Elphaba818:

I know what you all are thinking: It's a miracle! Howl of the Dragonwolves has been updated only a week later! It can't possibly be true!

Well readers, it is true! This is the first half of Battle of the Bastards, and I've had this fight planned in the back of my mine ever since the earliest brainstorming days of this story! Longclaw and I were both so excited to write it, that immediately after posting the last chapter, we just started writing and writing this fight scene right off the bat, and before we knew it, we finished the entire battle!

That being said, the battle for the North ran super long, so Longclaw and I decided to cut the chapter in half by posting the first half now, and the second half will be up by this time next week. Just like we did with Hardhome and the Battle in the Fighting Pits. I'm sure you'll all be on the edge of your seat when you see how we split the chapter in half, but trust me when I say you're in for a wild ride with Battle of the Bastards! Seriously, you will NOT be disappointed!

Enjoy this first half of the BotB, everyone! You're going to love it, I promise! ;D

And please be sure to leave a nice review when you're done!

Happy Reading!

- Elphaba818

Chapter Thirty-One: The Dragon in the Wolf's Skin

"Are you sure she wasn't there?"

"Yes, Jon."

"Well, did you check Tormund's tent with the other Free Folk? She and Shireen are friends with his daughter, so—"

"Jon. For the last time, yes!"

He flinched and smiled apologetically. "Sorry, really. I just… It just seems odd, that's all, Sansa. Lyaella isn't one to run off on her own…"

It was finally the day. In less than an hour, he and his men would be marching forth to Winterfell. From there, everything would be determined once and for all. Either his side would win and he'd reclaim his and Sansa's ancestral home with House Stark being reinstated as the rightful Warden's of the North, or Ramsay would win and the Bolton's would continue plaguing the country with no one to stop him… and by extension the North would be completely unprepared for when the dead marched South…

Hence why it was so important that his side arrived early to the battlefield and laid out their plans. Jon needed to leave soon if they were to make it there with time to spare, but before he left, he wanted to say goodbye to Lyaella and make sure that she joined Shireen and the other Free Folk children and elderly evacuating their war camp to return to Castle Black for the time being. In the off-chance that their side lost, Castle Black was probably the safest place for them where Ramsay couldn't touch.

But oddly enough, Lyaella wasn't in Shireen's tent when he went searching for her. Nor did she appear anywhere else in the campgrounds.

Jon sighed and ran a hand over his face. "Where could she be, Sansa? I need to get going, but I can't just ignore the fact she's missing…"

Sansa pursed her lips. "Perhaps she left earlier with the first few groups for the Wall? Some of the Wildlings started heading out just before you woke up."

But he just shook his head. "But she didn't take two minutes to tell me she was leaving? That… That doesn't sound like her…"

Sansa frowned, unable to counter that.

Before either of them could collect their thoughts, their tent flap swung open. Davos poked his head inside. "Lord Snow, apologies for interrupting, but the men are all assembled and waiting for you to address them."

Jon bit his lip — he'd read plenty of tales of great battles and the orations given by kings and commanders alike. He'd always wanted to give a great pre-battle oration as Daeron I or Baelor Breakspear did, and now was his chance… He sighed, feeling only wariness instead of the excitement the child he once was imagined the moment being. He turned back to his sister. "Duty calls."

She nodded. "Mind if I watch?" Sasna shifted nervously, so Jon only smiled at her - his sister being more jittery than he was not a shock.

He quickly clipped Longclaw to his sword belt and followed Davos outside. As they walked through the campgrounds towards where the rest of the troops were waiting for them, Jon couldn't help but let his eyes wander over to where the Free Folk evacuees were assembling, searching relentlessly for Lyaella. Odds were Sansa was right about Lyaella simply having been forced to leave in one of the earlier groups that set off just before dawn… but he couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. Part of him just wanted to tell his men that they had to delay their march until he knew for a fact that Lyaella was safe and sound, but there was no way he could do that. He would have to find Lyaella later and scold her for running off without telling him anything. For now, he had a war to win.

Davos seemed to read the conflict in his eyes and chuckled humorously. "If you brood any harder, you'll end up with more wrinkles than me when you're my age."

"Sorry, I'm just worried about Lyaella. I haven't seen her all morning."

"Ah, well that makes two of us, then. I haven't seen Shireen since last night."

Jon blinked. "She's missing, too?"

"Well, I assume she woke early and dragged Lyaella and the children of that Wildling man your friends with to the first evacuating wagon for the Wall. They're probably at Castle Black by now."

"Aye, and when we win this fight, King Crow, I plan to give my lass a good scoldin' for runnin' off and leavin' her baby brother behind with only yer wolf for company. Munda's in trouble the next time I see her, mark my words."

Jon blinked at Tormund as he joined them. His daughter was gone too? She ran off and left her four-year-old brother alone? In all honesty, he supposed that was somewhat plausible. But still… it seemed odd that all three girls were missing. Were it any other time, he would insist on waiting at least an hour before marching into battle to at least ask around to see if anyone had seen any of the children around today. But Ramsay Bolton was not the type of enemy they could allow to have any additional time to plan out his own strategies. He was vindictive and cunning, evil at the core. For every second they delayed their march meant another second he would have to plot and scheme his own sick games on the battlefield, and another second lost for them to prepare their own defenses, eat a quick meal, and ready themselves for any surprises.

