I know, I know; this is very late. I just really hate this battle, guys. I know everyone loves it—and I've tried to love it, too, because I understand its appeal objectively. But I just... don't. I hate (most of) the cinematography. I hate the tactical/character/plot choices. I really hate the way Sansa got blamed for everything when most of it was Jon's fault. So it took me a while to get the motivation to write. Fortunately, I think I've come up with an angle I like, but I'll explain more at the end, and leave you to simply enjoy.
The ground shook as Wun-Wun exhaled a deep, rumbling breath. The vibrations of it reverberated through Caitie's head, and she lifted it from his arm, looking to the sky above her, which grew lighter and lighter each minute that passed. From pitch black to indigo to a cool greyish blue, each new facet of color made her heart beat faster and her palms slick with sweat.
The hours before the battle were always the hardest, she knew. They would stretch on for ages, giving her all the time in the world to think of every way she could possibly die, and how much it would hurt, and what would happen to those she loved. Once the fighting began, all that anxiety would disappear as quick as it had come; her mind would clear, and only the here and now would matter. But until then, she had too much to think about, and too little to distract her from it.
Caitie had slept a little, at least, but her dreams were anything but peaceful, full of bodies strewn upon battlefields, all of them of those she loved or failed or both. Finally, she had come upon Grenn's, his body mangled and blood-soaked, and his face strangely blurred. Still, it was sharp enough for her to see his mouth askew, eyes blank, and worst of all, the expression upon his face: accusing and horrified, as if she herself had been the one to strike the killing blow.
That was what had woken her.
When she saw Jon emerge from his tent across the camp, grim and determined as he roused the rest of their men, Caitie felt even worse, for she didn't know whether she wanted to avoid him or whether she wanted to fall into his arms and never leave.
What she did know, however, was that indecision and confusion before a battle would only lead to disaster. Sitting beside Wun-Wun as they waited for dawn to break, Caitie concluded that dealing with her guilt over Grenn, deciding how she wanted to proceed in regards to Jon—she could worry about it after the battle, assuming, of course, that they didn't all wind up dead. For now, she needed to put all the conflict within herself out of her mind and focus on keeping everyone she loved from dying.
Gods, she hoped Johnna, Willa, and Ghost were all okay.
In what felt like an instant, the rest of the camp burst to life. Free Folk and Northmen ran to and fro, saddling horses, stringing bows, sharpening their weapons, and barking orders at each other. They didn't even argue, the prospect of imminent death forcing them to work together.
Caitie sighed. She pushed on Wun-Wun's arm to see if he was awake. When he opened one gigantic eye, she asked, "Are you ready?"
Wun-Wun muttered something under his breath in Mag Nuk she couldn't discern, though she understood the sentiment.
"I'll take that as a no."
He grumbled, his eyes fluttering shut once again.
"Come on." Caitie stood, stretched, and placed her hands on her hips. "Pretending to be asleep won't make time go any slower."
"Doys mukh."
She laughed, because Wun-Wun had, in no uncertain terms, told her to fuck off. "I wish I could," she said. "But Tormund will be really angry if we don't get a move on."
With another deep grumble that shook the earth, Wun-Wun reluctantly stood. Together, they went about their preparations, only parting when Caitie returned to her tent to change into her armor. Instead of Sansa's dress or her old Night's Watch clothes, she changed into boiled leathers, made specifically for her by House Mazin's personal armorer. Caitie hadn't worn boiled leathers in years—and even then she'd only ever worn them in training sessions. It pressed tight against her abdomen, her breasts, her back. She hated how constricting the material was. Her Night's Watch leathers had been—well, squishy, to be honest. But at least she was used to it.
By the time she emerged, most of the army had formed up for the march: archers in front, cavalry in the middle, and infantry in the back. This was another reason for Caitie's discomfort—as Jon's third-in-command, she'd be part of the cavalry. This would have been fine if not for the fact that she had absolutely no experience in fighting on horseback. She'd always fought on foot, against opponents who were also on foot. According to Jon, there wasn't much of a difference between the two, but that was easy for him to say when he used a one-handed longsword. Even when Caitie had explained that her daggers were two parts of a single weapon, and that only having access to one would limit her effectiveness, Jon had insisted she be a part of the cavalry. Supposedly, it was safer—and, more importantly, easier to give orders from horseback.
But he had promised she wouldn't need to, so she still didn't see the point.
As Caitie reluctantly mounted her horse, Melisandre passed by her. When they noticed each other, both hesitated. They weren't friends, exactly. Caitie didn't think the red woman had it in her to be friends with anyone, and she didn't really have much of the desire for it, either. But the two of them had come up with a mutual understanding—and it was strange, but informative, for not only had Melisandre helped Caitie continue her studies in Valyrian, she also knew more about the world than anyone Caitie had ever met. Almost any question she had about Old Valyria, the Free Cities, Asshai, or even Yi Ti, Melisandre had been able to answer. Caitie even enjoyed debating theology, in some sick and twisted way.
Now, Melisandre looked nervous, her brow furrowed and the lines on her forehead more pronounced than ever before. But after a heartbeat, she nodded."Valar morghulis."
Caitie remembered the first time she'd heard that saying, sitting in her quarters at Castle Black, facing the prospect of death just as she was now. She recalled Maester Aemon's words to her: "Death is an inevitable fact of life, Caitriona. Some of us face it sooner; some, later. When my time comes to serve—soon, I should think—I will be ready. The stranger waits outside my door and will not be denied."
And she thought to herself, If I die, I will greet death as an old friend, just as he did.
