Disclaimer this is an alternate version of Game of Thrones season 6, with some facts more in tune with the books. Also includes House Forrester. I do not own the characters (except any original characters) this is for entertainment purposes only.
Of Battles and Rising Kingdoms
The dawn proved to be as grave and cold as it had been for the last few days. Jon did not care; his mind was focused on the upcoming battle. As he rode to the front he looked to the others; Ser Brynden and Davos were mounted, they had been given command of the reserve. It was comprised of the Glenmore archers, the Mormonts and the Tullys that had accompanied the Blackfish. Hidden within the woods to their rear, Larence Snow and lord Mazin had their cavalry waiting. Tormund, Wun-Wun and the other Wildling leaders formed the left flank, while Rodrik Forrester and Hugo Wull commanded the right. Brienne and Podrick had elected to stay with Sansa, serving as her guard should the battle turn against them and force her to flee.
All stared out onto the field, where four crosses burned with flayed men bound to them. The sight made some of the men uneasy, but they stood their ground. Jon dismounted and walked beyond the last palisade looking for any sign of Ramsay. For the moment, he only saw Cregan Karstark and Beron of Barrowton. Then Ramsay came forward on his horse leading Rickon by a rope. Rickon was brought to the very front of the army for all to see as Ramsay dismounted.
Jon's heart nearly stopped when Ramsay drew a dagger, lifting it high in the air to as if it were a spectacle. Rickon did not bulk or show any sign of fear as the dagger drew closer, but Jon felt absolute terror. No! Not our brother, he thought. But the blade did not slash Rickon's throat as he feared, instead it cut the cords around his wrists.
It wasn't until Ramsay called for his bow did they understand his meaning. He intended to let Rickon loose and hunt him like a stag. Without a second thought Jon rushed to his horse and mounted it, racing as fast as the beast could run. The only thing Jon thought of was reaching his brother in time.
Jon pushed his horse harder when he saw the first arrow bury itself in the ground. They were now only fifty yards away from each other as the second arrow landed in-front of Rickon. They were only a few yards away now, Jon reached out to pull him onto his horse. Their hands were almost touching, when a loud thunk and gasp pierced the air. Jon stared helplessly as his baby brother died in the mud, an arrow piercing his chest.
So many thoughts and feelings went through Jon's mind, disbelief, sorrow, and anger. An anger that consumed every part of his being. I'll have his head on a pike! He could practically see the sadistic grin on the bastard's face. Tightening his grip on the reins he was set to charge forward.
Before he could, a voice cried out in his mind. No matter what he does, no matter what happens to Rickon, you can't let that happen. If he does… if Ramsay wins tomorrow, I'm not going back there alive. Sansa's words haunted him, if he charged their plan would fall apart. Jon then realized his surroundings he was half a league away from the army and within range of the Bolton archers. Ramsay noticed this revelation as well, ordering his archers to ready.
He had to leave now. He had to leave his brother there. He looked one last time at Rickon. I'm sorry he thought, before turning back and riding towards their army. He could hear the first folly of arrows cutting through the air and disperse around him. One so close it almost cut his ear.
He rode out of range before the second folly could be released. Upon returning to the camp Rodrik approached fully armored with an ironwood shield in hand.
His serious expression was laced with sorrow and sympathy. "Jon, I'm so—"
"Have the men ready," he ordered. "His ploy didn't work. He'll come at us hard now." Now wasn't the time for grief, now was the time to hate. Now was the time for blood.
Rodrik assumed his role as a commanding soldier again and called out to the men. "Pike-men, READY!"
As the northmen readied themselves, Jon stood before them and spoke so all could hear him. "I could talk about the gods and how they favor us, but they have no place where we are going. I could talk about honor, but you men standing here know enough about honor! On this day, we are the true sons of the North bound by the blood of our slain brothers! Their murderers march on us, let us show them THE NORTH REMEMBERS!"
"THE NORTH REMEMBERS," they cried out as one. Over the fierce cries, a single voice was heard from the distance.
"TAKE THE DAY!" it was soon followed by the thundering of thousands of hooves. Jon took his place behind the palisade, drew Longclaw from its scabbard and readied himself. He could see the banners of house Dustin, Karstark, and even Whitehill (though fewer in number) fast approaching. As the van bore down on them, Jon heard the commands of Ser Davos echo from the rear.
"Nock… Draw… Loose!" The first folly bore down on the enemy. Many were slain, others were thrown from their horses only to be trampled by their own men. The second and third folly were just as devastating, but the Boltons cut the distance between them. Smashing into the palisades, but to no avail.
The first line of horses either reared back, throwing their riders or impaled themselves upon the spikes, and true to Rodrik's word the ironwood did not splinter. Amidst the dying screams of horses and men, the Boltons began throwing their lances at the defenders in an attempt to weaken the line. As the cavalry regrouped it tried to cut their way through the first line, only to be cut down themselves.
Jon turned to one of the banner bearers and called out. "NOW!" The man quickly turned about ran atop a small mound and waved the banner of house Hornwood through the air. Two distinct calls erupted from the forest.
"HORNWOOD"
"MAZIN"
Their cavalries rode out from the sides and smashed into the Bolton's flanks. As chaos erupted throughout the Bolton van, Jon and the others saw their opportunity and pressed forward. Slashing his way through the enemy, both mounted and those thrown to the ground, Jon lead the push forward. Amidst the dying screams and clashing of steel he heard the rallying cry of Ser Beron of Barrowton, calling them to regroup and fall back. But many of the riders we surrounded by friend and foe alike, making their escape nearly impossible.
Instinctively, Jon blocked a slash from a Bolton who had been thrown from his horse. He exchanged fierce blows with the man before locking swords with him. That was when he saw the face of the soldier, a green boy no older than seventeen, already covered in blood and mud. But it was his eyes that made Jon hesitate. For there was no anger in them, neither was there any pride or ambition, only fear. This boy was not fighting for the Boltons, he was fighting to stay alive. Yet only one of them could, that was the grim reality Jon had come to realize during his time in the watch.