They had to leave now. It was as simple as that.

Shaking away his thoughts, Jon stood on a tree stump and gazed out at all the troops on his side who had rallied to his cause. They were strung out in marching formation, northern cavalry of the various houses in the front and rear, Baratheon pikemen directly behind the vanguard. More northern infantry - mostly the Ryswells and Dustins - followed by the mass of Free Folk. Wun Wun the giant and his two companions were quite the sight among them

Not the best army, but they were tough and in high spirits… mostly at least. He squared his shoulders. "This is it, men. Today, the Bolton reign in the North comes to an end. Ramsay has tormented our families and our country for far too long. Are you ready to take back what he's stolen from you? What he's stolen from all of us?"

"Aye!"

"Aye!"

"AYE!"

Jon nodded, drawing Longclaw and pointing ahead. "Then onward! Onward to Winterfell!"

And with that, the men cheered, waving at him as they marched past. Hopefully to victory… and damned if Jon thought he could crush all that faced him if just for that moment.

"Jon," he heard called out behind him. It was Sansa, standing in the dried, dead grass with her hood covering her hair. Jon walked to her, and she unexpectedly hugged him round the waist, a hug he reciprocated. "Be careful."

"Of course…" He kissed her forehead. "Promise you'll keep an eye for Lyaella and her friends if they return to camp."

"I will…" she trailed off, mind faraway it seemed.

Jon understood. "We will win this day, Sansa, I promise you." He pulled back to look in her eyes, cupping her cheek. "You and I will be back in the keep by sundown, and that man will never hurt you again."

All at once, Sansa's eyes hardened considerably. "Oh, I know he won't. Like I told him at the parley, he's going to die today. It's as simple as that." Confidence, something he didn't see last night. But then her face softened, and there seemed to be… regret in her eyes. "Jon… there is something I didn't tell you."

"What?" He blinked in confusion.

Biting her lip, Sansa leaned into his ear, voice dropping to a whisper. "Littlefinger. He marched to Moat Cailin with three thousand heavy cavalry."

Jon stiffened in shock. "What?"

"He pledged the forces to me. I don't trust him as far as I could throw him, but after the Manderlys and Glovers told us to go to the seven hells, I sent a raven… and received one yesterday. They're here. I'm going to meet them."

Trembling, Jon pulled back to meet her eyes. "And you're just telling me this now?" He couldn't believe it.

She had the decency to look ashamed, but not completely. "Ramsay… he's going to do something to try and break you. To make you cede him the advantage. We needed to trap him, and this was my way to do so, make him the one to fall into my game and not the other way around."

A fury welled within him, but he kept calm. "I deserved to know. Why didn't you tell me?"

"He's too smart. He would've known if the army acted differently — Ramsay can tell." Even seeming to sense his anger, she darted forward, grabbing his arm. "I made a mistake not telling you, but please still heed my warning," Sansa pleaded, desperate. "No matter what happens, do not attack. Do not leave your position, no matter how he provokes you. If you do you will lose."

Trembling with anger, Jon wanted to scream at her… to berate her for this… this… But he held himself, seeing the terror in Sansa's eyes. A terror he hadn't seen since the letter was read in the Castle Black great hall.

Jon might've been angry at her, been furious with her for this attempted deception, but he understood why she did it. And it made him hate Ramsay more. "You're going to get the Knights of the Vale now?"

"Yes."

He exhaled. "We will discuss this after the battle, Sansa. I'll decide what to do about it then, and you will listen to all I have to tell you about what you did." She bit her lip and nodded. He did too. "I still promise you'll be safe, sister." A kiss on her cheek, one Sansa did as well for him.

Jon meant what he said as he walked away — there was no sense charging into battle with an angered heart. It sacrificed focus and logic.

"Ready, Jon?" he heard Davos ask him as Jon mounted his horse.

Nodding, Jon turned his head to Davos. "Pass this order along to everyone… no matter what happens, the army stays put."

Davos furrowed his brows. "I'm not…"

"Stays put. Doesn't move an inch from our defensive position. Understood?" As Davos gave his affirmation, Jon looked behind him. Sansa was gone, off to do her part. He sighed. Now it was time to do his.

Modest clouds of greasy black smoke stabbed at the grey sky above. Adding a stench of burnt flesh and rancid ash to Jon's nose. Squinting as best he could to make out the details several hundred yards past the treeline, he eventually turned away in disgust. "Seems we have a reminder of what we're fighting against today."

"Fuck me," murmured Lord Rodrik Ryswell, a grimace marring his aging face.

"Not even' Thenns that fucked up," Tormund spat, getting nods from the rest of the Free Folk.

Winterfell was in the distance, and if to spite the memory of the honorable Ned Stark, a number of wooden crosses had been set up at various spots across the field between the walls and the Wolfswood. Each one had been set on fire, roasting the corpses of poor Northern smallfolk that had been flayed alive. Such was the source of the smell.

What had happened to them? Were they killed simply because they refused to join Ramsay's army? Was it because they were hoping for the Starks to take back the North? Or was it because Ramsay had been bored and decided to satisfy his sick mind by murdering innocents?