Lifting her chin, Caitriona Norrey replied, "Valar dohaeris."
The field between the Stark army and Winterfell spanned as far as the eye could see. Fog settled over the grass, obscuring both the fortress and Bolton army in front of it, making both look almost like apparitions—but it was the burning crosses that punctuated the otherwise-barren field which set Caitie on edge. There were six of them; three on one side, three on the other. Together, they created a runway of sorts, the flames blinding against the grey hues of the landscape.
Then, with a jolt of horror that sent nausea rolling over her, Caitie realized these weren't simply burning crosses. Tied to them were flayed men—real flayed men. The closest to her was maybe three yards away. She could make out the lines of muscles on the arms and legs, the hollows of the cheeks. A mixture of fury and terror rose in her chest. She'd witnessed some horrible things in her lifetime, but she had never seen anything like this, and she hoped with all her heart that she never would again.
But she supposed that was rather the point of having them there.
No one spoke a word as they took in the empty field, the army across from it, and the burning crosses in between. If the flayed men scared Tormund or Wun-Wun, both of whom stood on her right, neither showed it. Caitie wished she could have such bravery.
The quiet was broken when she heard the clip-clop of hooves behind her. She twisted round on her horse, looking back towards the treeline behind them to see Jon, atop his horse, passing slowly through the ranks of men. His face was drawn and serious as he surveyed them, checking for cracks in formation.
He came to a stop a few feet behind Caitie, watching, waiting, eyes fixed on the sea of men at the other end of the field. It took her a moment to realize what had caught his attention. Movement; what looked like two foot-soldiers, and along with them, a black courser, which could only be Ramsay's. His arm was outstretched, and the moment Caitie realized that he was holding a rope, she turned her horse around and brought it up next to Jon's.
They exchanged nervous glances, watching as Ramsay's horse came to a stop and he dismounted. As he walked forward, Caitie saw another figure behind him, hands bound by the rope and too small to be a man.
She couldn't make out the details of Rickon Stark's face, but he was a little on the taller side for his age, and his clothes looked threadbare and dirty, even from far away.
"I know it's hard," she murmured to Jon, trying to stay calm enough for the both of them. "Just remember the plan, all right?"
But Caitie might as well have been a ghost, for Jon didn't seem to hear or see her. His eyes were fixed on the moving figures of Ramsay and Rickon, his lips parted, his body taut, wholly entranced by the show on the other side of the battlefield.
Ramsay came to a stop, as did Rickon behind him. With a flourish, he unsheathed a knife and held it up high, so everyone on the Stark side could see. Without hesitation, without even a second glance, Jon leapt off his horse and stormed forward.
Caitie urged her own horse after him, watching closely. She didn't like the way he was acting. In fact, it scared her almost as much as the Bolton army did.
As Ramsay brought his knife back down towards Rickon, Caitie thought that would be the end of it. She thought he would slit Rickon's throat then and there, and this whole farce would be over.
But Ramsay did not slit Rickon's throat. Instead, he cut the rope binding Rickon's hands, and took him by the shoulders in what looked almost like a comradely gesture.
He plays with people, Sansa had told Jon. Now Caitie saw what she meant. But what he was playing at still eluded her.
They watched in silence. Rickon started to walk forward, into the middle of the battlefield, only hesitating when Ramsay seemed to speak again. And then Caitie saw movement behind them, quickly making out a Bolton soldier with a bow. As the soldier handed it to Ramsay, Rickon picked up his pace, sprinting away from them as fast as his legs could carry him.
She realized what was about to happen a moment before it did. "Jon—"
But she was too late. Before Caitie knew what was what, Jon had mounted his horse again and brought it to a full gallop as he surged forward to meet his brother.
Ramsay nocked an arrow and quickly, almost lazily, loosed it. It missed Rickon by a foot to the right. As the two Starks charged towards each other, Ramsay loosed a second arrow. This one went too far, landing a few feet in front of Rickon. The third arrow Ramsay fired missed, too. Jon and Rickon were close now, and as Jon leaned down from his horse and extended his hand, Caitie thought, for one hopeful second, that he might actually manage to save his brother.
Until Ramsay released his fourth arrow.
It hit its mark with perfect precision, straight through Rickon's back and through his heart. The little boy crumpled to the ground, right beside his brother's horse. All the while Caitie watched, frozen, helpless, as Jon looked down at his dying brother.
Seconds passed.
She waited for him to turn around and race back towards them, but Jon did not move. He merely sat on his horse, his back to their army—the army they had worked so hard to cultivate, and the army he was about to throw away if he didn't come back right that very moment. He was their commander; they needed him.
Caitie needed him.
"Don't," she heard Tormund beg beside her.
Half a second later, Davos yelled, "Prepare to charge!"
"No!" Caitie galloped towards him as resounding cries of "prepare to charge" rang out around her. Because they couldn't charge. It was suicide, and it would destroy any chance of success they might have.
Some listened to her counter order—mostly Free Folk and her own men. They stopped in their tracks, looking between her and Davos. The rest, however, ignored her cry.
"We have to," Davos said gravely, in a voice so low she could hardly hear it over the clamor. "He'll die if we don't."
Caitie almost told him to fuck off, almost shouted at everyone else to belay his order, beating them all into submission if that was what it took. She didn't know what stopped her. Perhaps it was the thought of leaving Jon to die; perhaps it was that she didn't think the others would listen to her over Davos.
Or perhaps she simply didn't trust her own judgment. Because what if she was wrong? What if refusing to charge only threw their army into further disarray once Jon died? Then she would lose him, and they would all die, anyway.