One could admire, respect or sympathize with those across the battlefield, but in the heat of battle none of these things mattered. To protect his family, Jon would have to cut down this boy… and so many more like him to reach his true enemy. This is the madness of war, he thought as he slashed Longclaw upward, slitting the boys throat and feeling the spatter of blood across his face. Those who stand against us are not so wholly evil, nor are we so just, he thought. Even as the boy fell to the mud gurgling his last breaths, Jon faced two more soldiers who would join their fallen comrade.
It was then he saw Rodrik Forrester force Lord Whitehill from his horse and engage him of even footing. Even hindered by the injuries he received at the Red Wedding, Rodrik fought with great skill and valor. Bashing away Ludd Whitehill's great sword with his shield and delivering decisive blows with his own blade.
Lord Whitehill delivered a powerful overhanded stroke onto Rodrik's shield. Any other wooden shield would have been cleaved in two as well as the man holding it, but the ironwood held, even capturing the blade. As the two struggled Rodrik turned, unbalancing lord Whitehill's footing. He then released his grip on his shield and as lord Whitehill stumbled forward, Rodrik slashed open his rival's back, killing the man.
The Bolton van was in full retreat now, they had to press their advantage. The Stark forces were now in pursuit. The roar of Wun-Wun rang through Jon's ears as the giant tore apart an unfortunate Dustin who couldn't outrun his pursuers. A pikeman forced from his horse, circled around Jon, jabbing his spear repeatedly at Jon's neck and torso. Yet, each time Jon managed to side-step the spearhead. The Karstark soldier made another thrust, this time overextending himself. Allowing Jon to wrap his arm around the length of the spear and with one clean downward stroke, Jon severed the spear in half as if it was made of straw. The wonders of Valyrian steel, he thought as he knocked the man down and drove his sword through the man's heart. As Jon pressed forward several more men crossed blades with him, their blood staining Longclaw from point to hilt.
"Arrows," someone called out. Without a shield Jon ducked, narrowly avoiding the folly, though many others were not as fortunate. Rising, Jon saw the main enemy force advance on them.
When the armies clashed their advance was halted. The Bolton forces had formed a strong shield wall. Neither side were willing to relinquish any ground. Pressed into tight quarters, men on both sides were struck by another Bolton folly. As the battle raged on around him, Jon noticed the left flank push forward… to easily. The Bolton's were intentionally pulling back to draw them in as the remnants of their cavalry regrouped.
Despite his exhaustion, despite the blood that nearly blinded him, Jon fought his way to find Tormund. The wildling war chief was not hard to find; for he left a trail bodies in his wake and his blade ran red with Bolton blood
"TORMUND," Jon called out. When his friend finally heard him through the blood rage and screams of dying men, Jon hurried to his side. "We have to pull them back. They're reforming their lines."
Despite their attempts to do so, the wildling force were caught in the reformed cavalry charge from the side. Although they held their ground they were trapped.
…
Back with the reserve, Ser Davos and Ser Brynden watched on in growing concern as the line stagnated. They had ordered their archers to stand down when the main force had engaged the enemy footmen.
"We may as well be taking shits back here," Davos cried out exasperatedly before dismounting.
Ser Brynden followed suit and said, "I haven't had a proper sword fight in years. I expect to make a damn fool of myself." Both men drew their swords "Forward!" they cried out. Their men eagerly taking up the battle cry as they followed their commanders into the fray.
…
Even with the reserves bolstering their efforts, the Stark line couldn't press forward. All they could do is endure the crashing waves of men and barrage of arrows. Having finished with another soldier, Jon turned to see Tormund struggling with Ser Beron. His curved blade against Ser Beron's war hammer.
They dueled with utter ferocity, trading blow for blow neither retreating. However, a sudden charge from Tormund caused both combatants to drop their weapons. But Ser Beron took hold of Tormund and repeatedly bashed his head against Tormund's. Jon tried to reach them but was knocked down by the sudden wave of men crashing against him. His very breath was trampled out of his chest by the onslaught of cobbled boots.
For a brief moment it seemed that this would be his end. To die in the blood sodden mud, hardly the heroic end he had envisioned for himself when he was a boy… such a foolish boy. A boy enamored by the stories of Daeron Targaryen, who tried to fulfill his forebearer's dream to unite Westeros under one Targaryen ruler. At the time Jon was so enchanted with the tale of the warrior king that he had been blind to the young dragon's failures. For the sake of his vanity Daeron had marched tens of thousands of men to their deaths and his own. Perhaps we are alike after all, he thought as the darkness grew around him.
Suddenly the distant memories of Sansa, Bran, and Arya playing in the godswood raced through his mind bringing new life. They were still out there, they needed him. He could not die here; he would not abandon them to the likes of the Boltons or the Lannisters or anyone else who meant them harm. With this new drive Jon grasped and fought to his feet, his lungs desperate for air, until he rose above the mass of soldiers. Yet as he caught his breath, the tight quarters made it impossible to move. He couldn't move forward; he couldn't fall back. He could only watch as Ser Beron continued his onslaught.
Ouoooogh—a war horn called out on the wind. It sounded again as two large forces surged from the hill carrying brilliant banners. The white falcon of house Arryn and the merman of house Manderly. All were transfixed by the sight including Ser Beron. Seizing the moment, Tormund bit into the man's neck tearing off a piece of flesh causing the man to scream. With a defiant roar Tormund proceeded to stab the man in the remnants of his throat with a sharpened deer antler. His sharp cry was quickly replaced with a gut-wrenching gurgle of blood.
The Knights of the Vale rode with drawn swords and lowered lances as the crashed into main Bolton force overwhelming them. While the Manderly knights, with their tridents and pole axes charged the Bolton archers. Although some stood their ground firing arrows at will, most had given into fear turning to flee from their pursuers.
Relieved by their unexpected allies Jon, Tormund and Wun-Wun witnessed Ramsay lead the remnants of his army back to Winterfell. The giant led the charge to the main gate. To which the half mad giant proceeded to smash in the gate, heedless of the barrage of arrows coming from the battlements. The sheer strength and ferocity of the display amazed Jon.
When the gate finally gave in, he surged forward unleashing a mighty roar as he fell to his knees riddled with arrows. Soon Jon and his men swarmed the courtyard, overwhelming the fleeting garrison.