Lyanna Mormont, having insisted to be here and jointly commanding the archers alongside Ser Davos, narrowed her eyes. "I expect it of Boltons, but Houses Karstark and Umber were once honorable. What do they think of this atrocity?"

Larence Snow of House Hornwood pursed his lips. "Well… one way or another we'll be askin' em." He pointed to the south.

A hundred yards behind the ragged line of crosses were the Bolton army. Ramsay's army. A mass of greater number than they, deployed on a shallow ridge as if deliberately to show off their numbers. Displayed in neat rows, cavalry in the vanguard and infantry behind. The flags of the four traitorous House's fluttered in the breeze, mocking them. Bolton, Karstark, Whitehill, and Umber.

"He's kept his own men in the center," Davos remarked, pointing. A solid wall of pikes and square shields emblazoned with the Bolton sigil, the elite of the War of the Five Kings. "Horsemen are about even between Karstark and Bolton, no?"

"Aye," Ryswell mused — he would know. "Umber infantry on either flank, plus some Whitehills… We'd get slaughtered if we advanced."

"That's why we're not going to." Jon looked at each of his senior commanders, Northman, Free Folk, and Baratheon. "We hold here, understood?" Nods. They understood.

If a defensive focus hadn't been obvious before, seeing the around six thousand five hundred banners that Ramsay had arrayed in front of Winterfell certainly made it so. Jon's army was only two-thirds of that, more or less. Five and thirty hundred Free Folk warriors, disorganized but tough, hardy fighters. Five hundred Baratheon spearmen that were Princess Shireen's honor guard, as well as a thousand combined men of the Northern houses that declared for him, Mormont, Dustin, Ryswell, Forrester, Hornwood, and Mazin.

Billeting his forces in his head, the task seemed far less daunting, though the cavalry disadvantage was dangerous. All the more reason we must stay put.

His mind drifted to the morning in the camp. The Knights of the Vale… Part of him was proud and amazed that Sansa had pulled that coup off, even if he still wasn't very happy with her for not telling him sooner — there were numerous ways he could have better prepared for this battle had he known about them — but what was done was done. For now, she did tell him, and a proper endgame was in sight. With the House Arryn knights as a fresh relief force, he could guarantee this fight would end with House Stark taking back the North. All he had to do was ensure Ramsay's forces charged first.

They'd spent nigh two hours preparing the position at the edge of the Wolfswood, just in front of the treeline. Thickets and natural ponds and hollows in the ground anchored their flanks, presenting enough of a frontline to keep their infantry three men deep with what little cavalry they had — Ryswell on the left and Dustin and Hornwood on the right — as flank guards. Tormund had suggested putting the giants to defend the horsemen and Jon agreed.

The rest of the Northmen were distributed in the center left and right, while the Free Folk manned the center. He placed the Baratheon pikemen as a last reserve right behind Tormund's warriors, just in case, while Davos' archers were distributed in clumps along the line. Not the best plan, but as best he could do.

Just hold… hold long enough for Sansa to arrive. Jon's heart thumped in his chest.

Urging his horse forward, he nodded to Davos, Tormund and the others rode all across the line, ensuring his men were ready. Every half-minute or so he gazed at the opposing line, searching for his counterpart. He didn't see Ramsay anywhere, but based on what his sister had told him, the man thrived on mind games. He was probably hiding in the back somewhere, wanting to make his side become impatient waiting to start this fight so they'd charge first. That would not be happening.

Not today.

"We hold steady, men," he told every group of men as he rode like a commanding general. "No matter what happens, we hold the line. Give them no ground. Not one inch back."

Some clapped, some cheered, while most merely nodded — grizzled but determined.

As he approached the center of the line again, the Bolton line finally parted, revealing his foe for all to see. Ramsay was atop a jet black stallion, smirking cockily as he had at the parley. He rode forward to the front of his army, but he was not alone. He was leading the reins of a second black horse. But its rider was not one of his soldiers. It was far too small to be an adult, and it was bound with heavy ropes and had a thick burlap sack covering its head.

The howling winds of a winter blizzard roared in Jon's ears. Rickon. That twisted fucker was trying to get in his head. He'd dragged his little brother out here to execute him. What did he want? Was Ramsay hoping he'd surrender in exchange for Rickon's life? Did he want him to beg for mercy? Did he want him to order his army to charge forward, to hopefully rescue his brother in time? He couldn't do that. His forces had to stay here if the last minute strategy incorporating the Vale Knights was to work as planned. But maybe he could have his archers cover him while he made a mad dash forward to save Rickon? It'd be risky, but if it meant Rickon would live, then—

A loud, hysterical chortle from across the field forced him back to the present. "Jon Snow! For being the so-called son of the honorable Ned Stark, I'm surprised at you!" Ramsay yelled, still laughing away. "You're a traitor to your own House and family! Seven hells, you're a traitor to the North!"

Jon just stared, utterly baffled. As did his men and the men on Ramsay's side. Traitor? What is he talking about? House Bolton was the traitor here. They betrayed Robb at the Red Wedding and stole the North. Even the Umber's and Karstark's were traitors for choosing to side with him in this war.