Desperately, she looked back over to Jon, hoping that, somehow, he could calm all her doubts. If he would just look back... but he was still in the same position as before, motionless at the center of the field, even as she saw the Bolton archers knock their arrows. And before she could do more than blink, he charged forward, towards the Boltons, rather than away from them.
Her heart dropped into her stomach.
The Bolton archers released a volley of arrows. Caitie watched them arc up into the air, her whole being bursting with fear as she watched them trail Jon's horse.
"Go, go! Follow your commander!" Davos shouted, and she kicked her horse into a gallop.
The second volley of arrows fired found their target. She watched in horror as Jon's horse fell, as he jumped off and rolled, fortunately, a good few yards away from the Bolton army. For one terrible moment, Caitie feared he was too injured to stand, but slowly—achingly, maddeningly so—he forced himself to stand and drew Longclaw from its sheath, even as the cavalry rode closer and closer to him, ready to face every single Bolton by himself.
Caitie urged her horse even faster, wanting to scream at Jon to get out of the fucking way. But her voice would have been lost in the thunder of hooves and shouts, so she saved her energy for the oncoming fight.
The Stark cavalry arrived just in time. They smashed into the Boltons in a deafening collision of metal. For a split second amidst all the chaos, Caitie saw Jon look around in befuddlement. She was almost as angry at him as she was relieved they had made it in time. I'm going to kill him, she thought furiously. I'm really going to, this time. Jon thinks the Boltons are the greatest threat, but they won't be when I'm through with him. How could he be so stupid? He could have died. I could have lost him.
And then: he left me.
An image of Grenn flashed through her mind.
But Caitie didn't have time to dwell for more than half a second. The Bolton cavalry was still an ocean around her, twice the size of her own. The plan to flank them was completely scuppered, while the archers were sitting ducks, unable to fire arrows without hitting their own side. The infantry would manage so long as they killed enough of the enemy cavalry, and she would do her best there, but Caitie didn't see any of the enemy infantry, and that worried her.
A Bolton soldier, mounted and holding a lance, charged at her. Caitie veered left, missing the tip of it by a fraction. She tried to strike back, but he was too far away—and damn it, she knew she shouldn't have agreed to a horse. All it did was hamper her abilities. Frustration increasing, she left the mounted Bolton soldier to someone else, jumped down off her horse, and joined the infantry, striking down every last Bolton, Umber, Karstark, or Norrey she saw.
If she'd thought the battle chaotic before, it was nothing compared to now. Around her, men were falling, bleeding, dying. They cried for their mothers or for mercy or for the Gods. And yet, Caitie easily ignored it; she attacked without fear or hesitation, forgetting her hatred of killing in the fever of battle. The finality of it was a comfort rather than a terror, for when someone was dead, they could not do the same to her She sliced throats and stomachs and heads, blood spraying everywhere, and yet she didn't care.
As she killed her way through the battlefield, dodging arrows raining down upon them and enemy soldiers high on horseback, she searched for Jon, but he was nowhere to be found. She couldn't see Tormund either, nor Roland, Selwyn, and Edric. Wun-Wun, at least, she picked out easily, as he towered over everyone, slaughtering men by the dozens.
Another Norrey soldier ran towards her. Caitie leapt forward and plunged Cerys into his heart, killing him within seconds before moving on. She sliced an Umber in half, then a Bolton's throat, then another Norrey, each one easier than the last—and as her list of kills grew, the stranger she found it that none of these soldiers presented a challenge. Free Folk had nearly killed her during the battle at Castle Black more times than she could count, and they didn't have half the martial training as Northmen. Yet, now, one look at her and the Northern soldiers lost their nerve.
It wasn't until she cut down another Norrey that it dawned on her: Rendon had ordered the men to avoid killing her. As a second Norrey soldier stopped dead at the sight of Caitie, allowing her to slice him across the middle, she wondered if her father had expected her not to fight at all.
If he had, it was a mistake, for in their hesitancy, these men did not realize just how lethal she could be.
After what felt like an age, the battle seemed to be thinning, the bodies close to outnumbering the soldiers. As she waded through the field of accumulating dead, she saw yet another volley of arrows fly through the sky. Caitie spun out of the way, and just in time too, for one descended directly where she had just been standing. It missed killing her by less than an inch; the tip grazed her ear before impaling itself in the body next to her with a thud and a squelch.
She ignored the sting and the blood trickling onto her neck, dodging arrow after arrow and watching as they found other targets. Men continued to fall by the tens, Bolton and Stark alike.
Wiping sweat and dirt from her brow, Caitie searched for her friends. Though she still didn't see Jon or Tormund, she found Wun-Wun again with ease and started towards him at a full sprint.
"Follow!" a voice shouted from the treeline behind her. She ignored it, still running, trying to get to Wun-Wun. A Karstark soldier tried to intercept her, but Caitie easily knocked the sword out of his hand and slit his throat with Owen. He fell to his knees and then forward, face-first into the mud, dead.
The cry which followed nearly knocked her off her feet. She looked up. Harald Karstark was sprinting towards her at an astonishing speed, jumping over bodies in his haste to get to her. His face was caked in mud and blood, his features twisted with so much rage that, for one moment, Caitie was too shocked to move. She crossed her daggers over her heart to block his sword just in time, then stepped back to guard her center. He attacked again; she met his blade with her own, unable to think or feel, to do anything but survive. He guarded his center too well for her to slip past it; she was left only able to parry or dodge, over and over, but with every evasion, his frustration grew, and as quick as she was, it only took a split-second of hesitation for him to seize the advantage of his superior reach. He got in a blow to Caitie's middle with his free hand, and she gasped as pain exploded in her abdomen. She doubled over, trying to regain her breath. He didn't hesitate, his fingers wrapping around her throat and squeezing as he lifted her up. His nails dug into her neck; spots danced in her vision.