Jon stood beside Wun-Wun as the giant let out ragged breaths. He suddenly remember the song Ygritte had sung in Mance's camp. For when I am gone all this singing shall fade, and the silence will last long and long. He reached out to comfort Wun-Wun only for an arrow to pierce his eye, ending the giant's life. He turned to see Ramsay standing before them with a bow in hand.
"You suggested one on one combat, didn't you?" he remarked fetching another arrow. "I've changed my mind. I think it's a wonderful idea." Jon dropped Longclaw and threw himself at the Mormont shield laying on the ground. Raising it over his head, he heard a loud thunk as the arrow buried itself in the shield, he then march forward. He caught another arrow and then a third before he reached Ramsay, nocking aside his bow and tackling him to the ground.
He could not stop himself; all his rage was released with every single punch he threw into the monster's face. As he bloodied his enemy Jon repeated the same names over and over again in his mind. Sansa… Rickon… Robb…
Only then did he notice the watchful eyes of his men and Sansa, who had ridden into the courtyard with Brienne at her side. Looking down, he saw the bloody, unconscious, form of Ramsay. As much as he wanted to beat this man to death, that pleasure belong to someone else.
"Take him away," he said addressing two Mormonts. "We'll deal with him later." He turned to others, "Winterfell is ours; spare those that yield, bring the wounded inside the courtyard and raise the direwolf banners." It was all done without a spoken word. In the coming hours the Bolton forces surrendered, and all the survivors dealt with the battle's aftermath. The day was won but there was no joy in the air, only bitter silence as men were brought into the courtyard.
He assured Sansa that he hadn't been seriously injured, but she insisted that the maester and the sisters look at him. Maester Wolkan, an elderly man with a short white beard, proved a skilled healer. Even as he examined Jon, the man treated three others whose wounds were far more demanding of his attention. At first the man was fearful when he was brought from his chambers, but Jon assured him that they bore him no ill will. He knew the maesters were sworn to obey whichever house they were assigned. Sansa had even mentioned the man had treated her well during her time as Ramsay's prisoner.
The Sept sisters, who had come with the Knights of the Vale, were treating the Northmen, Free Folk and their knights in equal measure. One even wiped the blood from his face, though he told her that she needn't trouble herself.
"You seem well enough my lord," stated Maester Wolkan. "While I recommend that you rest and gather your strength, there is no fear of injury should you decide to help oversee the castle."
"Thank you, maester." Jon rose to his feet, making his way through the courtyard. Those who noticed him nodded courteously muttering 'm' lord.'
"Jon Snow," called a familiar voice. He turned to see Tormund approaching with a grim and worn look on his face. "Still alive I see."
"Aye, as are you." Jon looked over Tormund's shoulder witnessing one of the sisters pull a cloth over a fallen Free Folk warrior. They died because I asked them to help us. "How many of the Free Folk did we lose?"
"A few hundred, including Barlyn. Before I killed that Dustin cunt, he cracked Barlyn's skull open with that bloody hammer of his. Sigorn managed to get by with only a few gashes, and Karsi… well she's not as pretty as she was, but I imagine some of your lords will still want her in their soft beds tonight."
Jon almost laughed at this. He would have if the circumstances were better, but with so many dead laughter was hard. In the far end of the courtyard, Jon could see the silent sisters tending to the bodies of Brynden Bole, who had taken a spear to the heart during the first assault; Lord Mazin, who had taken an arrow to the throat while pursuing the Boltons, and young Robert Glenmore who fell during the stalemate of their armies. All were draped in the banners of their houses.
"It could have been worse Jon Snow," said Tormund putting a hand on his shoulder. "It could have been a few thousand women and children lying dead in the snow right now. But they are alive because of them… and you."
Anything Jon was about to say was forgotten, as two men carried a litter through the remnants of the gate. He didn't need to see who it was; he already knew. Rickon he thought. As he walked over to them, he saw Sansa reach them first staring down at their brother.
When he stood beside her the two soldiers bowed their heads out of respect. There on the litter was their little brother with two broken arrows in his chest. The last time they saw him, he was only a boy, now here he was a young man who was robbed of his life. He realized the soldiers were unsure what to do now. Were they to dig a grave, build a pyre? There was only one place for Rickon and one look from Sansa told him she felt the same.
"We're going to bury our brother in the crypt… next to our father." The soldiers nodded and went about their orders. Before Jon could go about his rounds his sister called out to him.
"Jon… where is he?" There was no question to whom she was referring to. When the remaining Bolton soldiers were gathered, the officers were locked in the cells while the men at arms were placed in makeshift paddocks outside the walls. Because of the shortage of space Ramsay had been placed elsewhere. From the look in her eyes, Jon knew what she intended to do.
"In the kennels," he replied. There was no better place for that monster, he thought.
"And Lady Dustin?" she asked with the same cold, vengeful look in her eyes. Rodrik had informed him that Lady Dustin had been captured when they took the castle. Part of him wanted to execute the woman right then, but she was Lord Ryswell's daughter. If she wasn't dealt with properly, they would be facing a prolonged civil war with the Rills.
"Locked in her room, under guard."
"She handed our brother over to that monster and now he's dead!"
"She'll answer for it, Sansa, I promise." his hand griped Longclaw's hilt instinctually. "Father always told us that the punishment for treason was death. The only reason she is still alive, is so she can be tried and condemned for all the North to see."
"And Ramsay? Does he merit a trial?" Jon knew what she meant, what she was asking of him. It wasn't honorable, it wasn't the king's justice, but it was what they wanted. What Sansa needed. What would father say if he could hear us talking?
"No," was all he said and that was she needed to hear. Before she could leave however, the sound of hooves approached them. At the head of the party rode Yohn Royce, in bronze armor that was inscribed with runes of the first men. Beside him rode Lord Baelish in fine clothing. His black cloak was clasped together by his mockingbird pin.
"My Lord and Lady," addressed lord Royce. The two returned the courtesy. Admittedly, Jon was as impressed with the man as he was when he first saw him all those years ago. He had escorted his son Wymar Royce to the Wall, spending some time at Winterfell to visit their father, whom he had befriended during his time as Jon Arryn's ward.
"My Lord, without the knights of the Vale and White Harbor many more lives would have been lost during the battle. For that I thank you… but I must ask why you are here in the North?"
