already had the Twins?"

"Correct," Jon sighed, crossing his arms. "Which means we can no longer wait Walder out. We need to take it."

"How in fucks name are supposed to do that?" Smalljon exhaled, then pointed his finger in the direction of the castle. "There are only two ways in, both gates, and both are barred. If we try ladders or a battering ram they'll pour oil or shoot arrows. We'll lose thousands."

"What if we hit them from both sides?" Tormund proposed, laying his hands on the table, then pointing to each side of the castle. "Could they hold both sides at the same time?"

"I don't know," Jon pursued his lips. "The main force is on this side. The men I sent across the river were only a few hundred, just to keep them from leaving or getting supplies." He shrugged. "Even if we sent more men, it's easier to defend than attack. He doesn't need many to properly man the defenses."

"If we are close to taking the castle, that fuck will probably demolish the bridge. Then we'll have lost all those men for fucking nothing."

Suddenly, Howland snapped his fingers as if he remembered something he'd been trying to recall for hours. He smirked, "I've got it."

"Care to share it with us?" Jon raised his eyebrows.

"I've got a plan, I mean," Howland said, then he looked to the map. "What if we can find a way in near the western side, get infiltrators inside the castle while the rest of the army launches an attack. The men sneaking in can cause some chaos inside, perhaps find Walder himself."

Jon went silent, stroking his lengthening beard, thinking on the Crannogmen's words, "That's certainly an idea."

"What about the rest of us outside, we'll be slaughtered," Smalljon scoffed, somewhat angrily.

"All that has to be done is something that looks like an attack. We already have siege towers prepared. Some men will be lost for sure," Howland replied solemnly. "But that will happen regardless. This way may be quicker than a full-on assault though."

"If you can get in," Tormund grumbled. "And that's a big if. We don't even know if there is a third way in."

"Every castle has hidden entrances. For a castle on the riverbank, they'll need some door for the servants to get water from the river." Jon said, widening his eyes.

"Allow me to send some of my men into the water, maybe they can find a way in for us," Howland said, turning to Jon. "They'll go at night, as to not be seen."

"Yes, send them immediately, this could work."

"At once, Lord Stark." Howland nodded, then left, leaving Jon with Smalljon and Tormund.

"I'll admit, Stark, I was hesitant to follow you. But I was foolish," Smalljon uttered, coming over to clasp his Liege Lord on the back. "I'm with you."

Smirking, Jon replied, "Appreciate the support."

"You'll have it," Smalljon chuckled. A few moments later he was halfway out of the tent, he turned back to say, "Hopefully, soon the Frey's will know they had much to fear. You. I got a feeling you'll be remembered for this. The Wrath of the North." With that, he was gone.

Tormund huffed, "I best find a barrel of ale to empty."

"Must you always get drunk before a battle?" Jon scoffed, shaking his head.

"You know I do," Tormund laughed, then strolled out.

With a sigh, Jon rested again the table eyes scanning over the map. Attempts were made to think it all through, overthinking led to doubt, unfortunately. His first real campaign without Stannis didn't come without the neverending doubt in himself though.

Somehow, a part of him said not to worry, he tried to listen.

"Where's the damn meal?!" Coughing, the old man smacked his palm on the table. "My stomach's fuckin' growlin' here!" The soldiers and smallfolk inhabiting the Twins might be on starvation rations two months into the siege, but he always had three square meals a day. He didn't eat much anyway, so it balanced out. I'll be damned if I end up one of those fat fucks.

Racing over to the table, slender to the borderline of scrawny underneath her ratty burlap dress, the servant girl carried a meat pie in both hands. "'Ere you are, mi'Lord." Steam rose from the crust, deliciously hot. The kitchen staff had the same rations as the soldiers… if they continued to please him.

Spearing his spoon into the gooey insides of his meat pie, Walder Frey ignored the aching creak in his bones. Savoring the taste, chewing softly. Easy on his ancient teeth. "What kind of meat is this?" He smacked his lips together. "Rather dry. Tastes like… cat."

The servant girl bowed her head. "We're running out of live animals, mi'Lord. Either this or salted meat."

Walder laughed, laughs suddenly turning into hacks. "Fuckin' hells. Damn cough." He looked at the girl. "Good job, I'd rather have cat than that damn salted leather." A wry grin crossed his face, hand cupping the girl's backside. "Perhaps I'll have a reward for you, later."

"I… I look forward to it, Mi'Lord." Curtseying, she ducked out of the hall.