Ramsay guffawed, as though the confusion on his face and the faces of his audience just added to his enjoyment. Most likely it did. "I'll admit it here and now, Jon Snow. I'm cruel. And twisted. I like watching people squirm in fear. I like hurting them, hearing them scream. Only the gods know just how much I love playing games with people. To see the hope drain out of their eyes when they realize there's no escape… That moment is one I live for. Nothing gives me more pleasure than that."

Jon's mouth pressed into a thin line. Ramsay was fucked up in the head. It was that simple.

"When my father told me he was plotting with the Lannister's so House Bolton would become the new Warden's of the North, I was excited," he went on. "I didn't mind being part of a traitorous House if it meant that any and all Northern criminals were brought to me. Fresh meat for both myself and my hounds, and House Bolton rises up in the world. It seemed like a perfect plan… but for all my faults, Jon Snow, not even I would have supported my father if he had done what you have in terms of betraying the North! I'm still a Northerner who is loyal to Northern history! I remember what's happened to our people in the past, and not even I would betray my House and the North the way you have!"

The men on his side turned to him in confusion, but Jon only mutely shook his head. What was he babbling on about?

Ramsay yanked hard on the reins of the second horse, jerking it closer. Its tiny rider wobbled unsteadily. "Not even I, Jon Snow," he went on, grinning cruelly, "would dare betray the North by acting friendly with dragons!"

A chorus of confused murmurs rose up from both sides of the battlefield.

"Dragons?"

"What the fuck's he talking about?"

"Betray the North?"

Jon didn't hear any of it, though. His blood froze, ice filling his veins. No, no it wasn't possible. There was no way that Ramsay—

"Lords of the North! I give you a member of a House that has betrayed our people even more than my family has!" Ramsay turned to his blindfolded prisoner, and without warning, kicked them so hard they fell to the ground. A loud yelp echoed all the way from across the field as they tried to gain their bearings. Pleased with himself, Ramsay hopped down from his own horse and marched towards them. "Behold!" He declared, dragging them roughly to their feet. "The same bastard little girl that's been following the Stark bastard around like a lost puppy!"

He whipped off the bag.

Jon's heart dropped to his stomach.

Lyaella.

The second the bag was off her head, stunned silence stretched across the battlefield for a few precious moments. Then all at once the cries of thousands upon thousands of enraged Northmen from Ramsay's side filled the air while on Jon's side, shouts of disbelief and bewilderment echoed across the field.

Some cursed her and House Targaryen in general. Others demanded to know who she was and where she came from. Most though demanded that Ramsay slit her throat right then and there.

For all the anger and hatred Northerners felt towards House Bolton due to recent years, the North's hatred towards House Targaryen was too deeply ingrained in their memory to be overshadowed, even in current circumstances. Every Northern soldier on the field wished her dead.

Terrified tears filled Lyaella's eyes. She sobbed, but the gag in her mouth choked her, making it even harder to breathe. She'd never been given any treatment for her wheezing last night after Ramsay discovered her identity. No, the moment Ramsay realized who she was, she'd been dragged to the Winterfell dungeon and thrown into a cell. Were it not for the fact that she was sure Ramsay was afraid she'd manage to break out of the kennels and escape as she'd managed to do for Rickon, she was sure he would've tossed her in there instead. Either way, it was as freezing in there as the kennels had been, and she'd spent the rest of the night shivering from the cold, wheezing and coughing from her condition while agonizing over what he planned to do to her.

She never expected this, though. For him to drag her out onto the battlefield like he'd done to her uncle in the original timeline to make an example out of her in front of the entire North. Was he going to make her run for her life while shooting arrows at her, or was he going to behead her with Dark Sister which he confiscated last night before locking her up? It would certainly send a message, if nothing else — a Northern Targaryen baseborn child, beheaded by a Northern baseborn man with one of the lost Targaryen swords…

Speaking of Dark Sister, Ramsay had it with him now, and he held it up high so everyone in both armies could see it. "I can see you all can guess who this little girl is, but for those of you who might have any doubts, here's more proof! This sword I have here? This is the Valaryian steel sword Dark Sister! I found it on her when I caught her sneaking around the castle last night! She is a bastard child of the one House who has hurt the North even more than my family has! House Targaryen!"

The screams and curses of all the men baying for her blood only grew louder and more violent. Lyaella's tears flooded her vision. She doubled over, coughing desperately through the dirty rag as she struggled to catch her breath. Ramsay didn't approve of this though and yanked her back up. She squealed, the ropes around her wrists chafing her.

"I must say, Jon Snow," Ramsay went on. "I don't know how you came to have this whelp as your ward, nor do I know if you and my beloved wife knew all this time who she really was. Either way, this little bastard hatchling here snuck into Winterfell last night. And do you know why? She went there looking for your wild little brother!"

From across the battlefield, Lyaella spotted Jon at the front of the Stark army. He was staring back and forth between her and Ramsay, his face pale in shock. She gazed at him sadly, wishing more than anything that her mouth was free of the gag and she could breathe easier. Were she capable of it, she would scream at the top of her lungs to her future father that Rickon was safe. She would scream how sorry she was for going behind his back, but that Rickon was safe and alive in the crypts. She didn't mean to get caught, but his little brother would survive past today, so it was worth it in the end.

