Elphaba818:
So, this marks the end of the Battle of the Bastards. If you thought the last chapter alone marks the end of all the shocking twists that will be happening in this awesome battle scene from the show, think again! You haven't read ANYTHING yet! Be prepared for some real shocking moments at the end of this chapter, but that's the only hints about it you're getting from me! Don't want to spoil the surprise, after all! ;D
Longclaw 1-6 doesn't have any official author's notes once again today, but he does want to shout out that the main changes to the battle itself were inspired by the Battle of Trebia in the Second Punic War. Please be sure to send him your thanks in regards to the better strategy that was devised in this story showing Jon leading his troops correctly as a good war strategist rather than the idiot he had been portrayed as by Dumb and Dumber. I personally don't know anything about battles, so all credit for the war scenes themselves goes to him today, lol.
Also, I would like to state that this chapter also marks the end of all the quick updates over the past few weeks on this story. Longclaw and I have yet to even start fully outlining of everything that will be happening in the next chapter, so the next chapter won't be coming out quite as quickly as the last few have. Even so, we hope you'll stick around and wait to see what will happen when we fully pop back into Torrhen, Dany, and the Meereen storyline again all the way back across the Narrow Sea!
Please be sure to leave a review when you're done! After what we have cooked up today for this chapter, I'll be surprised if we don't see a lot of reviews, lol!
Happy Reading!
- Elphaba818
Chapter Thirty-Two: The Daughter of Dragons
"Why'd that fool go?!" fumed Lady Lyanna. "For a dragon?!"
Pursing his lips, Davos pointed forward at the coiled Sōnar, the beast hissing and snapping its jaws at Ramsay's forces. "Better to have that on our side than not." Lady Lyanna was a spitfire, and exactly whom Davos would imagine as being a Northern lady — very fierce, and very easy to hold a grudge. A roar drew their attention, and the sight of Sōnar taking flight while Jon began galloping back to their lines lifted his worries. "He's coming back."
"Aye." Lyanna clicked her teeth. "With some new friends." Neither of them could deny the advance of the entire Bolton army behind Jon.
None of the thousands of men hunkered down and waiting for the battle to start could.
"Well, looks like the decision's been made for you, then." Lyanna sighed and nodded, visibly steeling herself. She was no older than his youngest children, and yet wore the wariness and hardiness of a person far older. It was… impressive. "Get to your archers. Dragon or not, they're not gonna stop till you're dead." She understood, racing over to their left.
Age was something Davos couldn't escape. Lungs working harder to fill his body with air, knees grinding and spasming in pain as he raced into position… gods, it was a humbling experience to the man who once thought he could take on any adventure. But he couldn't change that, grabbing a bow and quiver of arrows. "Ser Davos, is Lord Snow…?"
"Aye, he's coming back."
"With the dragonspawn?"
"She escaped." The archer — an older Northman with Mazin colors — said nothing, eyes steely. Davos ignored it, head turning to focus on the advancing enemy. Jon was ahead of them by at least a hundred yards, clearly having escaped. Where there was once one continuous rippling sheen of galloping horsemen roaring towards their lines, the Bolton and Karstark cavalry began to divide in two blocs, each peeling towards the left and right flanks of the Stark line. Giants'll give 'em a surprise. There were lines of infantry behind, but a gap had formed putting them just behind archery range. The horsemen could still be hit… "Nock, men!"
The draw of bowstrings had its own distinctive sound, a whining groan of wood and sinew followed by the clatter of the wooden arrows. Davos led by example, nocking his own arrow to his bow. It was hard to hold with only two fingers — Stannis having chopped off the top half of the rest — but he endured, eyes shut and aiming right for the peeling cavalry.
"Hold," he commanded, each second that passed bringing the cavalry closer. Adding power to their bows. "Hold…"
"Shields!" With a frightful clatter the Dustin men-at-arms in front of them clattered their shields together. The Free Folk were slower, but whatever shields they had were hurled upward, just as a black sheet rippled out from the Bolton line. Ramsay's archers.
Davos wouldn't let them go unanswered. "Loose!"
Thwack! A hundred bowmen let their projectiles loose, whistling towards the Bolton cavalry just as the opposing arrows crested in the sky. "Take cover!" someone bellowed, and Davos took the advice. The last that saw before falling on the ground was Jon Snow's horse leaping over the short earthen palisade upon which the front line of their foot was planted on, making it to safety.
An arrow was mostly a silent weapon, and they impacted into the ground with a light puff of dust and little thump. The thwack on shields was louder, and the screams of men being hit with the wet slap of missiles upon flesh made those ever louder still. Horses hit and collapsing in heaps, charging horsemen simply turning into several snarls of man and beast crushing each other was the loudest, breaking up part of Ramsay's horsemen… part, not all.
"Davos!"
It was Jon, and he raised his head. A dozen of his men were wounded, one still with an arrow through the eye. More screams came from the Wildlings. "You cut it pretty close," Davos grunted, rising.