Taking another bite, Walder looked out over the great hall of the Twins. The sight of his greatest triumph - one that made him Lord Paramount of the Riverlands and brought Edmure Tully into his dungeons. Now close to crumbling. Besieged on all sides by Stannis… no, not Stannis. But the Stark bastard. Ironic. Robb Stark must be laughing at me from wherever the fuck he is now.

"Well, if Jon fucking Snow wants me," Walder Frey snarled. "He can very well come and get me."

Looking like a normal array of stones, suddenly it budged. Pushing open from the inside. Hinges groaning as three Frey bannermen peeked their heads out. Not even a lantern granting them a reprieve from the darkness of the misty night. "Quick," the senior-most soldier told the other two. "Get to the traps and snares. Lord Walder will reward us if they nabbed some fresh meat." Salivating at the thought of a freshly roasted rabbit or fox - something like a boar being reserved for the Lord himself - they darted towards the shore. Animals coming to drink would be trapped, a technique that worked many times before.

Each suppressed gleeful cheers at the fat rabbits ensnared by the river. Desperate to eat well, they didn't notice the two figures creeping behind them from the mist. One was about to bring his knife down on the rabbit when a rough hand covered his mouth. Knife slitting his throat.

Warm blood splattered on the other. "Watch it," he hissed, turning to further scold when he saw the corpse. A mouth opened, but only let out a bloody gurgle as Tormund drove a knife through his back. Motioning to Jon, the two grabbed the bodies, dragging them back to the castle's walls.

Daring not cast a lantern out into the fog, the commander peered out. "Dax! Bryen!" he hissed. "Where the fuck are ya?!" Not getting any answer, pissed and trembling, he just stepped out to get a better look when a dagger stabbed into his eye. The Frey bannerman gasped, twitching in shock for a moment before slumping bonelessly to the ground.

Howland withdrawing the dagger and sheathing it, he tapped the stone wall and motioned forward. Hidden exit a young maiden ripe for the taking. The infiltration team raced from their hiding position below the great bridge. Five of Howland's best fighters and two Free Folk scouts. Boats abandoned, success or failure not needing them again. "Thank Gods for the fog," muttered Jon, hand on the hilt of his sword.

"Why do we need to drag these fuckin' bodies? " muttered Tormund.

"Cause if the fog lifts," Howland whispered. "We don't want the damn sentries spottin' em." Tormund said nothing, only glowering as each man ducked single file into the entrance. 'Door' shutting behind them.

A small alcove fit all of them, leading to two sets of stairs. "Alright," Jon stated. "Lord Reed and I will take half of us towards Walder's personal chambers. Tormund will go for the main barracks with the surprise." Howland had insisted they bring something special cooked up in Greywater Watch - he was tight-lipped about it, grinning as the large chest filled with the stuff was lugged by two of his men. "Once the… signal is given at the barracks, the men outside will begin the attack. After, kill every Frey you can find till we reach the Great Hall." He glared at each man. "And no raping or killin' women an' children."

"Takin' the fun out of it, mi'Lord," a wildling smirked. Loving the rise he got out of the honorable Lord Crow.

Jon was not amused, but brushed it off. "Ready?"

"I was fuckin' ready when we marched from Winterfell," Tormund breathed. "Let's kill some kneelers."

The pack of them climbed the steps as quickly and as quietly as they could. The pathway only lit by flickering torches a few of them carried. Jon led the way, everyone in tow. They turned a corner and ascended another set of steps. In a matter of seconds Jon ascertained these led inside the courtyard. From the abundant light peering down the staircase, and the voices of Frey bannermen carried down to them. At the sight, Jon stopped, holding his hand up to stop the party behind him.

The sound of footsteps had them backing up into the darkness, Howland even snuffed the torch in his hand, the others did the same. Moments later a Frey blocked the light, standing at the top of the stairway. He held a flame himself, illuminating his confused expression.

"Hey!" He called out down toward them. In the darkness, Jon's hand immediately snapped to the handle of his blade. "What's taking you cunts so long? The cooks need something to work with other than the fucking cats and dogs." When he heard no response other than silence, he descended the steps, "I'm gonna give you fucks a good kicking." The poor man only made it down four steps before a knife hit him in the neck. As to not make too much commotion, a Crannogmen caught the Frey before he could fall.

After leaving the Frey on the stairs, everyone climbed all the way up. Thankfully, being as though it was the dead of night. There wasn't much going on in way guards, aside from the handful manning the walls across the way. The stables sat straight across from them, and a nearby door presumably lead inside the keep.