"Perhaps she wanted to fulfill the last wish of the Mad King by killing the last trueborn son of the Stark family. Mayhaps she wanted to burn down the Winterfell keep itself. Or perhaps she's already as mad as all Targaryen's are known to go in the end and didn't even know what she was getting herself into when she walked into the keep. Whatever the reason, Jon Snow, I know who this girl is now. Seven hells, the whole country knows the truth of who she is — she's not your father's or even your own bastard daughter. She's a Northern bastard Targaryen child!"

Ever so slowly, Ramsay slid Dark Sister out from its sheathe, waving the blade high in the air.

On the other side of the field, Jon slid down from his horse, barely aware of himself as he walked forward in horror.

"Considering the crimes House Targaryen has committed against House Stark and the North as a whole—"

Ramsay paused there, his attention snapping to her. Lyaella rasped through the gag as he pulled her closer. Two more tears streamed down her cheeks before she squeezed her eyes shut, unwilling to look at his maniacal smile in her final moments.

The tip of the sword brushed ever so gently against her cheek…

"—it's only fitting that she — a Targaryen bastard — should be executed by either myself or you, Jon Snow! As we are both bastards fighting for the title of Warden of the North!"

…and then slashed through the gag, freeing her mouth.

Lyaella instinctively spat out the rag, desperately sucking in air. She slowly opened her eyes. She was alive. Ramsay had cut her free of her gag, and was now using her sword to cut loose her rope restraints. Despite her wheezing, she couldn't help but gawk in disbelief. Even Ramsay's own men stared, not understanding what he was doing. Across the field, she could tell that Jon and his troops were equally puzzled. What is he doing?

Ramsay ignored everyone's confusion though and just worked on getting the ropes off her. "I hate House Targaryen in general as any good, proper Northerner should hate the dragon family! Nothing would give me more pleasure than strapping this girl to one of the Bolton crosses and flaying her for what her family did to our country!" He called out, cackling madly. "And you, Jon Snow? You must hate her even more than I do! After all, the Mad King burned your grandfather alive, and had your uncle strangled to death! And after what that rapist Rhaegar did your aunt? I'm sure you must wish to throttle this little bastard hatchling the same way the Mountain offed that son of a bitch's children in the cradle! If there's one thing every Northerner in both our armies can agree on, it's that this girl should be the first to die today. Am I right, men?"

The Northerners on his side roared their agreement.

"That's what I thought… but that being said, we are faced with a problem. I want to kill this girl, and Jon Snow, you want to kill this girl, too. Both of our armies want to see us be the one's to kill her. But there's only one of her, and two of us. I wasn't sure how to handle this at first… but then I realized the solution was quite simple! A game!"

Without warning, Ramsay shoved her forward. Lyaella choked on her breath, falling into the dirt.

"We're going to play a game with this girl, Jon Snow!" He shouted. "It's called, 'Which Bastard Hates the Targaryen Bastard More?' The rules are simple! I'm setting her free. She can run whichever way she wants and can even have this—" he threw Dark Sister down at her feet "—back for self-defense. But you and I are both going to try to kill her! Whoever succeeds wins the game, and proves to all the Northerners as witnesses here which Northern bastard is truly the one capable of being a good Warden of the North when it comes to executing traitors! Will it be myself, whose idea for this game is actually fitting considering what this girl's House has done to our people? Or will it be you, Jon Snow, the son of the Stark family who's suffered more by Targaryen hands than any other Northerner's in recent memory?"

Lyaella thickly swallowed, shaking hard as he looked back down at her.

"I'd start running if I were you, little dragon," he advised, his dark eyes twinkling with delight. "You get three seconds of a head start. You can try to defend yourself with your sword if you want, but either way, you're going to die any minute now, so I'd use those three seconds wisely."

She blanched. Forcing back a wheezy cough, she swiped up Dark Sister, hurried to her feet, and moved as fast as she physically could in the direction of Jon's army.

The second Lyaella started stumbling across the field, noise filled the air.

Those on Ramsay's side cheered him on, nodding their approval as he casually accepted a bow from one of his archers and took his time selecting an arrow.

The men on his side though did not partake in the violent frenzy. No, it was eerily quiet. Some were still too shocked by Lyaella's reveal to even have an appropriate reaction as of yet, but the majority were simply watching on in begrudging approval. Simmering hate flashed in their eyes as they watched her flee from Ramsay. She was a Targaryen, after all. It was only appropriate she suffered for what her family did to the North. Were it not for the fact that it was Ramsay of all people who was doing this, no doubt they too would have been openly shouting their approval of his actions.

Jon was hardly aware of any of this, though. Everyone was just a jumble of noise as he watched the little girl stagger across the field, her eyes wet and shining with fear. Lyaella had dropped so unexpectedly into his life back at Castle Black. He never hated her, but considering how she clung to him more than anyone else at the Wall and her dragon followed her everywhere, he had considered her an annoyance at first. He never wanted to get attached to her. But she was so kind and sweet, she'd snuck up on him. He wished she was a bit nicer to Sansa, but he'd truly grown to care for Lyaella. Almost… like she was family.