"Allow me to answer Lord Commander," interjected Baelish. "Lord Arryn, lady Sansa's cousin, received word she faced mortal danger from the Boltons and commanded the Knights of the Vale to march to her aid. We were garrisoned at Moat Cailin, when we received word that your army marched on Winterfell, we broke camp and set out immediately. On our journey we encountered the knights of White Harbor and joined forces."
There was one fact of this tale that stood out to Jon. "My lord… how did you receive word of our movements? The harsh winter storms make it near impossible for word to travel beyond Winterfell. I also know that even the distance between Winterfell and Moat Cailin is vast let alone the Vale. If you set out as we marched, you wouldn't have arrived when you did, nor in such a force. You were here before that weren't you?"
"It would seem that you have a shrewd mind," remarked Baelish with a slight grin. "It's true we were here before that. In fact, I was in the North merely a months ago in secret. I met and informed lady Sansa, about her uncle the Blackfish in Mole Town. I also promised her aid of the Knights of the Vale should she require them."
Jon's head turned slightly to Sansa, who did not meet his gaze. So that's what she was hiding from me during their council at Castle Black.
"A week ago, we received a raven from lady Sansa asking for further aid. By that time, we were well prepared for battle." Sansa had not revealed any of this to him. Did she have so little faith in him, that she would go to the man who sold her to Bolton for aid? Yet, that did not change the fact they were still alive, that more men are alive today because of her actions.
"Then it appears many of us owe our lives to my sister, for without the Knights of the Vale, the losses of the battle would have been far greater." When he met Sansa's eyes he could tell she wanted to explain, but that would have to wait until later. There was still much work to be done. "My lords, there are duties I must attend to, but I hope to speak with both of you soon."
"Of course," said Baelish.
"As you will, my lord," said lord Royce before adding, "My condolences for your loss as well. Your father was a close friend, I grieved for him as I now grieve for your brother."
"Thank you, my lord," he replied before setting off. He turned to Sansa once more, giving her a nod and half-smile showing her that he was not angry. And that was true, there was no anger only concern. Concern for their bond as brother and sister.
…
The moonlight gleamed through the bars of the kennels, as Sansa approached the one holding her tormentor. Both Brienne and her uncle accompanied her. They watched her with concern when she stopped in front of Ramsay, who was tied to a chair and still covered in his own blood.
"You needn't be here for this," her uncle told her. When she told him what she had in mind for Ramsay, he had no qualms about the deed saying the bastard deserved worse for what he had done to her, but he questioned her decision to be present as it happen.
"Yes, I do Uncle," was all she said. She was not some innocent girl with porcelain skin, not anymore. She was a Stark of Winterfell and her skin has turned from porcelain to steel. The once terrifying man began to stir from his stupor. When he gathered his senses, he looked out to see the three of them standing outside the iron grate staring back.
"Hmm… Sansa," he said in his usual depraved voice. "Hello Sansa… it seems you've made new friends since last I saw you." None of them spoke, compelling Ramsay to look about his surroundings. "Is this where I'll be staying now?" Silence was his only answer, but that in itself told him what her intentions were.
"No," he said aloud, "Our time together is about to come to an end." Even as he said the words he grinned, that same grin that instilled terror in her heart only a few short months ago. "That's alright… You can't kill me, I'm part of you now." Perhaps there was some truth to what he said, she wasn't the person she had been, but neither would she allow him to rule her life after tonight.
"Your words will disappear," she finally said, "Your house will disappear. Your name will disappear. All memory of you will disappear." They all heard a low growl close by, one Ramsay knew all too well. It came from the direction of the open gate. As it grew closer Ramsay turned his gaze back to Sansa.
"My hounds will never harm me," he said with growing uncertainty.
"You haven't fed them in seven days, you said it yourself," she replied indifferently.
"They are loyal beasts," he said licking his lips for some of the blood.
"They were… now they're starving." The hounds entered his cell, sniffing the scent of blood with interest. One of them, bolder than the others lifted itself with its front paws to reach Ramsay's face, which it began to lick. Despite his commands the hound continued to lick him with growing interest.
Soon enough the feral hound was no longer content with just the taste of blood and tore into Ramsay's throat, eliciting a terrible scream. The other two hounds soon joined the carnage.
"My lady," Brienne said taking a step towards her. Sansa gently raised her hand, compelling her to stop. Sansa stared on as Ramsay screamed; she stared on as blood gushed from his neck, she stared on as the man was torn apart by his own hounds. With his last breath she turned to leave with her uncle and Brienne close behind. But they did not see the smirk on Sansa's lips as the hounds continued their feasts.
…
Reparations were underway at Winterfell, during the last few days everyone hurried about the castle. The wounded (both Stark and Bolton) had been tended to and accommodations were made for the large force now gathered there. There had been many new arrivals since word had been sent to every northern house, proclaiming that house Stark once again held the North. Among the new arrivals included young Lord Cerwyn, Lord Robett Glover, Lord Wyman Manderly, Lord Ondrew Locke, and a dozen others from lesser houses. But there was only one person that concerned Davos today… Melisandre.
Davos marched his way through the corridors undaunted in his goal. He had waited long enough to confront her for her heinous act. His new friend Duncan Tuttle was close behind trying one last time to dissuade him from taking any rash action against the Red Woman.
"Ser Davos, I understand your pain… by the gods I understand, and I share your outrage. But if half the stories I've about her are true—"
"They are all true, I've seen it for myself," he replied briskly.
"Then you know that you could be marching to your death," Duncan said in a whisper as a servant passed them.
When they were alone Davos stopped to look Tuttle in the eye and said, "If you mean to stop me—"
"Of course not, she needs to answer for what she's done, but I want to make sure you've thought this through. I know how alluring revenge is, years ago lord Rodrik, his mother, and I went to Highever to negotiate a truce with lord Whitehill. The talks became heated, blood was almost shed and in all that madness I could only think about was burying my axe between Ludd's eyes. All for my brother and my niece… she was only eight years old when the Whitehills butchered her."
Davos could see the sorrow in Tuttle's eyes, he knew pain of having someone you love taken away and how it tore at one's soul. "So, I ask you again. What do you intend to do?"
Davos had thought about plunging a dagger into her heart like he should have done all those years ago, but reason prevailed. He had to bring the matter to Jon, he was a just man, one who had impressed King Stannis with his resolve in dealing out justice at Castle Black. "Jon Snow, will see that the Red Woman answers for her crimes once I reveal the truth."