Jon turned around to regard the men, "Tormund, head for the stables over there, that should be a good spot for the fire. Once it's lit, try to get the gates open. Lord Reed and I are going for Walder."

Tormund nodded, motioning to the Wildlings behind him, and the crannogmen with the explosive. They headed towards the stable as Jon and Howland went for the Keep.

At the stables, Tormund and his squad approached. Nestled around their meagre fires and chewing on starvation rations, the Frey soldiers that were awake - most huddled under threadbare blankets trying to catch whatever sleep they could - didn't notice as Tormund wedged himself through several supply crates. "Bring it," he hissed, for once grateful he had small, rat-like crannogmen with him and not bruising Free Folk like himself. They made for perfect infiltrators, dashing through the dark doorway and sheathed in the shadows of the crates.

"Here we go." One of the Crannogmen took out two flints from his pockets, readying them by a wick sticking out of the crate. "This is for the red wedding, motherfuckers." It took two scrapes before the wick ignited. "Time to go." Each man booked it, ignoring the half-hearted shouts of the Frey soldiers as they ran with utmost speed.

The servant girl was just finishing polishing off the last breastplate in the armory when the entire keep shook around her. Helmets and blades falling to the floor around her as she nearly lost her balance. What the fuck…

A screaming maid dashed past, wails echoing through the rafters. Behind was a page boy. "The castle is under attack!"

"RUN!"

"Wildlings'll eat our skin!"

"Out of my way, cunts!" The servant girl hid her surprise when in rushed Lothar Frey, or "Lame Lothar" as he was known. He was a dullard, but with a savage streak. Said to have personally murdered Talisa Stark and her baby. The girl hated him more than anyone but Cersei. "Grab what you need and get to the fucking gates!" Trailing him were his personal guardsmen, two younger brothers and three trusted bannermen. They ransacked the rows of swords and mailwear. "I'm gonna kill some more fuckin' Starks dis night."

A younger Frey twirled a bastard sword, caked in grime - House Frey wasn't famous for cleanliness, and the girl doubted that it had been cleaned since the Red Wedding. "I'm gonna bag me Jon fuckin' Snow."

Her eyes widened despite herself. Jon is here?

"Fuck you. Jon Snow is mine!" Lame Lothar hissed, clipping a blade to his belt. "Roose Bolton got the Young Wolf, but I got his stepmother, goodsister, and nephew. I deserve a full born Stark man…" For the first time, he noticed the girl. "What da fuck you're doin' here?"

She forced herself to look scared. "Just… cleanin' mi'Lord." The girl shifted her feet, inconspicuously nudging the hidden blade in her dress sleeve. Keeping her periphery on Lothar's leering, hungry face. Like father like son.

"'Eve 'er, Lothar. Ya can fuck what ya want after Snow is dead."

"Fine!" he snarled. "Give me a helmet, cunt."

"I'll give you what you deserve, mi'Lord," she replied sweetly, grabbing the helmet she had just been cleaning.

Suddenly, the helmet swung through the air. Crashing against Lothar's temple and sending him toppling. Head smacking on the edge of the ledges. The girl was on him in a flash, stiletto clutched in her hand. A piercing scream warbled from her throat as she stabbed repeatedly through Lothar's neck, the Frey's eyes wide with shock and pain. Blood spurting everywhere, drenching her face and dress - but she cared not. Shifting her thrusts to his eyes and face until all above the neck was a bloody mess.

A sharp kick sent her flying off him, hitting the wall with a thud and cough. Scrambling to her feet, the girl saw the attacking bannerman just in time. She sidestepped his wild slash, a quick jab of her arm puncturing a gap in the chainmail right under the armpit. The man gasped, falling to the ground, bleeding out. Hooking a helmet with her foot, she sent it into one of Lothar's brothers, smacking him in the chest and sending him sprawling.

But she didn't notice Lothar's brother Waldron. Sneaking quietly around, the girl was met with her mistake in the form of a thrusting dagger. She tried to sidestep it and it missed her head - a cry of pain left her mouth as she fell, dagger stuck in her shoulder. Waldron and the other men looked at her with rage, swords at the ready. "I ain't gonna kill ya… not at first."

"Ets see if 'er arse feels as good as it 'ooks." The girl's eyes widened from fear as Waldron began untying his trousers…

A gurgling blood trickled from Waldron Frey's mouth - dripping from the sword ran right through it. Jerking back, he collapsed bonelessly, blade catching the others off guard as another's torso was slashed across. Intestines spilling upon the floor, black-clad fighter swinging to punch a bannerman in the nose.