But that was impossible. They might both be of the North and were bastards, but she a Targaryen child. He was of House Stark.

A sudden thud against his shoulder knocked him out of his shock.

"Jon Snow! Is that girl the one who you brought before myself and my daughter?!" Lord Ryswell demanded, half bewildered and half indignant.

"Why the fuck would you have a dragonspawn among you?" demanded Lord Forrester, only a few years older than Jon himself. "The same that ripped apart your family?"

"She's an orphan," Jon replied, trying to defend himself. "Not even the age of my youngest brother? Whom did she kill or betray?"

"You've been sheltering her, Lord Snow?" Lyanna Mormont sputtered, simply stunned. "Did you know who she really was?"

Jon swallowed — he had gone along with the deception. "I…"

"Bloody hell, King Crow!" Tormund snapped, his eyes wild. "Did that mad fucker already kill yeh?! Look!"

Jon jerked and focused back on the scene. Lyaella was huffing as she dragged Dark Sister behind her across the open field. She was running, but her progress was slow. Too slow. Ramsay however seemed rather amused by her snail-like pace. He rather leisurely took aim with his bow.

"My, my! The hunt today seems rather easy, I must say! One good shot should end it all!"

Zing!

"Blast! I must be getting rusty! Missing my target when it's so close? But then again, there's no fun to be had in killing too quick… Oh, well. Just have to try again, I suppose."

While Jon stared in shock, something came to his ears. "Hmph," muttered one of the Baratheon pikemen — no less hateful of the Targaryens as the Northmen. "Should've got her between the eyes."

He blanched, the idea of Lya dying like that felt like an ice spear to heart. Shoving Tormund and the other Northern archers who'd crowded around him aside, he sprinted back to his horse.

Davos urged his own mount past the rest of the cavalry to approach him. "Lord Snow—!"

"Hold the line, Davos!" He bellowed, swinging onto his steed in one quick leap. "No one charges! No leaves their positions! And no one — no one — looses any arrows! No matter what! That's an order!"

He kicked his heels. Hard. The horse shot off in a full speed gallop.

From over his shoulder, he heard his men exclaim their protests over his actions.

"Lord Snow!" Davos cried.

"What're you doing?!" shouted Lord Ryswell. "Just let Ramsay kill her!"

"She's a dragon, Jon Snow! She's not worth it!" Several men shouted their agreement with the random archer.

Jon ignored them. He didn't care what any of them thought. His only priority was rescuing Lyaella. He didn't know what had possessed her to try sneaking into Winterfell all by herself last night to save his little brother, but he should have kept a better eye on her. He'd been so caught up these past months in reuniting with Sansa and preparing for this war, he'd overlooked his little ward. This was his fault. And he'd be damned if he stood idly by and did nothing to save her right now.

Lyaella Snow was not going to die today.

Not on this battlefield.

Not as part of Ramsay's sick game.

The second arrow soared through the air, and from the corner of her eye she saw it hit the ground about ten or so feet to her right.

Lyaella gasped and wheezed when she saw it, but forced herself to keep going.

Her chest was a vice.

Her sword felt heavier than usual.

Her heart ached as she listened to the Northmen behind her screaming for her death.

But none of it mattered.

She had to keep going. To stop for even a second to give into her terror or to readjust her sword or to even catch her breath meant making it easier for Ramsay to strike her with his arrows. Were it not for her breathing problems, she'd consider running to one of the burning crosses situated across the field to at least get some temporary cover, but moving at all right now took every bit of concentration that she had. And Jon wasn't galloping towards her in the direction of any of those crosses. She was already moving so slowly because of her lungs. She couldn't waste the time or energy it would physically cost her to divert her path from going straight to him.

Reaching her future father before Ramsay shot her or her lungs finally gave out was literally her only chance.

Unfortunately, her slow speed failed to keep Ramsay entertained. "Oh, come now, little hatchling! Go faster, already!" He urged, chortling merrily. "Make this more sporting, please! There's no fun here if I kill you before the Stark bastard gets his chance!"

Lyaella didn't deign to answer or even spare him a glance back over her shoulder. Wasting precious oxygen to do either was not an option, not in her condition. She just had to wheezily keep going.

But this was a mistake. A terrible mistake.

She heard Ramsay snarl from behind her, and she gulped. He didn't just want to kill her or see Jon kill her or rescue her or whatever it was he was expecting her future father to do right now. Nor did he just want to see the rest of the North work themselves up into a frenzy as they cheered for her death.

No, he wanted to break her. To punish her, terrorize her for stealing his chance to kill Rickon today. More than that, he wanted revenge. Revenge for how she humiliated him at the parley. He wanted to see her terror as she realized she made the biggest mistake of her life when she called him out for his obvious issues of being baseborn despite his legitimization. He admitted just now how much he enjoyed tormenting people, seeing them lose hope and begging for mercy.

Ramsay wanted to see her do the same right now. He wanted her to scream and plead for him not to kill her.

But she couldn't. While she didn't necessarily want to do that in general from someone like him, the problem was that it wasn't a matter of pride. It was that she physically couldn't. She couldn't spare the breath to follow the script he was giving her.