Caitie closed her eyes, waiting for him to deliver the final blow.
And then something very strange happened.
There was an earsplitting, high-pitched squawk, and Harald Karstark's grip slackened. He let out a scream. Caitie blinked, and as her vision cleared, she saw a large black crow, its talons digging into Karstark's face. He tried in vain to pull it off as blood poured from his eyes, his cheeks, his chin, his forehead. The agony in his scream was terrible, and Caitie almost felt she was doing him a mercy when she drove Cerys into his heart.
The instant Karstark fell, the crow turned its beady black eyes on Caitie. It looked her dead in the eye and she looked back, fearing it might try to attack her next. But it only flew off into the sky, gone as quick as it had come.
There was no time to ponder what had just happened, because the moment the crow had taken flight, a war cry sounded in the distance, distinctly coming from the Bolton side of the battlefield. She looked up to see thousands of soldiers carrying large shields emblazoned with the Bolton sigil, charging towards them.
The heavy infantry.
Fuck.
The only thing Caitie could think to do was screech, "Scatter, now!" But it was too late. Some of the Free Folk nearer to her heeded her orders in time, at least. The Northmen nearest to her, however—Hornwoods, from the looks of it—did not.
The pile of bodies now resembled a small hill towering over the living, and Caitie thanked the Gods they weren't fighting White Walkers. Not that it made all that much difference. The pile still blocked their only escape route.
She sprinted towards Wun-Wun as the Bolton infantry closed in around them, encasing the Stark forces, as well as the few left from the Bolton cavalry, in a circle—six men thick, at least, their large shields emblazoned with the sigil of the flayed man. They brandished their spears, and Caitie knew immediately that her side had lost.
Strangely though, she wasn't afraid. There was anger, grief, determination—but not fear. Because if Caitie was about to go to her end, she would make it count. She would take out as many of those Bolton fuckers as she possibly could. She would buy Sansa, Johnna, Willa, Ghost, and everyone else as much time as she could get them to all escape.
Caitie dashed forward, trying to get to Wun-Wun. The infantry pressed inwards; stabbing advancing, stabbing, advancing, those closest to them dying first, even as they fought back. On the other side, Smalljon Umber and his men came pouring over the pile of bodies.
"With me, lads!" Davos shouted. "Break their lines!"
Skidding to a halt beside Wun-Wun, Caitie watched as he smashed spears and shields and men, throwing one unlucky soldier up into the air like a rag doll. But even Wun-Wun, as large and powerful as he was, couldn't break the Bolton lines.
And still, there was no sign of Jon.
As she searched, a flash of silver out of the corner of Caitie's eye alerted her to an enemy soldier. She did not waste the moment of advance it gave her. Throwing herself forward, her daggers pierced his body with pinpoint precision. She did not wait to watch him die before she moved on, still using Wun-Wun for cover.
The infantry took another few steps inward, and the throng squeezed even closer together. Caitie was all of a sudden pressed in from all sides, while the Free Folk ran towards the pile of bodies in one final, desperate bid for survival.
She could have run, too, she supposed. But there wasn't much point. Caitie was too small; if she tried to follow, she'd end up trampled to death before she could do any good. Instead, she ducked closer to Wun-Wun, allowing him to cover her, and tried to breathe. The stench of the death and decay hit her nostrils, and she almost retched then and there.
She bit back her sob of frustration as Free Folk ran, and thought desperately: Where is Jon? Had he been trampled by the fleeing soldiers? Or had he been dead for ages already, skewered by some Bolton, Karstark, Umber—or worst of all, Norrey?
Helpless and desperate as the Stark men struggled to break through the barricade, trampling each other to get ahead, she screamed, "Jon!"
No one answered her.
Those left alive pressed even closer together as the Bolton infantry continued advancing. Caitie couldn't move her arms or legs, suspended in the sea of bodies, unable to do anything beyond panic. Sweat trickled down her neck, and her cheeks flushed from the unbearable heat. She would have drowned, if not for Wun-Wun, who plucked her up from the ground and situated her in the crook of his arm so that she was protected above the fray.
"Thanks," she said, sitting up to scan the vicinity for Jon or Tormund or even Davos. She picked out Tormund first due to the splash of red hair, as he engaged in a vicious fist-fight with Smalljon Umber; which of them was winning, it was impossible to tell.
As the Bolton infantry closed in further, the battle all but halted, for there was no more room to fight. Wun-Wun still tried with his free arm, but even for him, it was difficult. He had arrows stuck in his arms and shoulders, and although Caitie tried to pull out as many as were within her reach, she couldn't get all of them.
Then a Bolton soldier lodged a spear into Wun-Wun's hip, and as he flinched, Caitie almost lost her balance. She tightened her grip as he pulled the spear out and smashed the soldier it belonged to with his fist.
Looking around once more, she finally caught sight of Jon, also completely unable to move, but alive, at the other end of the growing mass of bodies. His face was near black with mud and dried blood, but she'd have known him anywhere. He noticed Davos first, locking eyes with him as the realization of what was about to happen dawned on them both.
And then he saw her.
The battle was over. He knew it. She knew it. Both cavalries were gone; only the Bolton infantry had any ability to move. Caitie didn't know what was going through Jon's mind, for she had never seen an expression like that on his face. But there was a silent apology underneath it all, and she wondered, briefly, if he regretted his ill-fated charge.