Jon leapt off his horse and drew his Valyrian steel sword. "Hit them as much as you can till you're out of arrows, but don't risk our men… and hold firm." With that, he raced towards the infantry front.
Davos spat on the ground, grinning slightly. Ramsay wouldn't be fighting with his men… he knew why the Northmen stood with Snow.
But the infantry were coming, breaking into a loping trot that could steamroll through anything it seemed. "Nock!" Davos ordered, readying for the long slog.
Scrambling up the dirt, several men parted way for him as if water off a duck's back. "Mi'Lord," many murmured, but Jon ignored them. He was not here to get deference.
"Lord Snow!" Jon didn't recognize the man, but he had a surcoat of House Dustin.
Seeing the enemy line advancing… in spite of being peppered by Davos — seven hells, the shields of the Dustins were getting hammered by Ramsay's missiles — the Umbers broke into a charge only a hundred feet from the Stark line. Jon gritted his teeth. "Shield wall!"
Whooping, the front of the line kneeled as one, stabbing their shields deep into the dirt and grass below them. Perfectly drilled, perfectly disciplined. Men veterans of the War of the Five Kings.
Someone handed Jon a shield, to which he accepted. The wood and wrought iron was heavy and slowed down his two-handed dueling style, but defensively it was a must. "Second line!" he ordered. Leading by example, Jon and the others locked their shields into place atop the first row.
Through the gap in the circular shields, Jon could witness the Umbers getting closer and closer, less organized Bolton men among them. Thousands of booted feet vibrating through the ground, making it shake beneath them.
Just hold… just hold for Sansa. "Shield wall!" he bellowed again, and the third rank of men took their own shields and locked them in place above him — one solid row of shields, one even Lannister pikemen couldn't break. "Whatever happens!" he screamed at his men, "Do not move a fucking inch, or that is your fate!" The burnt corpses tied to the crosses still loomed large.
"House Stark!" one man shouted as another of Davos' volleys hit home. Dozens fell in spurts of blood and screams of pain, but still they rushed forward, the bulk unharmed.
"House Stark!"
"House Stark!"
"House Stark!" A hundred throats carried it, one last surge of defiance before Ramsay's men were on them.
In a split-second, Jon saw the outline of Sōnar against the grey sky… and he smiled. Filled with calm — and determination.
The earthen palisade, however short it was, absorbed some of the momentum from the furious charge… but not completely. Hundreds of men in one onrushing mass simply crashed into the shield wall, brutally shoving it back… or trying to at least. It felt to Jon as if a giant punched him, shoulder straining to hold back the tide. Shields and swords and axes clanged against their shields, while others tried to use their own bodyweight to simply roll over the outnumbered Dustins. Even with his feet digging in the earth, Jon staggered, only the mass of men behind him keeping him upright.
"Fucking hold!" Jon snarled. "Do not break!"
"Who holds the North?!" someone shouted on the other side. Hoots following. "Kill the dragon lovers!" While sword and axe harmlessly bounced off the shields, gaps were found. A man next to Jon was stabbed through the throat, bright red blood squirting all over. Jon tasted the metallic tint, sticky liquid soaking his beard. "Kill the dragonspawn!"
"Hold!" Longclaw in hand, he stabbed forward, hearing the surprised grunt of pain before the pressure slackened before him. Temporary, for another Umber took the line.
A whooshing sound pierced the din of clashing steel and wood. "Arrows!" The steel barb-tipped rain assailed them as one of the autumn thunderstorms, a steady downpour of death. Some were powerful enough to punch through the shields, killing men instantly. Others found the gaps and caused screams of pain… Jon felt several embed in his shield with a steady thunk… but the man in front of him fell, then another.
Ramsay was killing his own men just to kill Jon's. If the Bastard of Winterfell couldn't hate the Bastard of Dreadfort enough...
Others on his side seemed to understand it as well, and morale sank. "Run!" one Dustin shouted.
"Fall back!"
"There's too many!"
Such sentiment was more disastrous than anything Ramsay could do. "No!" Pulling back his shield, Jon hacked forward. Longclaw hit a man in his shoulder, Valyrian steel slicing through chainmail as if it was butter and nearly hacking the arm and shoulder clean off in a fountain of blood. "Push them back!" Jon bellowed. "Push them back!" He parried another blow, bashing the man in the face with his shield before hacking his head clean off. "Now!"
One thing Jon didn't have to worry about was training his levies. They were all elite veterans, and their efforts were well-honed and fluid. The Dustin men in one motion brutally shoved back the Umbers in their van with a burst of energy. Momentum slowed and unwieldy in a mass trying to attack uphill, they fell victim to the effort, scrambling down several paces. Shields parted and out thrust swords and spears. Jon among them, gritting his teeth as Longclaw ran through the men in front of him. Scores dropped, hacked or slashed, beheaded or disemboweled.