"Wise my friend, the Starks have always ruled with honor and merited out justice to those who broke the laws of men." With the matter resolved, the two men set out in search of Jon. They neared the great hall when they heard two voices. Both were all too familiar.
"It could have been worse Jon Snow, at least you had a family, you had feasts," remarked Melisandre. Davos upon hearing her voice felt a surge of anger, gripping the burnt stage so hard he could swear he heard it crack. The next voice brought back his reason.
"Your right, I was luckier than most," Jon replied with grim humor.
As Davos made his way to enter, Duncan place a hand on his shoulder and said, "Good luck, my friend. I hope to speak with you afterwards… whole and unburnt." He finished with a smile. Davos thanked the man and walked on. Both Jon and Melisandre noticed him, showing interest regarding his arrival. However, Melisandre's interest turned to horror when he tossed her the stag and she looked upon it. Her eyes betrayed her guilt as she looked to the floor.
"What is that?" inquired Jon. Melisandre did not answer, either from shame or the inability to come up with a convincing lie. Davos would have her admit to her misdeed.
"Tell him," he ordered. She still made no answer, looking more guilty by the second. "Tell him who it belonged to," he ordered again. This time the Red Woman complied.
"The princess Shireen," she said, her voice hardly more than a whisper. From Jon reaction, Davos knew they had his full attention now.
"Tell him what you did to her! TELL HIM!" he shouted when she demurred.
She looked at Jon for a moment before lowering her eyes again. "We burned her at the stake." Davos was half surprised that she admitted it so easily. Remorse or a ploy for mercy, he thought. Jon's face became a cold mask, showing no sign of emotion as he looked at the stag clenched in Melisandre's hands.
"Why?" he demanded, both sorrow and anger seeping through his voice.
She disparately began turning her head between him and Jon. "The army was trapped the horses were dying! It was the only way!"
"You burned a little girl alive!" He wouldn't allow her to excuse herself of what she did with the desperate circumstances Stannis' camp faced.
"I only do what my lord commands," replied Melisandre desperately. But Davos was unmoved, for too long he had heard her speak of her god's benevolence only to see evil done in his name.
"HE commands you to burn children, your lord is evil!" She and her lord took my son Mathos, now they've taken Shireen, he thought. If there were any true gods, they would protect the innocent not have them butchered.
"We are here because of him. Jon Snow is alive because of him."
"I loved that girl, like she was my own. She was good, she was kind and you KILLED HER!" Davos was at the verge of tears thinking about the princess; how she had visited him in the cells of Dragonstone, how she taught him to read, how she marveled about the history of the Targaryens and their dragons.
So did her father," she stated coldly. "So did her mother. Her own blood knew it was the only way—"
"The only way for what," he said cutting her off. "They all died anyway. You told everyone Stannis was the one; you had him believing it, all of them fooled and you lied!"
"I didn't lie!" She looked him in the eye unwaveringly. "I was wrong," she admitted her voice faltering as she did so.
"Aye, you were wrong… How many died because you were wrong?" When she did not answer Davos knew they were finished, there was only one thing left to be done now.
Turning to Jon, he spoke plainly, "I ask your leave to execute this woman for murder, she admits to the crime."
When Melisandre looked to him, Jon only asked, "Do you have anything to say for yourself?" His emotions were still unreadable for Davos. No doubt he learned this from his father and his time as Lord Commander.
"I been ready to die for many years. If the Lord was done with me so be it, but he's not. You've seen the Night King, Jon Snow. You know the great war is still to come; you know that the army of the dead will be upon us soon, and you know I can help you win that war."
For a moment there was naught but silence in the great hall. That silence was broken as Jon walked over to Melisandre, his steps echoing throughout the hall. Davos watched closely as Jon stood in front of her, his heart pounding.
"Ride south today," he said firmly. "If you return to the North I'll have you hanged for a murderer." Neither Melisandre nor Davos said a word. The part of Davos that loved Shireen the most wanted to scream that she deserved to die, but another told him something that he learned long ago. A good act does not wash out the bad nor the bad the good. Melisandre had saved Jon Snow's life, so she was granted hers, but neither would she go unpunished.
Still dazed Melisandre placed the stag on the lord's table, turned on her heels and made her way to leave. But before she could, Davos stepped in front of her.
Looking her in the eye, he said with utter distain, "If you ever come back this way I will execute you myself!" There was no defiance in her eyes, no arrogance, only acceptance. She left without saying another word. When she was gone Davos bowed his head to Jon in thanks, before he picked up the stag and left the hall.
…
Jon watched from the battlements as Melisandre rode away into the light snow that had begun to fall. He owed the woman his life, but he could not ignore her crime. It was not his way; it was not his father's way. Some might consider him a fool for sending someone like the Red Woman away when they were faced with the Night King and the army of the dead, but justice had to be served. A lord's duty is to keep the peace, to protect and ensure justice for his people, his father once told him and Robb that.
His thoughts were broken when he heard someone approach. It was Sansa, looking unsure whether to disturb him or not. For a moment the two stood there in silence, watching the grey horizon. It was Jon who spoke first, hoping to ease the tension.
"I'm having the lord's chamber prepared for you." It was hers by right, she was the eldest trueborn Stark at Winterfell. Jon imagined that his role in the coming days would be acting as her military advisor and a commander in her army. The North will always follow the Starks not a Snow, he thought.
"Mother and father's room?" she asked with surprise. "You should take it." While he appreciated her offer and generosity it didn't change what was right.
"I'm not a Stark," he replied with a chuckle.
"You are to me." The adamance in her voice was touching, she truly meant it. But she still hid the truth from me, he thought.
"You're the Lady of Winterfell by right of birth. The battle might have been lost if the Knights of Vale hadn't ridden in. They came because of you." But the thought of Baelish entered his mind and what he had done to Sansa. "You told me Lord Baelish sold you to the Boltons."
"He did." There was no hesitation in her voice or anger. Something that trouble Jon greatly. Had she grown so accustom to betrayal and being someone's pawn?
He turned to her and asked, "You trust him?"