Yanking the dagger from her shoulder, grunting in pain, the girl leapt on the Frey she had sent to the floor. Running the long knife through his ribs. Feeling the blood spurt as his heart impaled itself on the tip. His eyes widened with understanding, breathing his last gasp of air. Letting go, standing, the girl grabbed a rag. Pushing it into the wound to staunch the bleeding. It hurt like a bitch, but would do for now.

"Are you alright, lass?" Her breath hitched at the familiar voice. A voice from a time long past. Turning, she came face to face with Jon Snow… Jon Stark rather. His curls were matted with blood not his own, but his face was kind.

Jon watched with a puzzled expression as the mousy servant girl reached behind her head. Hand yanking off… her face? It completely floored him… only to yank back in utter shock. Even if he had been nearing Maester Aemon's age, he would have never forgotten that face. Not ever. "Ar… Arya?"

A joyous smile spread on Arya Stark's face, the girl leaping into her older brother's arms. Feeling them wrap tightly around her, a slight sob leaving Jon. She was in tears too. Burying her face in his leather cuirass.

They broke apart moments later, almost in wonder. "How…?"

"Long story," she shrugged. Calmly, Arya reached for a dark corner and removed a small sword.

Curious, suddenly Jon laughed. "You kept it all this time!"

Arya twirled Needle with a grin. "Still have plenty to stick with the pointy end." The pain in her shoulder was gone for now, determination igniting her eyes.

Howland ducked his head in. "My Lord, the army's broken through. We're headin' for the Great Hall. Bastard's in there."

Twin scowls met each other. "Let's go," Arya hissed darkly. "For Robb."

"For Robb."

Groaning, four bannermen lifted the stained wooden table. "Hurry, you fucks!" 'Black' Walder Rivers snarled, short sword waving in the air as he urged his father's bannermen. "Get it up against the door! Now!"

Downing the cup of wine in his hand, Walder Frey pinched the bridge of his nose. Fucking hells. Over a dozen of his best men were clustered in the great hall, but such was the last vestige of his control. Once he controlled the entire Riverlands, and now the entire Northern Army was flooding the castle. Defenses evaporating as fires spread and giants bashed through the gates under a hail of arrows.

Crash. Crash. A rhythmic pounding slamming against the doors. Demanding entrance. Bannermen flooding to brace them, deny the newcomers entrance.

"Hold firm! We die if you don't!"

Was it just a few years before that it was the Northerners that were trying to break out rather than in? Just yesterday that he had Robb Stark in tears, holding the dead corpse of the foreign whore he had married? So close. So fucking close.

With a resounding crack, the door was ripped out of its hinges. Leather and mail-armored northmen streaming in. Snarling and engaging the Freys with vengeful bloodlust. Turning the Great Hall into a familiar bloodbath - only this one not one sided. Crimson coated the floor, splattering from swinging swords and crashing maces. Slowly the Frey men winnowing as more northmen charged in…

There! The unmistakable Stark features of the bastard, leaping through the hole in the door with sword swinging. Followed by the short form of a girl - equally ferocious.

Eyes ablaze, Jon batted away a strike from a ruddy-faced Frey. Arya darting under his arm, howling fury as she ran the man through with Needle. Kicking the boneless corpse to the ground, Jon screamed himself as he charged. Finding the bastard Walder Rivers. Burying Longclaw into his stomach. Meeting the gaping look of shock with one of hardened rage.

As soon as it began, it was over. Only the Lord of the Twins himself left alive of his men in the Western Keep.

Ripping his sword from Black Walder's gut, Jon rose. The warm crimson from the last Frey's body sprayed over his face. He locked eyes with his target, Walder froze from behind his long table. Two of Jon's bannerman trapped him from either side. Smirking, Jon rested on Longclaw, saying, "Ah… Lord Walder Frey, it's good to see you."

Walder scowled as the two bannermen came closer, "Who do you think you are, Bastard?" Then he lifted his bony finger up, "Your foolish brother died just over there. Even years later, you can still see the bloodstain. If you're not careful you'll end up the same."

Arya came from behind Jon, clutching her still bleeding shoulder, "Say anything else about our brother and I'll slit your throat!"