The charge had faltered, but the melee had just begun. Umbers and Boltons recovered their bearings and hurled themselves back at the line. "Shields!" Jon stabbed and hacked through the gap between the various shields, the melee active and ponderous. Maces and battleaxes bashed through the shields and opened gaps, men falling to the ground with gurgling shrieks or without sounds at all. Both sides bleeding and dying over the palisade.
Mace crashing against his shield, Jon grunted in agony racing down his strained forearm. A dagger sliced through the flesh of his shoulder, but he barely felt it, instead stabbing Longclaw. That drew a blood-curdling scream.
"Hold! Hold!"
It was all they could do. Damn it all, Sansa. Where are you?!
This was nothing like they've ever seen before. Nothing Tormund had seen before. Fighting other Free Folk, the Crows, the Dead… even the Night's Watch being southern prisses hadn't been disciplined enough for this. Stannis' knights, aye, but that was once…
By the gods themselves, the Boltons were something else. A mass of phalanges charging at them in several single columns, as fast as horsemen. Arrows felled some, but they were too sparse. "Tormund!" yelled one of his men. "We need to fuckin' hit them!"
"King Crow said we hold!" Tormund shouted back, axe ready in his hand. The Free Folk rippled, trembling and shaking and rolling as one on restless limbs, waiting for the Bolton tide to finish their march. To which they eventually did.
Getting within fifty yards they curved inward, racing forward but the various columns converged into wide lines. At twenty yards, they interlocked shields. At ten yards away from the earthen palisade, they dropped their pikes. Nothing. Nothing Tormund could see but four separate walls of shields with the malevolent flayed man crossed upon them. Some tops of helmets, but aside from that nothing.
While the Free Folk waited, tension building, the sounds of battle rang around them. Giants roaring, horses galloping, steel clashing against steel. Nothing here, just that demonic, soulless phalanx — almost like the dead, but without the icy chill.
They didn't have to wait for long. "Hoo! Hoo!" The front of the phalanx stepped forward several paces until the pikes were barely feet away from the Free Folk. Tormund leapt back, but many weren't as lucky as the phalanges thrust their spears. Steel tips impaled dozens of Wildling warriors, scores even. With shields sparse, the fighters clad in nothing but furs or mayhaps some leather here and there were sitting ducks.
As the rear lines trudged forward, Tormund whistled. "Attack!" With all his strength, he grabbed at one of the pikes and yanked it forward. Perhaps that was one thing not expected by the disciplined phalanges, and the man toppled face-forward, shield clattering to the ground.
Leading by example, Tormund growled as loud as he could and jumped off the palisade. Axe crushing the little shit's skull into a slop of bone and brain before he could even rise.
In an instant, the entire mass of Free Folk bellowed their barbarian war cries and surged off the palisade. The phalanx stabbed forward, felling many more but hundreds pushed aside the wall of pikes. Hacking off the tips with sword and axe. The sheer desperation bringing them in contact with the malevolent wall of shields.
Tormund found the gap made but he hacked with his axe, splintering the shield into kindling. A sword came out to run him through but he dodged it just in time, axe burying in the man's shoulder. He screamed, blood showering his comrades. "Bring it the fuck on!" he cursed at them, grabbing another by his surcoat and hurling him back out of the line as if he were a mere child. The Bolton phalangite screamed bloody-murder as a half dozen Wildlings hacked him to death.
Arrows flew ahead, scything through the Free Folk behind their leader. Some snuffed out on contact, arrows going through their hearts or eyes, but others fell back — screaming and crying for mercy or their mothers. Blood seeped everywhere, men holding their stomachs or arms. One of Tormund's comrades coughed up blood, his breaths a gurgling rasp. He would not be long for this world.
"Push through!" he cried, hacking another man's head half-off his body, bending over by part of the neck muscle in a bloody mess. The Free Folk pressed on with sheer weight of numbers, ripping down shields, snapping pikes, parrying sword and axe to tear apart their enemy. It was working. Some ran. Some gave ground. Others died where they stood, northern ferocity and brute force defeating southern discipline.
But suddenly another wave of spears thrust forward. So entranced in the orgy of blood and death they were inflicting on the first Bolton line, even Tormund had forgotten about the second… and the third and fourth behind them. "Hoo! Hoo!" More arrows whooshed overhead, the momentum of their impromptu charge not only stalling, but breaking.
"Come back!" Tormund yelled, but their will broke. Or at least their will to stay here. Free Folk of a dozen clans scrambled up the palisade, desperate to escape back to a better position. They hauled wounded, or some were left where they were. Tormund grabbed a man with a leg wound but a Bolton pike ended the man's life in a fit of blood. He grabbed another, gashed in the side, and dragged him up the palisade. As he did, Tormund felt an arrow slam into his shoulder. "Fuck!"
No time to get it out, he snapped the shaft in half and tossed it at the advancing shields.
"Hoo! Hoo!"
Tormund turned his head behind him. "If yeh're gonna come! Do it now!"
The Free Folk had given their all in trying to beat the phalanx back but it was advancing. If the five hundred pikes of Stannis' army couldn't stem the tide, then the center couldn't hold.