Not that it mattered, now.
A flash of black drew her eye away from Jon. It was that crow again, the same that had saved her from Harald Karstark. It perched itself next to her on Wun-Wun's arm, looked directly at her, and then took off, flying eastward. Caitie watched it until it was a speck of black upon the horizon, wondering if she had just met some manifestation of the Old Gods, there to greet her before her death.
Until a horn blew from that very same direction.
Every single living person froze, enemy and ally forgetting each other as they looked in the direction of the noise. A blue and white flag emerged from over the hill, blowing in the wind. Caitie could only just make out the faint lines of a sigil—and when she did, she nearly fell off of Wun-Wun in shock.
Was that… House Arryn's sigil?
It certainly looked like their sigil, but—no, it couldn't be. It was absolutely impossible. Caitie must have received a fatal blow at some earlier point and was now hallucinating as she died.
But she definitely didn't feel like she was dying, and the closer the army came, the more solid they looked. There were at least a thousand mounted soldiers, maybe even two thousand, all in plated armor. Knights, she realized, carrying House Arryn banners: a white falcon on cerulean.
Then it dawned on her: Sansa. This was her doing. Her cousin was the Lord of the Vale—Robert or Robin or something with an R. She must have sent word to him without telling anyone.
The mounted knights surged forward, cutting through the Bolton infantry like butter. Wun-Wun set Caitie down as everyone spread out. He grabbed a stray Bolton shield and smashed every single enemy soldier he laid eyes upon as the Valemen swept over the rest. Caitie raced towards the last place she had seen Jon, and Wun-Wun quickly caught up with her, helping to clear a path. Except Jon wasn't there anymore. She scanned her surroundings until finally she found him again, climbing up the pile of bodies. "That way!" she called, pointing. Wun-Wun followed her to the base, where they met Tormund, looking just as disheveled and disgusting as she felt.
"Fucking hell," he breathed, clapping Caitie's shoulder and giving her and Wun-Wun a relieved smile. "After the little crow."
With a nod of agreement, the three of them followed the path Jon had taken, grabbing onto body after body as they climbed. Caitie almost lost her grip when she saw Edric Knott among the pile, eyes closed, face ashen, and throat slit. But she swallowed the bile in her throat and kept going, refusing to fall behind. Even as her arms strained, and she felt like she was going to pass out from exhaustion, she still climbed, along with Tormund and Wun-Wun—although he didn't climb so much as walk, mashing the bodies beneath him into the ground with his feet.
Jon reached the summit first, then Wun-Wun, then Tormund. Caitie was last; she pulled herself up with all her might, seconds after the others, and followed their gazes.
It was Ramsay Bolton, flanked on one side by a soldier, and on the other…
Rendon's eyes found hers instantly.
All three of them were still mounted on their horses, watching with disbelief and fury as their army collapsed. When he finally noticed Jon watching him, Ramsay turned his horse around and galloped back in the direction of Winterfell. Jon bolted off after him.
Though Tormund and Wun-Wun followed, Caitie stayed rooted in place. Her father hadn't gone with Ramsay. He'd stayed where he was, watching her with his dark, calculating eyes. He knew his side had lost, and he knew now that his only hope of staying alive was to keep out of the fighting.
And, she realized with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, that he would need her, too.
Caitie supposed she could run. All she would have to do was slide back down the way she'd come, and she'd be protected both by her own forces as well as mounted Valemen. But she had run from the Fist and Craster's Keep and Hardhome. She had run from him, and she would not do so again. Her father had haunted her dreams for almost as long as she could remember; he had taken all the power from her, killed those she loved, allied with those she despised.
Taking vengeance wouldn't bring back the victims of his cruelty and selfishness. But it would make her feel a hell of a lot better.
Rendon kicked his horse into a full gallop. Caitie gripped Owen and Cerys, hands shaking with fury and grief as she waited. All she wanted to do was move, to strike, but he was mounted and she wasn't, which meant she needed to be smart, especially if she didn't want to hurt his horse.
Just a bit closer, she thought, watching his horse gallop towards her. Once he was in range, Caitie moved, rolling out of the way just as he reached to grab her, leaving him with no other choice than to bring his horse to a skidding halt before they could topple over into the pile of bodies. As the horse whinnied and his balance teetered, she rushed forward and pushed with all her might, until he fell sideways and onto the grass.
She slapped the horse's rear, and it trotted away, back towards the castle. Caitie watched silently as Rendon coughed and stood, unsheathing his sword.
"I don't want to hurt you," he said.
Caitie gripped her daggers even more tightly than before, scowling. "I highly doubt that."
"If you don't come with me, I'll die."
"Do you honestly think I care?"
Rendon Norrey frowned. "I'm your father. Your family."
Caitie saw red. This man had betrayed her, every time, in every way. He had disregarded the role of father, in favor of jailor and abuser for her entire life. He had made her life a living hell. He had hurt her brothers in ways she couldn't even imagine. Yet now, he thought he could appeal to her as her family?
She didn't bother with a response, for no words could ever be enough; instead, she launched herself forward, daggers flashing as she attacked. Rendon's eyes widened, but he brought his sword up to block her just in time. She parried, but instead of re-engaging, her father backed away. From there, the fight quickly took on a pattern: her attacking, him blocking, and her retreating before he could gain the advantage—and Caitie realized that still, still, he didn't see her as a threat. He was only trying to defend until she got tired, for he didn't truly fear her.
She would teach him to regret that before she killed him.