"Only a fool would trust Littlefinger," she said meeting his eyes. They were remorseful and unsure regarding him. "I should have told you about him, about the Knights of the Vale. I'm sorry."
Walking over to her, Jon took hold of her hand and said, "I know… but we need to trust each other. We can't fight a war amongst ourselves, we have so many enemies now." He then noticed the look she was giving him. Amused and reminiscent. "What?"
"Father once told me something similar back in Kings Landing. I didn't understand back then, but now I do." With that said the two reaffirmed themselves as brother and sister. Jon even kissed her brow assuring that there was no ill will between them. As he left his sister called out to him. "Jon, a raven came from the Citadel this morning. A white raven… Winter is here."
Both of them smiled at this revelation. Jon found himself looking at sky before he replied, "Well father always promised didn't he?" He then bowed his head to Sansa and left. Leaving both of them in a finer mood than they had been in years.
…
Sansa sat on the very rock her father had all those years ago. When she was a child she had often played with her siblings here in the Godswood, yet she hadn't found the same comfort in the old gods as they had. Hers had been the new gods like her mother. She had often wondered why her father seemed so somber here. Did the old gods offer so little comfort, she had foolishly thought once? But now she understood the peace her father had found it in. When one was alone here they could reflect on what they had done and what they could do with their lives. That's why she had asked Brienne and her uncle to give her some time to herself. There was much to consider for house Stark's future.
"Forgive me, my lady," a voice said pulling her from her thoughts. She found Littlefinger standing there, she hadn't heard him approach. "If you are at prayer," he finished. If Brienne and her uncle were here she doubted he would have dared to enter the godswood.
"I'm done with all that," she replied. "I came here every day when I was a girl. I prayed to be somewhere else. Back then I only thought about what I wanted, never what I already had." She stood and made her way to the keep. "I was a stupid girl," she said as she walked by him.
"You were a child," he said stopping in her tracks. She knew he had a reason for being here, speaking to her.
"What do you want?" she asked.
"I thought you knew what I wanted," he replied. I'll play your game, she thought.
"I was wrong." She wondered if he still believed her naïve ploy.
"No, you weren't." Sansa hoped to hear the very thing she imagined he wanted. "Every time I'm faced with a decision I close my eyes and imagine the same picture. Whenever I considered an action I ask myself, will this action help to make this picture a reality? Will it pull it out of my mind and into the world? And I only act if the answer is yes."
He leaned closer to her; she could smell the mint on his breath. "A picture of me on the Iron Throne and you by my side." As he leaned in to kiss her, Sansa raised her hand and pressed it firmly against his chest stopping him.
"That's a lovely picture," she remarked before walking away. She saw the frustration in his eyes and knew he wasn't finished.
"News of this battle has already spread throughout the North it won't be long before the rest of the seven kingdoms hear of it. I've declared for house Stark for all to hear." So, he wishes to appear the loyal bannerman, she thought.
"You've declared for other houses before Lord Baelish, that's never stopped you from serving yourself."
"The past is gone for good. We can sit here and mourn its departure or… we can care for the future. You my love, are the future of house Stark. Who should the North rally behind; the true born daughter of Ned and Catelyn Stark, born here in Winterfell, or a motherless bastard born in the South?"
Sansa did not reply, she merely walked away. He would have us fighting amongst ourselves like Joffrey, Renly, Stannis and Robb, just to get what he wants, she thought. He once told her it was best to keep one's enemies confused, to be unpredictable. She had something in mind that he would never expect of her. A plan that only required someone bold enough to set it in motion.
…
Jon looked out into the great hall with Sansa seated next to him at the Lord's table. The hall rang with the voices of their guests; all arguing about what they should do next, who their enemies were, and how to deal with the prisoners they had. Both Jon and his sister kept a stoic appearance listening to what was said. Jon's attention was drawn to Lord Royce whose voice silenced all the others.
"You can't expect Knights of the Vale to fight beside wildlings," he declared loudly. "For centuries the hill tribes have terrorized the Vale and her people with their barbarity and banditry, and these invaders are no different."
"We didn't invade," retorted Tormund, "We were invited." He along several of the surviving leaders of the Free Folk had gathered near the far end of the hall, keeping too themselves.
"Not by me," replied Lord Royce as he sat down with several knights agreeing with him.
"You and your knights might not have invited us," remarked Karsi with a grin (which connected with the fresh scar that ran down her cheek), "but some of them have greatly appreciated the company of our spearwives during the cold nights here." This elicited both laughter and outrage from the others, but before it could go any farther Jon stood up.
"The Free Folk, the Northerners, the Rivermen and the Knights of the Vale fought bravely, they fought together, and we won," he said firmly. All eyes were now on him. "My father used to say that we find our true friends on the battlefield." As the hall murmured their agreement, or protests in some cases, Lord Cerwyn stood up.
"The Boltons are defeated," he declared, "The war is over, winter has come. We should ride home and wait out the coming snows."
"The war is not over," replied Jon. "And I promise you friend, the true enemy won't wait out the storm, he brings the storm." It was true, word had been sent by the Night's Watch about the return of the white walkers, but many still doubted the truth of this tale. Even now, the northern lords as well as the Knights of the Vale debated among themselves about what to believe. The only ones that remained silent were Lady Brienne, Ser Brynden (both seated near the front for Sansa's sake), Lord Baelish and Ser Davos. It would prove harder than he had thought to keep them united.
He then noticed Lady Mormont rising from her seat. Though young, the Lady of Bear Island proved herself a capable leader, one even the newly arrived lords of the Vale came to respect. As one of the first northern houses to pledge themselves to the Stark cause, he and Sansa owed her a great debt.
"Your son was butchered at the Red Wedding, Lord Manderly," declared the Little Bear, as some called her. Though she stood only a little taller than those who were seated before her, she commanded both their attention and respect. "Still, you refused the call. You swore allegiance to house Stark, Lord Glover, but in their hour of greatest need you refused the call. And you Lord Cerwyn, your father was skinned alive by Ramsay Bolton. Still, you refused the call."
Jon and all the others stayed silent as the girl lectured men who were old enough to be her father or grandfather. Those addressed by name lowered their gaze in shame save Lord Manderly, who appeared amused as if he knew something that no one else did. "But house Mormont remembers, the North remembers. We know no king but the King in the North, whose name is Stark!"