Lyaella hugged Sōnar's neck as the wind whipped past. Her dragon sister sensed her struggle to stay upright and stopped flapping her wings, electing to soar overhead in a simple glide. Coughing a bit, Lyaella patted her gratefully as she clutched her sword. She was flying. She was flying on Sōnar for the very first time…
The famous Battle of the Bastards had finally begun. She was still breathless and dazed from her condition and the terror she'd experienced not even a full five minutes prior was still coursing through her veins, but the significance of this moment was not lost on her.
She and Sōnar were finally flying together for the first time. From the day she first hatched, Lyaella had dreamed of this moment, wondering what it would feel like to feel the wind on her skin as she took to the air. She always imagined Torrhen and Shadow would be here with her, though. Torrhen sitting behind her and exclaiming his enthusiasm about this first ride while Shadow howled at them while Sōnar carried him in her claws, that way he could fly too. Never had she expected her brother and their direwolf wouldn't be present during this life changing moment, nor did she expect it would happen right in the middle of a battle while her lungs were giving out on her.
Coughing some more, she tightened her grasp around Dark Sister and glanced down at the field. Jon had told her to fly away, to get out of here immediately. For some reason, he knew the Knights of the Vale were coming, but how was that possible? There was no way — none — that Queen Sansa would've told him about that. She didn't trust anyone, ever. She hadn't cared in the original timeline that she had to sacrifice Rickon for sure, and nearly lost Jon too by keeping the relief force a secret from her future father.
Whatever the reason was for Jon knowing about the Vale Knights now, she had to keep his side from getting swarmed by Ramsay's men this time around. She never planned to be part of the battle today, but she was riding Sōnar, and Dark Sister was in her hand. Visenya Targaryen wouldn't have fled from battle if she had breathing problems and Aegon told her to fly way. She would've stayed to help.
And that's what Lyaella had to do, too.
Below, she didn't need to be a warrior or commander to know the situation was desperate. Ramsay's force had met Jon's at the treeline of the Wolfswood, slowly pushing it back. The flanks were holding — she saw Wun Wun or one of the other giants snatching a rider off his horse and hurling him near across the field — but the center was bending. Shireen's men had hurled themselves into the breech, but it was still about to crack. The Bolton phalanx trudging inexorably forward. As if about to break any moment now. They needed help.
Sucking in another strong breath, she shifted herself to be sitting up more firmly. "S-Sōnar… fly down l-low… atop… Ramsay's army… b-but away from… Jon's men…"
Sōnar rumbled and followed her command. Turning in midair, she dived back down to the battlefield, soaring only twenty or so yards above the heads of the Bolton forces. Ramsay's men squealed, many jerking their horses to sudden stops in their confusion and alarm.
Lyaella wheezed, but held Dark Sister high overhead.
"Dracarys…!" She ordered.
With a mighty, shrill screech that could break the bravest man, the ghost-white form of Sōnar shot across the battlefield. Red-orange flame streaked from her open jaws, not enough to reduce all before it to smoke and ash but enough to turn dozens unfortunately in the dragons' path to human torches.
Blood-curdling screams — the stuff of nightmares right alongside that of a White Walker's shriek — erupted from the Umber and Bolton men. They flailed about, others treating them as if stone men, desperate to avoid having the flames spread to them. So the screams continued till they dropped in the frosty ground, never to get up again. Charred beyond all recognition.
"Forward!" Jon shouted, shoving his shield into the man in front of him. He was knocked off his feet, stumbling back to the slope of the palisade. Jon spun Longclaw in one hand and stabbed downward in the throat, ending his life in a pool of blood and air. "Push them back!" A bellow echoed to his right, the towering form of Wun Wun ripping a man in two with his bare hands. "The Karstarks are retreating to the right! Forward!"
They were getting a bit ahead of the defensive position, but pushing the Umbers back might force Ramsay to halt the center — it was worth doing.
The Palisade was covered in blood as the ragged line of Dustin men, reinforced with that of House Forrester, poured down it. Anchoring themselves with the soil to their back. However demoralized Sōnar made them, Smalljon Umber rallied his men as she passed to the phalanx to relieve pressure on the hard-pressed Free Folk and Baratheons — only just able to hold from the sounds of the screams. Shields up and swords ready, the two sides threw themselves at each other with typical Northern ferocity.
Already Jon was a hot target, many charging straight at him. The first was a Bolton, sword swinging as soon as he got within range. Jon easily dispatched the blow, parrying it before thrusting at the throat. Blood spurted out of his neck and frothed, leaving a gurgling sound around the tip as the soldier fell.
Jon drew back and spun his sword, slashing against the front of another man-at-arms. Crimson blood spurted over his leather armor as he collapsed to the ground. Jon swerved out of the way before a Umber spearman nearly skewered him. He hacked the spear in half, roaring with anger as he lashed out. Longclaw made it halfway through chainmail, leather, flesh and bone, spilling his guts out through the side. The man howled. "Mama! Mama!" Mercifully, death took him.