Caitie had never been more glad for her months spent training with Tormund, watching as he absorbed every one of her blows and endured. For this was what her father tried to do now—yet as strong as he was might have been, he still wasn't her friend. And if she could push past that, then she could push past this. So she gritted her teeth, feinting right, and though her father didn't take the bait, that was okay. As he blocked her blades, she pushed against him as hard as she could, unbalancing him, and as he teetered on the spot, his guard dropped; she pierced his side, plunging Owen as far as it could go. Her father let out a howl of pain, but still, he stood, one hand trying to staunch the blood from the wound she'd caused, the other still trying to disarm her. Caitie ducked to avoid his reach and swept under his legs with her foot. Finally, he fell, sprawled on his back, groaning. He was injured but alive, holding his right side as blood seeped from the wound she'd given him. It was deep, but ultimately nonfatal.
Caitie stood towering over her father, feeling immense power and rage—rage like she had never felt before. It was alive, pulsing in her veins and her heart; that same need to kill echoing in every corner of her mind. It was for Owen and Cerys and Arthur, yes—but also for Rickon, Edric, and even Robb. She raised Owen and Cerys, thinking to herself how fitting it was to kill the man who'd murdered her brothers with the daggers she'd named for them.
But just as she went to lift her dagger and drag it across her father's throat, she faltered.
She didn't know why. Everything inside of her screamed to kill the man before her, to draw it out, to make sure he knew that he had brought it on himself. It would have been so satisfying to end him as easily as he had ended her brothers. But there was the smallest of voices at the very back of her head, telling her—begging her—to stop, and even though she wanted to ignore it, even though it would have been the easiest thing in the world, she couldn't. Because it wasn't the voice of Jon or Sam or even Edd.
It was her voice. And that made all the difference.
Every time Caitie's temper had taken over, someone else had pulled her back from the edge. But this time, there was no friend to talk her down and force her to make the right choice. She was all alone. Now, it was up to her, and only her, to decide who she wanted to be. Did she want to be the person who let her rage rule her actions? Did she want to become the man she was trying so hard to kill?
Jon was right. She would regret killing her father. Not because of some suppressed feelings of familial affection; but because she loved her friends, her family, herself, more than she hated him. Because her life mattered more than his death. And because the person she wanted to be mattered more than what he deserved.
Caitie hated her father. But she wouldn't let him control her anymore, either.
Rendon furrowed his brows as Caitie hesitated. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him reach for his sword. Before he could touch its hilt, she delivered a swift kick to his head—just strong enough to knock him unconscious.
His head lolled, and his eyes rolled back into his head.
As the adrenaline from the fight drained, a sob wracked her body. She forced it down; there would be time to fall apart later. After taking a few calming breaths, Caitie peered back over to the battlefield nearby. A few soldiers wearing Arryn colors were taking care of the last Bolton stragglers, but most of the Vale forces had followed Jon, Wun-Wun, and Tormund. She had no idea how long it had been since she'd last seen them. Time had seemed to halt during the fight with her father. Regardless, she needed to follow.
The Free Folk had also followed up to the castle, but there were still Northmen in the field—Mazins and Mormonts, mostly, though Caitie did see Selwyn and a few of his men helping patch up some of the wounded.
A flash of steel caught her eye. Hurrying around to the other side of the pile of bodies, Caitie watched as Roland mowed down three Umber soldiers with his greatsword as they tried to flee. His eyes were bloodshot and his face contorted with an emotion she knew all too well.
"Roland!"
He looked over, and when he saw it was her, he rushed up and pulled her into a suffocating hug. "Thank the Gods," he choked.
When he released her, she took a deep breath and tried to sound confident. "Put my father in chains. When we've taken Winterfell, we can try him."
Roland didn't move, only looking at her with concern in his eyes. But then he nodded and acquiesced, picking her father up and slinging him over his shoulder.
As he started to walk away, Caitie called back to him. "And Roland?"
He furrowed his brows.
"I'm sorry." She tried to convey so much in those two words, for Roland had not just lost his brother. He had also inherited a new responsibility he'd never asked for, nor wanted. She understood that better than anyone.
He swallowed, unable to do anything beyond giving a single nod, his grief too severe for words. She wished she could say something to comfort him, but she didn't have time. She needed to get to Jon, Tormund, and Wun-Wun.
Turning away, Caitie sprinted in the direction of Winterfell. She blew past the remaining Northmen and Valemen in her path. Even when her calves started to feel as though they were on fire, even when her heart and lungs seemed to collapse, she still kept up her pace. It wasn't until a chestnut courser intercepted her that she stopped, readying herself for another fight.
Except the rider spoke before she could attack. "My lady!" He was a Valeman, not much older than she was, with a strong jaw, a stocky build, and a mop of blonde hair. He was wearing fine plate armor. "Are you Caitriona Norrey?"
She furrowed her brows, but lowered her weapons by a fraction. "Yes. Why do you ask?"
The Valeman promptly dismounted, smiling at her as if there hadn't just been a battle of near annihilation—as if thousands of people hadn't just died. "Lady Stark gave an order to provide you transport to Winterfell as quickly as possible."
Her irritation with the knight evaporated. They'd done it. They'd taken Winterfell. "Oh," she said with a grateful, fleeting smile. "Thanks." He extended a hand to help her up, but Caitie was too impatient. She launched herself onto the horse and urged it forward at top speed without a second glance.
The ride to Winterfell was quicker on horseback than it ever would have been on foot. Before long, the castle loomed overhead in all its towering glory. She dismounted by the gates, which looked as though they had been shredded. Wun-Wun's doing, she thought fondly. A few Free Folk men and women were leaving just as she arrived, their heads bowed as they started towards the battlefield to collect the dead. Caitie paid no attention to them as she ran into Winterfell's courtyard, hoping to find Jon.