"No one taught you any manners did they, little girl?! Don't you know it's rude not to look at people when they're talking to you?! Well, if that's how you feel, then look at this!"

He loosed again.

Unlike the first two arrows, this one Ramsay aimed deliberately close to her. Lyaella could literally hear it whiz through the air, and it sailed only inches past her right ear before embedding into the ground just a few feet in front of her.

Lyaella squeaked at the near death call, and accidentally caused herself to choke on a series of hoarse coughs. Not a good thing to have happen when running for one's life while dragging a sword, and she tripped and fell into a low dirt mound. It was a miracle she didn't accidentally fall on top of Dark Sister's blade, but thankfully it slipped from her fingers and landed harmlessly off to the side in the nick of time. Even so, she didn't get the chance to look at it. Lyaella's main priority was trying to right herself, as her body was physically acting against her.

She tried to rise, but each time she did her chest painfully tightened up and she could only fall back down, gasping and wheezing even harder. It took everything she had just to make it to her hands and knees. She started coughing so hard, her eyes filled with tears again. Only they weren't ones of fear this time. They were physically induced from how hacking up her lungs was making her literally dry heave into the dirt.

The Northmen in Jon's army stayed silent in their begrudging approval, but Ramsay's army just jeered at her, their obnoxious laughter filling the air. Ramsay's amusement rang out the loudest.

"Get up, hatchling! You faking sick won't save you!" He mocked. "What, you think coughing like that and pretending to wheeze just because you're scared will—?"

A particularly heavy, hoarse cough expelled from her lips, and with it came gunks of both phlegm and remnants of her half-digested supper from last night. She sobbed harder as the vomit trickled down her front, spittle dripping from the sides of her mouth and falling into her hair. But she didn't have the strength to wipe any of it away. She could only press down hard on her chest with one hand as another round of breathless coughing began again.

Immediately, all the laughter from Ramsay's side of the battlefield immediately hushed, and from Jon's side, the silent scorns of the onlookers suddenly ceased due to disbelief. Even Ramsay stopped grinning for a moment as realization struck him.

No matter how much every Northerner on the field there hated her and wished her dead because of her Targaryen heritage, they could see for themselves now that she wasn't faking this or trying to stall for time.

She was sick. Very sick. And she was struggling to breathe.

She physically couldn't play this game Ramsay forced her in, even though it was a matter of life or death.

Jon leaned forward on his horse. "Faster, boy! Come on, faster!" He hissed.

Lyaella's lungs were acting up again. Now of all times! He had to get to her. She wasn't capable of running any more in her condition. If he didn't reach her before Ramsay grew tired of this game, her fate was sealed.

He glanced up again upon hearing Ramsay recover from his momentary disbelief. "What do we have here?" He snorted derisively. "Can't run any more, little dragon? Well, I suppose that just makes things easier for me. Do stay still, won't you? Considering my poor aim today, having a still target will make this much better on my end."

Jon scowled, and kicked down again on his mount. The horse whinnied in protest, but galloped twice as hard.

His urgency only seemed to please Ramsay further, and the asshole beamed at him directly as he shot off a few more arrows in rapt succession. While the first two missed Lyaella by several yards, the last one did not.

It missed her by a hair, sinking into the ground just off to her left.

Lyaella shrieked between her gasping coughs. That arrow… had she leaned down even an inch or so to her left side a moment ago, it would've definitely struck her. She would already be dead had Ramsay aimed more carefully that time…

Gods, was this how her uncle Rickon died in her past?

From over her shoulder, she heard Ramsay chuckle again. "Almost had it that time! This next one should do it, though. I'll definitely get her with this one once and for all! Oi, Jon Snow! If you want to kill her yourself, you better hurry! I'm killing her for sure with this next shot!"

The pounding hooves of her future father's horse grew in intensity, but Lyaella didn't lift her head to look over. Panting restlessly, she just let her strength seep out from her limbs to plop listlessly to the ground. Rolling onto her back, she just wheezed and coughed as she stared sadly up at the sky.

Jon wasn't going to reach her in time. She knew he wasn't. He didn't reach Rickon in time in the original timeline, so there's no way he would reach her now.

If this was to be her last few moments on earth, she didn't want to spend them being terrified. She wanted to be at peace and drown out all the shouts of the Northmen who were cheering Ramsay on or urging Jon to kill her first.

The sky was peaceful. Calm and relaxing. She'd just lie here and stare up at it until her end came.

Ramsay chuckled and drew the last arrow in his quiver. "This is it, men! Today, the North takes revenge against House Targaryen!"

The Bolton army cheered, delighted by this prospect.

The Stark army just stared, neither contributing to the frenzy nor lifting a finger to try stopping this.

Jon urged his horse to go faster.

Lyaella still didn't look over at any of them, though. She just kept rasping for breath while staring up at the clouds. They looked so pretty, so fluffy and white. How wonderful would it be to see them up close? To be able to touch them with her own two hands? Would they be as soft and squishy as she imagined they were?

But wait… what was that dark speck in the sky with them? Was it a bird?