"Dragonspawn lover!" Towering over him, ragged beard covered in dry blood, Smalljon Umber lifted his greatsword. "Wildling fucker" Jon readied Longclaw to taste blood once more, steeling himself. His father, the Greatjon, was known for his strength and prowess in battle — Smalljon would be the same.
Snarling like a rabid dog, the hulking Umber charged at Jon. The coat of mail and black leather that hugged his burly, muscular frame gave him a wild, frenzied look. Much like a wildling, but trained in all the proper ways of fighting just like Jon. His greatsword clutched in two hands, Smalljon bellowed hand hacked down… only for Jon to block.
Fuck, did it hurt. The strain on his muscles from parrying the massive blade, but Valyrian steel was as strong as it was light, and Jon shoved Umber back. The Lord of Last Hearth snarled and hacked again, putting his all into the crashing blows directed at Jon's head or shoulders. Gritting his teeth as Jon dodged all of them… if by the skin of his teeth sometimes.
It seemed to infuriate the man. "Face me, Dragon lover!"
"Fuck you, traitor," Jon spat back, swinging Longclaw. The slash was blocked, but not the kick Jon gave to Smalljon's leg. It connected with his knee, making the man half-collapse.
"You cunt!" he roared, wielding the greatsword as if it were a table knife. Smalljon thrust forward at Jon's midsection… He barely felt the slash to his side, or the rip of his leather armor, but soon the gash burned. Agonizing, making him wince. Smalljon's lips contorted into a dark smirk. "I am no traitor. You are, for joining the dragons.
Jon gritted his teeth, his left side pulsing from the pain. He blocked it out, waiting for Umber to get up as he spun his blade, keeping his wrists flexible. "You fight for the house that killed your King." Before Smalljon could react, Jon darted forward - he was smaller than the hulking Umber, but that made him quick and agile. A parry was quickly doubled back, Jon dancing around his foe on one foot before slashing across his chest. Knocking the smirk off of the Umber's face, cutting the armor as if it was mail. "You're the traitor!"
Howling from the sting of the cut, he pitched back. "He betrayed us," snarled Smalljon. "Married a foreign whore… ruined us all!" The battle around them seemed far away, an invisible shroud as the two fought. Jon tightened on his blade, waiting for Smalljon to come at him. "My father's dead because of him!"
"A great man brought low by his treacherous son!"
Unlike the bullheaded giant Jon half-expected, Smalljon was far more agile than he looked. Jinking from Jon's thrust at his heart, he bashed Jon in the shoulder with a powerful left hook. The infernal joint erupted in a pulse of agonizing pain, pitching Jon back. His legs tripping all over themselves… Another punch caught him in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him. Staggering, head a mass of ringing and pounding, Jon had no time to lift Longclaw as Smalljon bashed the hilt of his sword into Jon's face, knocking him to the ground with head ringing.
Longclaw clattered to the ground nearby, mud staining the priceless Valyrian steel.
"You're mine now, dragon lover."
Coughing, climbing onto his knees, Jon's mind whirred even as his body ached. His uncle Benjen had told him something once, when telling him stories of beyond the Wall. Of what it was like to fight, to kill. To have a brush with death. Benjen had spun a yarn about a time when he was almost gutted by a Wildling, and in an instant time simply slowed. Able to take in all around him.
With Smalljon towering over him, Jon felt that happen, Benjen's description proving… accurate. He noticed everything, small things. Sweat dripping down his forehead, mixing with blood. The sound of a man crying for his wife, voice clenched in pain. Wun Wun's roar, also mixed with pain but defiant still. Baying horses, their hooves digging into the ground.
Head angled away, he saw the Baratheons finally breaking from the onslaught of the Bolton phalanx. Tormund and his men rallied, but they wouldn't be able to stop it.
Sōnar… where were Sōnar and Lya? Nowhere close.
Jon's eyes shut, instinctively seeking just a bit of peace in this slaughter.
"Pathetic," he heard Smalljon say. "Just like your spineless brother." Jon breathed what he felt was his last. They hadn't held.
Bwarm! Bwarm!
His eyes flew open.
Or had they?
Smalljon, distracted by the faint horn, eyes flickering to his right, Jon saw his chance and swept around. Longclaw fit in his grip with a beloved familiarity, as much a part of him as his arm, or his eye. "Fuckin'..." Alarm filled Smalljon's tone as he recovered his focus and hefted his Greatsword.
Too late. Bellowing at the top of his lungs, Jon swung Longclaw with a sudden surge of energy. The Valyrian steel cut true, hacking straight through Smalljon's calves, armor and all.
The Lord of Last Hearth cried out, falling on his stumps, and then his knees — face exploding in pain. Jon waited not a single moment before he leapt to his feet and swung his blade. Teeth clenched, rage in his eyes. The same as when he killed Slynt. Smalljon was a worthy opponent at least, but his treason was greater. He would not lose sleep as the son of Greatjon Umber's head rolled from its limp body, permanently etched with the greatest of agony.