"I don't care if he's a bastard, Ned Stark's blood runs through his veins. He's my king, from this day to his last day!" The entire hall erupted into murmurs at the declaration. No one was more surprised by her speech than Jon. As she sat down he saw Lyanna Mormont's eyes meet with Sansa's for a brief moment.
"Lady Mormont speaks harshly and truly," said Lord Manderly as he rose to his feet. Though not as fat as he was said to be, Lord Manderly was one of the largest men Jon had ever seen. He looked to everyone around and spoke. "My son Wendel died for Robb Stark, the Young Wolf. My other son, Wylis was taken captive along the banks of the Trident. Tywin Lannister wrote to me demanding that I yield my city and swear fealty to the Iron Throne or else my son would face a traitor's death and those in my household would suffer a similar fate as the Reynes of Castamere. I told him that I would not open my gates until my son was returned safely and there the matter stood when he died. For the last year I have negotiated with those who murdered my boy Wendel for the save return of Wylis… Murdered I say!"
Many within the hall murmured their agreement as well as the names of those who died during the Red Wedding. Lord Manderly then turned to Jon and Sansa.
"But, before they would release my son, I had to prove myself a loyal vassal to the Iron Throne. When your raven arrived calling for aid, I refused for the sake of my son's return. My own granddaughter Wylla, a girl of twelve, chastised me in the Merman's Court before the Frey emissaries. Reminding us of the debt house Manderly owed house Stark, when the old Kings of Winter took us in and gave us the lands that our city was built upon. A debt that can never be repaid in full. But never could I say such aloud for my hall housed many false friends and southern dogs. So yes, I japed with Ryman Frey; drank to the good health of King Tommen, but never have I forgotten. The North Remembers my lords and ladies. My mummers' farce is now over, and my son Wylis is home."
The entire hall was silent, for everyone was entranced by Lord Manderly's words. It was what he said next that shocked Jon. "Jon Snow avenged the Red Wedding. He is the White Wolf, the King in the North!" Drawing his sword Lord Manderly knelt before him, placing the blade at their feet.
The next to rise (although more cautiously) was Lord Glover. "I did not fight beside you on the field of battle and I will regret that until my dying day. All a man can do is admit that he was wrong and ask forgiveness." All eyes were anxiously looking at Jon, awaiting his judgement.
Jon stared into the man's eyes, there were no lie in them. Lord Glover had done what he thought was right for his family and his people. Nor was this the time for petty vengeance, not with the Walkers to the North… or the Lannisters to the south. "There's nothing to forgive, my lord," he said in a firm yet gentle voice.
Lord Glover in a rare instance changed from his gruff demeanor to a grateful and awe-struck man. The moment passed however as he faced the other lords, "There will be more fights to come. House Glover will stand behind house Stark as we have for a thousand years… and I will stand behind Jon Snow. THE KING IN THE NORTH!" Drawing his sword Lord Glover knelt as Lord Manderly had.
Soon the entirely hall echoed with sound of drawn blades and the chanting of a title that had not been heard within the walls of Winterfell for centuries. As he stood up Jon looked out to those who had risen with blades in hand. Lords Manderly, Glover, and Cerwyn who proudly declared their support; Little Lyanna Mormont, merely smiled before joining the others as they chanted. To his surprise even Lady Brienne, Davos and Ser Brynden, along with many of the Knights of the Vale joined in as well. Tormund and the other leaders of the Free Folk, true to their customs did not pledge themselves to his kingship, but there was no doubt in Jon's mind that they would stand with them when the time came.
Part of him couldn't fully comprehend what was transpiring. So many great Lords and knights pledging their support for the Bastard of Winterfell. He looked to his sister, hoping that she had not taken offense at their actions or blamed him for doing so. But as he looked into her eyes, there was no anger, no look of betrayal… or even surprise.
Then it occurred to him, this had been her doing. She had forsaken her rightful claim as the ruling member of house Stark and allowed, perhaps even encouraged, Lady Mormont to proclaim him as the King in the North. Knowing the others would follow suit and what choice did they have? They now stood with those who had defied and overthrew the Wardens of the North, appointed by the Iron Throne. All those present here today would be branded as rebels, enemies to the crown, and sentenced to a traitor's death.
But why? It was true, he had led their army in the Battle of Bastards, and commanded the Wall for a time, but being a soldier was not the same as being a king. Their brother Robb, a brilliant strategist who never lost a battle, was defeated by politics and his own mistakes. Am I any different, he thought, I had done what I thought was right and I was murdered for it? For the second time in his life, Jon was faced with a role that he had not even wanted. And like before he could not refuse, before him was the only opportunity to unite the North and the Vale. Without either, they could not survive the coming winter.
For the North and for all the living, he thought as he looked out to the hall, the cheering voices once clear and vibrant now seemed distant and obscure to his ears. The war has begun in earnest.
…
Later that night, Sansa walked silently through the castle corridors, with a bright candle illuminating her way. She had only encountered a few guards since she left her room and of them only one had asked why she was up at this hour, to which she merely replied that she couldn't sleep and that she needed a walk to clear her mind of the day's events. Fortunately, the guard did not press the issue, and why would he? The castle was secure: all those who meant her harm were either in the dungeon or locked in the paddocks outside the walls, with many men at arms standing watch. All of whom were eagerly awaiting the commands of their new king. She still felt exhilarated at how well everything had fallen into place.
At first she was unsure how well lady Lyanna would take to her subtle suggestion. The girl had proven to be steadfast in her beliefs, and what she had proposed to her went against the traditional laws of succession. By which, in the absence of her brother Bran, she would have been the rightful heir to the 'Northern Realm' as many were now addressing the North and the Vale. But that had been his desire all along, to put her in a position that would give him authority over half of Westeros. In his mind she would have been another pawn to do with as he liked, but she was done with letting others determine her fate and those she cared for. That's why she had organized this plot. With Jon as king, Littlefinger's well laid plans had been thrown in disarray. She knew Jon, he would never trust a man like Baelish, let alone listen to anything he had to say. He was much like their father, honorable, just, and a capable leader.