Ramsay sneered and took aim…

If it was a bird, it was certainly a very unusual bird. It flew very fast, faster than any other bird she'd ever seen before. And was it flying lower, now? Towards the battlefield? It certainly seemed like it was… and it seemed to be coming in fast. Very fast.

A dark shadow suddenly fell across the battlefield from high overhead. Followed by an earsplitting, furious screech.

While the Stormlands troops and Free Folk were already accustomed to this sound, the rest of the North was not. Shouts of alarm and confusion broke out across both sides of the battlefield. Even Ramsay was alarmed, and he unintentionally released his arrow in his panic.

But his arrow didn't touch her. It didn't even come close to Lyaella in the slightest. Instead, it bounced harmlessly off a cluster of snowy white scales as the entire plain rumbled when the dark speck in question dropped hard and fast from the sky, shielding the little girl at the very last second.

Screams of horror and disbelief filled the air from both armies, but a second roar of absolute hatred and rage quickly silenced them.

Lyaella gasped, both from her lungs and from pure happiness and relief. She forced herself to sit up. "S-Sōnar…!"

Jon's horse whinnied in terror and reared back. Jon wasn't afraid though, and as soon as the horse calmed enough, he jumped off and raced on foot to Lyaella and her dragon.

Thank goodness for the bond Targaryen's shared with their dragons. Sōnar had sensed the danger Lyaella was in and came to her aid. She protected her when he couldn't.

Ignoring the shocked stares from everyone on both sides of the field, Jon approached them. "Easy, Sōnar! It's me!" He murmured, holding out his hands non-threateningly. "I'm just checking over Lyaella!"

Sōnar had curled herself protectively around her little mistress like she always did whenever Lyaella was in danger, but upon seeing him, she crooned and shifted her tail, allowing him to pass. Lyaella was a wheezing mess as she struggled to sit up. It almost sounded like a whistling sound was emanating from her mouth as she gasped for air.

"J… Jon!"

"Don't talk. Save your breath," he ordered, helping her to her feet.

She just shook her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. "J-Jon, I'm sorry… S-Should've listened to you… Rickon's safe! He and Shireen… h-hiding in crypts…"

His heart clenched. She snuck into Winterfell with Shireen to save Rickon? They were hidden in the crypts right now? That should never have been her mission to fulfill. "We'll discuss this later. Just climb!"

Hoisting her up, he shoved her onto Sōnar's back, helping her to stay upright. As far as he knew, Lyaella had never tried riding her dragon before as Sōnar had still been too small to attempt such a stunt. But her dragon had grown considerably since he first met them that day beyond the Wall. If there was ever a time for her to embrace her Valyrian heritage by figuring out how to fly on top of her dragon, this was it.

As soon as he was certain Lyaella was capable of balancing herself on Sōnar's back, he passed her Dark Sister, narrowing his eyes. "Lyaella, take Sōnar and fly back to camp."

"J-Jon…?"

"This is not a discussion!" He hissed. "You take your dragon, and get as far away from here as—!"

A halfhearted bellow suddenly rang out. Ramsay had recovered his wits from this unexpected twist. "Well, I'll be damned! Jon Snow, you're even more of a traitor than I expected! You not only support this Targaryen whelp, but you've been hiding a real dragon, too?! Men, it looks like we're fighting to keep the North safe in the future, today! Do you wanna see that beast burn down your keeps, devour your wives and children?!"

A chorus of angry denials sang through the air from Ramsay's side.

"Then bring me that beast's head! The man who kills it will be well rewarded, I promise!"

More cheers filled the air, and all at once Ramsay's men charged forward. Not in a disorganized rush, but something methodical and choreographed. It confirmed Jon's suppositions — this whole thing was staged to rile his men up. It worked, the advance enthusiastic as well as disciplined.

Sōnar snarled, smoke spewing from her mouth as she readied herself. From the corner of his eye, Jon saw Lyaella flinch in terror, but he patted her leg and unsheathed Longclaw. "Go. Now!" He ordered.

Lyaella gaped at him, panting heavily. "W-What?! But… But Jon, y-you… you can't just stand here alone! They'll… They'll t-trample you!"

"Don't worry, Lyaella. Everything will be fine. The men are ready, and Sansa's prepared a relief force for today."

"W-What…?"

"The Knight's of the Vale are coming to help!" She gaped at him. "Now, go! Go!"

Not allowing her the chance to reply, he gave Sōnar a light smack on the rump. Stupid, he was sure, but he needed the dragon to take to the air already and carry Lyaella away from the danger. Thankfully, the dragon didn't take offense. She just screeched loudly before spreading her wings, and soaring up above with a great gust of wind.

Ramsay's forces paused in the middle of their charge for a half-second, but they regained their wits and kept going. Jon didn't allow himself to stop and look out at them as they approached. As soon as Lyaella and Sōnar were airborne, he just turned and dashed madly back to his horse. He had to get back to his side immediately. Ramsay's men had charged first, just as he needed them to in order for his battle strategy to work. But his men wouldn't follow through if he was here on the field too. He needed to get back to his position.

As he galloped back to his forces, he heard Ramsay's men laughing as they urged their horses to go faster.

"Running away, Snow?!"

"Coward, that's what you are! Blasted craven!"

"Too scared to stand us down!"

He ignored them and just rode harder.