Breathing hard, he heard the horns continue to blow, angling his head towards it. Towards what had to be the most glorious sight.
An entire line of heavy cavalry, the rumble of war steeds starting to echo through the ground below. Dozens, scores, hundreds, thousands. They crested the eastern hill overlooking the field overlooking Winterfell, sunlight glinting off their armor plate.
The fluttering dove of House Arryn whipped in the breeze, and among the many banners was a flash of red. "Sansa," Jon breathed, smiling tiredly in the midst of the carnage and death. Sure she was smiling at him too.
Sansa had come through.
The Vale was here.
By the gods, they had held.
The Knights of the Vale…
The Knights of the Vale came here?
The Knights of the Vale came here to fight for House Stark?
But why?! House Arryn held no allegiance to Jon Snow!
Ramsay's mind raced as he tried to fit the pieces of the puzzle together. Then he glanced over to the hill where the Valesmen were charging in from, and suddenly it all made sense.
Three lone riders were watching the battle unfold as the knights rode past. The first was a woman cloaked all in red. Ramsay didn't recognize her at all, while the second was none other than Petyr Baelish, the same man who had brokered the deal with his father that brought him his beloved Sansa. And it was Sansa herself who rounded off the trio, but unlike the Red Woman and Littlefinger, Sansa was not looking down at the fighting. Her eyes were locked on him as she flashed him a knowing, smug smirk.
Ramsay's blood boiled. House Arryn might not share blood with Jon Snow, but they did share ties to her.
Sansa had outwitted him.
She played him for a fool.
His wife had gotten the best of him in the one area she should've known absolutely nothing about! The battlefield! And all because her last name of 'Stark' guaranteed her the allegiance of Stark family ties of additional troops!
No fucking wonder Jon Snow stayed where he was against all bait, making his army come to the Stark collection of Wildlings and rejects. They planned this together, Sansa the mastermind and Snow her general. A plan to rival any of his schemes.
He clenched his fists, his fury rising. No… this is not the end. I did not come this far just to lose because my dear wife brought more men to this fight!
Ramsay's head twisted around, trying to think. By numbers alone, the battle was lost on his side. If he wanted to win, he needed to stop thinking like a battle tactician and rely instead on his own tricks and games. Only his own morbid mind could save him now… but how? How could he ensure his own survival and guarantee his victory in the current circumstances?
A dark shadow suddenly passed over him, followed by a beastly roar. Ramsay glanced up. The Targaryen brat and her dragon were swooping back across the field again, preparing to rain down more dragon fire on his men trying to flee from the Knights of the Vale.
He stared at the girl and her flying beast for a short moment… and then a thought came to his mind, making his lips curl up in their usual smirk.
There was only one way he could guarantee he lived to see tomorrow. And that dragon welp and her beast were his ticket to doing so.
He directed his horse forward, drawing his sword. Slashing it through one of the lone pikemen who'd managed to flee the battle in one piece, he ignoring the blood gurgling from their mouth and took hold of their spear. Ramsay had never been fond of spears — they were too long for him to handle in close range and couldn't fly as far as he wished whereas compared to bows and arrows — but he knew how to properly wield them in the event that they were ever the only weapons he had at the ready. And all he needed was one good throw. One good throw made at the perfect moment.
He trained his eyes on the girl and her beast in the sky, chortling delightedly from his own ingenious, and waited… and waited… and waited…
There! Perfect! The dragon was finally in the perfect position! Perfectly positioned to go down exactly where he needed to!
"Many thanks, Little Bastard Dragon," he chuckled.
And he threw the spear up towards the heavens.
All across the field, everyone in both armies just stopped. The pure agony and pain in the screech Sōnar made was impossible to fake. Jon's fear spiked, his mouth going dry as he slowly looked up at the sky.
Blood was gushing wildly from where the hoplite's spear struck Sōnar. The dragon thrashed in midair, overwhelmed by pain. Lyaella seemed at a loss as to how calm her friend, as all her attempts to soothe the dragon were utterly ignored. No, Sōnar was in too much pain to hear anything her little mistress was telling her, and she seemed to be losing altitude rather rapidly. Was she trying to land?
A choked scream from Lyaella quickly shut down that theory. "S-Sōnar, no…! N-Not the castle… S-Sōnar!"
Jon's heart dropped to his stomach. Sōnar wasn't landing. She was crashing. And she was going to crash right into Winterfell itself.
A strangled yell shot past his lips, and with a quick swing of Longclaw he lopped off the head of his current enemy and took off running. Lyaella was going to crash. She was going to die. He had to get to the keep now. He had to save her!
He wasn't the only one who had realized what was about to happen. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Davos and Tormund shove away their own enemies to charge after him. On the far off hill from where she'd been watching the battle, Sansa urged her own horse forward, the Red Woman and slinky figure of whom he presumed to be Littlefinger quickly following her. But worst of all, Ramsay had set off in a fast gallop back to the keep. And he was the closest one out of all of them to the castle.