Jon certainly possessed the traits of leader; as a soldier he could inspire and lead armies into battle, he understood the value of mercy and justice in equal measure, and despite what some would claim he was no fool. He had proven that, when he refused to be drawn into Ramsay's game, she only hoped that he was ready for the likes of Littlefinger and Cersei. I'll be there at his side, advising him so that he doesn't make the same mistakes father and Robb did, she reassured herself, feeling a pang of guilt as she did so. She loved her father and brother dearly but looking back now she could see the many mistakes they had made, mistakes that had cost them their lives and the near destruction of their house.
But now, there was someone who had a better understanding of the game. The game that many ambitious lords and ladies played for their own interests, but unlike them she would play the game for her family; for Jon, for Bran and Arya wherever they were. Sansa then noticed her surroundings; she had reached her destination without realizing it. The northern guest wing, where her current quarry resided. As she walked towards the door furthest down corridor, two men standing guard stepped forward to intercede.
"I'm sorry, m'lady, but by order of the king no one is to—," his words stopped as she drew back her hood revealing who she was. "M'lady Stark… I mean Princess, I beg your pardon but what are you doing here?"
"I wish to speak with Lady Dustin, her trial will take place in two days' time and I have a question for her that needs answering. And I would prefer to be addressed as Lady Stark." It half amusing, a few years ago she desperately wanted to be a princess, but now the title only served as a reminder as to how foolish she had been.
"Apologies, m'lady, but if the king were to find out we allowed you to enter the traitor's room, he'd have every right to send us to the Wall."
"The question I have for her is of great importance to me and to my brother. I did not wish to disturb his rest this late at night with it." The guards still looked unsure of weather they could take the chance of obliging her request. "I will be sure to explain to him the importance of this discussion and how devoted the two of you are regarding my safety." This seemed to have swayed them, as one made his way to unlock the door, while the other assured her that would be listening closely in case she needed them. Sansa thanked them courteously be setting foot through the door. Her eyes immediately found the woman she felt was as much to blame for her brother Rickon's death as Ramsay.
She sat by the fireplace, draped in heavy fur blankets. Her brown and grey hair was done in a neat top knot bun while her slightly wrinkled face bore a half-amused smile. If she was experiencing disbelief or fear regarding Sansa's presence she hid it well. Sansa had never met lady Barbrey Dustin before, all she knew about her was that she was a long-standing widow, who always sent her steward to speak for her when summoned by her father. Part of her had expected a wicked old crone, but this woman was perhaps a year or two older than her mother. She could also tell by her appearance that in her youth, lady Barbrey had been very beautiful. But what surprised her the most were the first words spoken by the woman.
"I half-expected one of you to come along," she said with no hint worry in her voice. "I imagine your bastard brother refrains from seeing me, for fear of what he would do as soon as setting eyes upon me. He said as much didn't he?"
For a moment Sansa didn't know what to say, lady Dustin's calm manner was unexpected to say the least, but she soon composed herself. She would not portray weakness in front of this woman.
"He did," her tone matching her stoic expression, "In fact, he said the only reason you're still alive is so that you can stand trial for your crimes against house Stark."
"Yes, my crimes," she mused, "Let us put aside courtesy and be direct with one another. I know why you are here, what you want. So, go ahead ask me your question."
"Why?" That one word carried so much grief and anger that Sansa couldn't help losing her composure.
"Why betray house Stark? Why ally with the bastard who murdered my nephew? Many in my place would say that I was coerced by that rabid dog to stand against you, others I did so to win favor with the Iron Throne, and some fools would even claim that they were bewitched by sorcery. But, in truth I did so because I hated your family more than I hated Ramsay." The bluntness of her answer had taken Sansa aback, for there was no doubt in her mind she had heard the truth.
"What has my family ever done to you to warrant such hatred?" Lady Dustin seemed amused by the question, as if it was a jest for Sansa to ask such a thing.
"I was your uncle Brandon's lover once," she replied, "Does that surprise you? Yes, I can see it in your eyes. Your uncle was a gifted rider, who often traveled to Rills. Naturally, my father welcomed his future liege lord into his hall, he even encouraged me to entice young Brandon, not that he needed to. Brandon and I enjoyed each other's company for a long time, until your grandfather let his southern ambitions known. Your mother was to have the man who was mine. It was a match he didn't want either."
Is this her excuse, Sansa thought angrily? She handed our brother over to that monster, for something that was beyond my mother's control. But then she remembered how her mother spoke of Uncle Brandon, that she loved him with all the passion of a first love. How she had hoped to love someone like that. But was what lady Barbrey saying true, did her uncle want her instead of her mother Catelyn. Such questions were put aside as lady Barbrey continued her story.
"When it was clear your grandfather couldn't be dissuaded, my father tried to pass me off to your father Eddard. But your mother was to have him as well after my brave Brandon was executed by the Mad King. When I was finally married off to William Dustin, your father took him away to fight in the rebellion. The war started by your whore of an aunt Lyanna. When your father returned north with your mother and both of your brothers, all he brought back was William's mount, a stallion I had given him. It seems he couldn't have been troubled with bringing back my husband's bones."
Sansa was uncertain what to make of all that she had learned. Her father rarely spoke of what happened during the rebellion even with her brothers, most of what they had learned about their father's time at war had been from stories told among the servants and maester Luwin's history lessons. Perhaps her parent's past wasn't as simple as she had thought. But she had heard enough, the wrongs of the past didn't justified the crimes of the present.
As Sansa turned to leave, lady Barbrey called for her to wait one moment. "I'm torn between offering my congratulations for winning back your home and my condolences."
"For what?" asked Sansa.
"For what's coming for you and your brother. You may have won a single battle, but the war has just begun. Now that you've restored your family's power, you'll spend the rest of lives fighting to keep it from those outside your walls… and those within." With that said Sansa left abruptly, reminded that she couldn't allow their momentary success blind them to the coming storms. Both from the south and the bitter north.
And that is Chapter 3. First I would to thank everyone who has liked and favorited my story so far, it's nice knowing that people find my story entertaining. Second please let me know what you think about the chapter, constructive criticism only benefits the story, all I ask is that you keep it civil. As for the next chapter I hope to incorporate other perspectives (hint involving Dorne and certain advisors across the Narrow Sea). But I am not when it will be updated because of academic work. Hope everyone's week treats them well and best regards.