But when she saw what was inside, she stopped dead in her tracks. Her heart seized and her throat burned—even as her mind revolted, insisting the sight which lay before her could not exist.
It was Wun-Wun.
He lay motionless, spread-eagled on the ground in a gargantuan pool of his own blood, taking up half of the courtyard. She couldn't count how many arrows riddled his body. They were embedded in his back, his chest, his arms, his hands.
"No!" The scream was so full of horror and agony that it pierced the heavens, but only when her throat felt like it had been shredded to bits did Caitie know it had come from her. Without realizing it, she had thrown herself forward through the crowd of Free Folk, Northmen, and Valemen that had remained in the courtyard, and collapsed at Wun-Wun's side. She pushed on his arm with all her might, trying to rouse him.
Because this was impossible. He could not be dead. He was injured, unconscious. But he was alive. He had to be.
"Wake up!" she cried when Wun-Wun didn't budge, still pushing his arm, which was twice the size of her head. Again, she ordered, "Wake up!"
Caitie felt a hand on her shoulder. She flinched at the touch. "Caitie," a voice said. Tormund's voice, she realized dully. "You can't help him."
She shook her head, refusing to listen to such lies. "No." Her voice broke.
His voice broke, too. "He's gone. There's nothing we can do." Tormund took her arm, gently trying to pry her from the fallen giant, but she tore herself away and clung to Wun-Wun's furs with all her might.
"No!"
Tormund relinquished his hold on her. Caitie hardly noticed, too busy shaking Wun-Wun as hard as she could, unable to think beyond bringing him back. "Wun-Wun, wake up!"
And still, he did not stir.
The sobs she'd suppressed earlier wracked her body as she pushed, trying to force him back to life through sheer will. Even when her throat had gone too raw to make a sound, she still sat there, with silent tears pouring down her cheeks, shaking his arm, as if her touch alone could wake him.
Her movements grew feebler from exhaustion, and finally she looked down at her friend, noticing the damage to his face for the first time since she'd first seen him lying there. Not only was his body riddled with arrows, but so was his throat and face—even his eye had one through it. Caitie knew, really, that even a giant couldn't survive all this. But she had lost so much; so many people she loved. She had expected to lose more today, even some small part of herself preparing to lose Jon. Yet, of everyone, the person she always believed would survive was Wun-Wun.
And she didn't realize just how much she had needed him to until now.
Maybe this was hell. Maybe she had died, and this was her punishment. Her first love had killed the Giant King, and now she had to witness the fall of the last giant. Because now he was more than the last giant to her. He was a person. He was her friend. And he deserved better.
Thousands of years could have passed, and Caitie would not have noticed. Even as more Free Folk and Northmen started trickling back into Winterfell's courtyard carrying their dead; even as she heard Jon order his men to tear down the Bolton banners and replace them with the grey direwolf of the Starks, Caitie refused to leave. She knew there wasn't really a reason to stay, now that she had accepted the truth. But she had been willing to stay with Jon's body until she'd finally fallen to exhaustion. Wun-Wun deserved no less than him.
At some point, Jon draped a raggedy blanket around Caitie's shoulders, but even he couldn't cut through the fog of her grief. And, whether it was due to his own grief or because he knew her too well, he didn't try to force the issue.
It wasn't until a wet nose nudged her cheek that she looked away from the body. "Ghost," she whispered, hardly believing her eyes. She brought up a hand to clutch his fur, and then tore it away as though she'd been burned—because Ghost shouldn't have been here. He should have been with Johnna and Willa. And as her mind went into overdrive, a hand settled on her shoulder. A hand too small to be Jon's or Tormund's or even Sansa's.
"Caitie," Johnna said, her voice shaking.
That might well have been the only sound in the world that could have gotten through to Caitie. She burst into tears once again, grabbing Johnna's furs and pulling her into a crushing hug.
"I'm all right," Johnna said through her own tears as she patted Caitie on the back. "We're all right."
And yet, the reassurances did nothing to soothe her. She sobbed harder, her chest aching as though she'd been stabbed. She refused to let go, afraid that if she did, Johnna would disappear. Time went fuzzy again as she cried, as did Johnna—from relief and despair, and simply because, for better or worse, it was finally over.
Eventually, though, they ran out of tears, and so they merely sat in silence with Ghost and Wun-Wun, watching as more Free Folk came through the gate, carrying bodies taken from the battlefield.
"Where's Willa?" Caitie asked, wiping her nose with her sleeve.
"Tormund made her go inside when we got here."
"You should go back inside, too," she said. "You shouldn't have to see this—any of it."
"I know," Johnna replied, and suddenly, she sounded older than her nearly thirteen years, though Caitie couldn't put her finger on why. "Tormund was gonna make me go inside too, but I think he knew you'd need to see at least one of us. He's really worried about you. So is Jon. I don't think I've ever seen him so... broken."
Caitie didn't know what to say to that, because why was anyone worried about her when so many others were gone?
Johnna swallowed, looking down. "I'm really gonna miss him."
Caitie tried her very best not to break into sobs yet again. It was easier this time. Tormund had been right: seeing Johnna worked at returning Caitie to reality. The girls needed her, and she wouldn't fall apart as long as they did. So she said, with a shaky sigh, "Come on. Let's get inside, and then we can figure out what to do next."
"Well, first off, you really need a bath."