He had just reached the edge of Wintertown when Sōnar finally hit the ground. It was like an earthquake suddenly struck from how everything rattled. Smallfolk who'd been hiding out in their homes screamed, their houses and windows rattling. Anything that wasn't tied down went flying, landing haphazardly several yards away. The Broken Tower exploded as Sōnar's tail whacked into it, but other than that and debris shooting out from the top of the northernmost wall of the keep, the dragon luckily didn't crash into anything of importance. Based on the screams from beyond the gate and the lack of destruction from what he could tell from out here, it appeared Sōnar had regained her wits in time to crash into the castle courtyard rather than the castle itself.
Even so, Ramsay reached the gate first, and with a wave of his hand the gates swung shut, barring the Stark troops outside.
Jon snarled, the direwolf in him rising. He'd tear the gate down with his bare hands if he had to. Ramsay wasn't going to touch Lyaella. He'd kill the son of a bitch first.
He prepared himself to leap over a series of toppled barrels, but he drew out of his rage slightly when he realized that something from inside one of the barrels was banging repeatedly. And anxious sobbing was echoing from within.
"Help! Someone please, help! Let me out!" A voice cried.
Alarmed, he skidded to a halt, waving over Tormund. The moment his Free Folk friend heard the voice, his eyes went wide. "Munda! Is that yeh, lassie?!"
"Pappa?!" Answered the voice, relieved. "Pappa, aye it's me! I'm sorry, Pappa! I went with the Dragon and Stag Girls to try savin' King Crow's brother! The men found us, though! I got away, but I hid in this barrel so they wouldn't find me, and now I can't get out! I dunno what happened to the others!"
Tormund seemingly forgot about everything else as he worked on getting his daughter free. Jon ignored him. That solved the mystery as to where Tormund's daughter disappeared to. And Lyaella mentioned before that apparently Rickon and Shireen escaped into the crypts during their rescue attempt. Hopefully his little brother and the Baratheon heiress had avoided recapture by Ramsay's men. If they had, he could rest easy at least and keep his priorities focused on saving Lyaella.
Nodding to Tormund to take care of his own family, Jon trudged forward, focusing back on the castle gate. With a furious roar, he swung his sword furiously at the thick wood. He barely even chipped it, such was the strength of the ironwood barricade.
Davos was suddenly behind him, and he pulled him aside. Jon spun around, fire in his eyes as he prepared to whack the old man away, but then he saw the reason why Davos wanted him to move and he quickly obliged.
Wun Wun had seemingly abandoned the battlefield too upon seeing Sōnar drop from the sky, and had followed him to the castle to help. Grunting in acknowledgment to the two, the giant reeled back his massive fist, and struck the gate hard.
The gate rumbled, deep cracks forming in the center.
Twice more Wun Wun struck it, each time adding more cracks into the barricade as it struggled to withstand the assault. It was by that time that Sansa, Lady Melisandre, and Littlefinger reached them.
"Jon!" Sansa cried, climbing down from her horse. "The dragon…! I-I-I don't if it's still… If she's still—!"
"She's alive, Sansa!" He shouted, barely sparing his sister a glance as Wun Wun wound back his fist once more. "She is not dead!"
"B-But Jon—!"
Wun Wun roared as he struck the gate. The gate splintered apart, wood flying everywhere.
With a furious yell, Jon charged inside, Longclaw at the ready… only to immediately skid to a halt.
Ramsay was waiting for him, grinning from ear to ear in the center of the courtyard.
And he held Lyaella at knifepoint.
Pain.
Pain.
Pain.
Painpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpa—
"Not one more step, bastard! I mean it!"
Lyaella groaned, unable to pinpoint the source of the voice. Her ears were ringing. She still couldn't breathe. Dark Sister's hilt slid loosely back and forth between her fingers in her right hand. And she was dazed from pure, mind-numbing pain.
Every nerve receptor in her body was screaming in agony from the throbbing ache emanating from the exact center of her non-dominant left hand. Crashing with Sōnar into the castle courtyard had left her banged, bruised, and with a stinging cut over her brow, but considering her dragon sister had come to her senses a few moments before they hit the castle, she had maneuvered herself in midair at the very last second to both protect her rider from the worst of the impact and crash into the Winterfell courtyard rather than the castle itself. The Broken Tower and northern walls still suffered overall, but considering Lyaella had been more or less okay and Sōnar had only sustained a few additional minor injuries aside from the wound inflicted on her via Ramsay, she had considered both of them to have been extraordinarily lucky…
…or at least she had until a minor piece of debris fell off the collapsing Broken Tower and landed directly on top of her left hand, which had sadly been resting on top Sōnar's scales in the direct path of the falling scaffolding at the worst possible moment.
The next few minutes following that were too hazy for her to even comprehend.
She remembered screaming at the top of her lungs the exact moments following the injury, fresh tears blurring her vision.