Before she could continue to berate the old man, the sound of Jon's footsteps silenced everyone. His expression darkened, eyes ravenous, he dragged his blade against the stone floor before lifting it high above his head. Walder's eyes widened, and he backed up, though one of the bannermen stopped him from retreating. Instead of hurling the sword at the Frey, Jon brought it down on the table. Harshly slashing it in two, the Valyrian steel making short work of it, tiny pieces of oak went flying. Once that was out of his way, Jon stepped up to Walder's level.

Eye to eye, Jon's gloved hand tightened around the handle of Longclaw. As he began to speak, his jaw clenched, his words heavy with malice, though even in tone, "I've come a very long way for you, Walder. The man who murdered my brother, his wife, and the innocent child in her belly. The second I heard the news I wanted to come for you, but then I was just a lowly member of the Night's Watch. I had no army and no means to acquire one. Well, I didn't have to wait too long. Here I am, a new name, with an army and a King at my back." He used his free hand to grab Walder by the collar to pull him close. "I expected more out of you. Killing Roose Bolton, at least he was someone. What do I find here? A sick old man with a bad attitude. But none of that matters now, soon you'll be nothing. Your castle will be reduced to rubble, your family name will disappear. Your whole house will be gone, I'll make sure of it. All the living male survivors will be sent to the Wall. I'll send the women away somewhere else. Unable to carry the name any further. This place will be given to someone loyal to me. No Frey will ever hold a claim of it, of anything. You hear me, Walder?"

The cranky old man gritted his teeth, "None of that will bring your fool King brother back."

Jon growled, blood boiling, "Every breath you draw insults me."

Behind him Arya approached, her own eyes boring holes in Walder, she said in a low voice, "Cut him down, Jon. Kill him."

Having been watching the whole time, Howland stepped up. The scene itself had surprised him, he hadn't yet seen this side of Jon. This level of anger, he'd sparsely seen it his whole life. Especially not out of a person with Stark blood running through their veins. Slowly, he moved up, "Jon, what are you doing? You don't have to do this. This isn't you."

Arya turned to him, but Jon kept his eyes on Walder. Neither of them responded.

"Why strike him down in anger? Make an example of him instead," Howland proposed.

"I am making an example of him," Jon replied, darkly. "Everyone will see what happens when you fuck with my House."

"The North Remembers," Arya said, looking back to Walder.

"We never forget," Jon nodded.

Walder chuckled dryly, coughing a bit, "When we devised a plan to kill your brother, I said we should kill that whore who carried his child first." He wheezed out a laugh, proud of himself. "Make Robb Stark watch, helpless. I wanted to make sure that there was nothing left of 'The Young Wolf' upon this earth. Succeeded too." Jon's eyes widened, shifting his hand to the neck, tightening his grip. So much so that Walder dropped to his knees for a few moments, though Jon brought him back up, choking him.

He pulled Walder close and said, "I, Jon Stark, sentence you, Walder Frey, to die." Typically, he'd allow the person some last words, but Walder didn't deserve that.

"For Robb," Jon whispered. In a flash, he pushed Longclaw through Walder's stomach. Then he tore the blade out, flinging blood around, further covering himself. The Frey gurgled, holding his wound. Though the Stark wasn't done, he slashed downward slicing through, severing the collar bone from the neck. Then out, and back again, digging deeper into Walder's chest. Before the dying Frey could fall, Jon twirled his blade, only to bring it back across, this time going for the head. Walder's skull lifted from his form in a spin, spurting crimson. The head landing with a dull thud against the ground.

Breathing heavily, Jon watched the haggered body fall utterly lifeless, all hacked up, headless. So much blood on the stone, it pooled under his feet, any steps only became splashes. He kept his eyes on Walder Frey for a few more moments, before turning to leave.

Forever known as The Wrath of the North.

A/N: BRuh4: We really loved putting this one together. I love how it kinda ballooned out into the whole other thing. Originally, Jon was supposed to sneak in with Howland. Then we thought about how cool it'd be if Arya showed up. Once we thought about that we had to find a way to get her there. I think it turned out pretty good. But I don't know you tell me.

Big things ahead.

Longclaw: We were struggling to top how the Freys died last time, but I think we did it :D

Our boy Jon managed to defeat the Boltons, Lannisters, and Freys, joined along the way by Sansa and Arya. Each of them got their chance to get in a lick. Personally, I think he's basically become a greater legend than Stannis has: bastard boy that brought the wildlings south of the wall and systematically avenged and rescued his family from those that nearly destroyed them. Works better than a King taking his throne.

And Dany hasn't yet come across the sea. Still saving that ;)

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