Somehow, Caitie actually managed a laugh—choked and raw, but still a laugh. She stood up and extended her arm for Johnna to take. When both girls were upright, Ghost followed suit. Caitie was just about to lead them towards her quarters for some much-needed rest when she realized she didn't have any quarters here. Moreover, she hardly remembered anything about Winterfell's layout. She didn't know where to go or even who to speak to in order to find out.
Whilst searching for someone who could help direct her, she noticed Melisandre watching them from a covered balcony overlooking the courtyard. When they made eye contact, Caitie hesitated—because it suddenly occurred to her that Melisandre could bring Wun-Wun back. Hell, she could bring Rickon back, too.
But Caitie shook the thought away as soon as it had come. Returning from the dead had nearly destroyed Jon. He wouldn't wish it upon his worst enemy, let alone those he loved. And Gods only knew what it would do to Wun-Wun, or worse, Rickon, who was still a child.
It would be selfish of her to ask. Better they stay at peace.
"My lady?" Looking over her shoulder, she saw Selwyn limping towards them, Roland following close behind.
Johnna shifted at the sight of the two Northmen. Picking up on her discomfort, Ghost raised his hackles.
Caitie wrapped an arm around her shoulder and squeezed, stroking Ghost's ear with her other hand as she addressed her bannermen. "Move Wun-Wun's body out of the way, but don't do anything else yet. I want to give him a proper funeral. I'm sure Lady Stark won't mind."
Selwyn nodded. "Of course."
With that, Caitie nodded her dismissal and turned away from the two men. She, Johnna, and Ghost ascended a set of steps up to the covered passageways which wrapped around the courtyard. They found a door to the inside, but Caitie had no idea where to go from there. Winterfell was larger than she remembered; there were hundreds of corridors, which only led to more corridors, or flights of steps, or rooms larger than the long hall at Castle Black. For how long Caitie and Johnna walked, hopelessly lost, she hadn't any idea. Ghost was no help; he was too busy sniffing her entrail-stained armor to lead them anywhere.
Finally, as night fell, Caitie and Johnna gave up and decided to retrace their steps to the courtyard. Halfway down one of the wider corridors that Johnna insisted looked familiar, they came across Sansa. She was immaculate, as always, with her perfectly neat copper braid and direwolf dress. But her eyes were hard, determined, blazing with fury. They softened slightly when she noticed Caitie and Johnna, but nothing could take it away completely.
"I'm sorry about Wun-Wun," Sansa said.
Caitie swallowed. "I'm sorry about Rickon."
The two women held each other's gazes, and she knew from the look in her eyes that Sansa was about to do something from which there was no coming back. She knew why, too. From the little Caitie had seen of Ramsay Bolton, it seemed the one thing he loved almost as much as cruelty was a spectacle. If he were going to die, he would want it to be public, to command the attention of everyone around him—to make his memory last. Sansa would never allow him that satisfaction. She would make his death the smallest of stains in history, one which would soon be overlooked and then forgotten; all memory of the Bolton bastard washed away.
Sansa cleared her throat and smiled down at Johnna. "If you head through that door and up the flight of stairs—" she nodded to the door on Johnna's left, "—you'll find your sister, a bed, and a bath."
Johnna blinked, then looked up at Caitie for confirmation.
"Go on," she said gently. "I'll find you later."
Once Johnna had reluctantly departed, Ghost in tow, Sansa's expression hardened again. Caitie watched her, unsure what to think, let alone say. For Sansa had lived through many things, but she had never killed someone, and that was something Caitie would never wish upon anybody.
Yet, as she pictured Wun-Wun's arrow-ridden body, Rickon's small form crumbling in the middle of the field, and so many other faces she'd known with blank, unseeing eyes, Caitie realized she couldn't think of one good reason to stop Sansa, either.
It was not her choice to make, nor to judge.
"Do you want me to come?"
She straightened. "He killed Wun-Wun. If you wish to join me, I won't deny you."
Caitie shook her head. As tempting as the offer was, she wouldn't accept it for the wrong reasons. "If you want me there, I will be. But if it's something you need to do alone—"
"It is."
She took a deep breath. "Then I wish you luck." And before she could stop herself, she thought: And I hope to all the Gods that he suffers.
Sure enough, Caitie got her wish, for the screams of Ramsay Bolton echoed throughout all of Winterfell as he died.
So, story time: I went back and forth about making some minor changes to what happens in canon in order to make Jon's actions a bit more sensible. But then I realized it wasn't so much that Jon fucked everything up that I dislike; rather it's how the characters react to it that I hate so much. Because the thing is, Jon's a pretty reckless guy, and it isn't that out-of-character for him to have that idiotic charge into the battlefield (even hearing Sansa and Caitie's advice, it's tough to make good choices after you've watched your 11 y/o brother murdered in front of you by a madman). The issue wasn't his Leeroy Jenkins imitation, because that kind of makes sense; it's that no one ever acknowledged it. So while I didn't change the plot, I did make sure it mattered to the characters more (and, thankfully, it plays well into where I want to take the story). It doesn't really make me hate the battle any less, but at least it makes the aftermath more impactful. To me, anyway.
And with all that out of the way, I'm answering the guest review, because it really made my day, so: thank you so, so much for your review. It was absolutely lovely (and not sappy at all). It means more than words can say that this fic has brought you joy, because I've found a lot of joy writing it these past two (otherwise-joyless) years. I do wish I could tell you there's no reason to be nervous, but if this chapter was any indication… sorry. I can't.
PS: here's a funny video for your viewing pleasure; hopefully it will cheer you up after this horribly depressing chapter: watch?v=Q0dA9eUP85s