She remembered Sōnar screeching too, both in pain herself and in response to their bond as she sensed her agony.
She remembered the sound of the castle gates being slammed shut, then heavy footsteps pounding across the ground and debris as they ran towards her.
She remembered rough hands yanking her off Sōnar from where she lay sprawled out across her dragons' back, too overwhelmed from the injury to move even a muscle…
But for the life of her, what Lyaella didn't remember was how she came to be where she was right now, sprawled over as dead weight in someone's arms as whoever it was held a knife to her throat.
The blade against her neck suddenly pressed closer. "Oh, no, no, no! That goes for you too, sweet Sansa! And for all the men and giants you and your bastard brother have in your army! No one — no one — comes any closer! One step, and my hand here will slip and cut this girl's throat down to the bone, just like my father did to that bitch, Catelyn Stark. I know everyone here wants to be the one to kill this little hatchling, so if you want the chance to kill her yourselves, you'll all stay right where you are."
She suddenly felt herself being dragged backward, but Lyaella had no idea where she was being taken. She gasped for breath, her head lolling listlessly back and forth and her right hand unconsciously dragging Dark Sister across the ground. It took every bit of willpower she had to stop being a rag doll and come back to her senses. She had to, because she had to stay as physically still as possible. If she so much as twitched, she ran the risk of bumping her bad hand against either her captor or herself. It was still throbbing in aching pain, and it felt hot. Too hot. Whatever was wrong with it, it was bad. Bad enough for her body to be already struggling to heal. By the mercy of all the gods out there, she prayed it wasn't mangled beyond any hope of recovery.
Groaning again, she found the strength to open her eyes. Until that very moment, she hadn't even realized they'd been shut all this time, that's how much pain she was in. Ramsay had her in his clutches, and he was grinning evilly towards Jon, Sansa, and all the survivors from both armies as he dragged her backward towards Sōnar. Her dragon hooted, still shaking off the shock of her sudden impalement, but she was coherent enough now to recognize the danger Lyaella was now in. Were it not for the fact that she was now essentially a hostage in Ramsay's arms, Lyaella didn't doubt her dragon sister wouldn't hesitate to gobble him up whole before she could order her friend otherwise.
Coughing a bit as she struggled to breathe, Lyaella's gaze wandered back over to Jon. In the time she had spent in the past and had gotten to know him, never had she thought her future father looked as much as a dragon as she knew he secretly was. Normally Jon's anger was like a slowly freezing sheet of ice, the kind that built up over time and was contained, but no less deadly than the most jagged icicle. But right now? Right now he looked like a volcano on the brink of eruption. His rage was plain to see, his face contorted in the ugliest, more death-promising glare Lyaella had ever seen anyone wear, and his whole body was literally shaking as he stared at the smug smirk Ramsay shot his way.
She was knocked so unexpectedly from her thoughts though when Ramsay quite suddenly, quite pointedly jostled her. Her left hand by consequence bumped against his leg. She wailed, fresh tears streaming down her cheeks, and then began breathlessly coughing.
Ramsay gave her no time to recover. He sneered at her, his dark eyes twinkling again. "You, little girl, will order your dragon to bend down so you and I can mount it. You will tell it to fly us both out of here. Now."
Lyaella whimpered, still riding out the last few waves of excruciating pain from her hand. He wanted her to have Sōnar carry them off together? He wanted to escape the battle with her dragon? No. No, no, and no. Absolutely not. She would not do that. Not for him of all people. And besides, she still hadn't found the energy to figure out how to use her mouth yet for anything except coughing or breathing. Even if she were willing to help him, she couldn't tell Sōnar to do that quite yet.
The Bastard of the Dreadfort however was not a patient man, and he shoved his knife so harshly against her throat, Lyaella was sure she felt blood trickling down her neck. "It is never a good idea to make me repeat myself, little bitch! I said, order your dragon—!"
"Get your hands off her, you sick freak!"
"Leave her alone! It's me you want, you fucker!"
All heads suddenly snapped around. Lyaella blinked, wheezing in disbelief. Shireen and Rickon had apparently believed the battle was over and had emerged from the crypts. They were shivering in their thin cloaks and were dirty from head to toe, but they were alive. Alive and glaring daggers at Ramsay with utter loathing.
Instantly, Shireen was surrounded by Ser Davos, Lady Melisandre, and some of her nearby Baratheon guards, while Rickon found himself being embraced in crushing hugs from both Jon and Sansa.
"Rickon!" Sansa wept, unwilling to let him go. "Gods, Rickon…!"
"Get behind me, little brother. Now." Jon ordered, quickly focusing back to the current situation. He was no less relieved and happy that his youngest brother was still alive, but he allowed himself only one short second to absorb that fact before remembering what was happening. He tried to shove him and Sansa behind him again, but Rickon would not allow this and quickly sidestepped him. Amazingly enough, so did Shireen, as she dodged Ser Davos' and her soldiers hands attempting to drag her back to march up beside Rickon, the knife she borrowed from Munda flashing in her fist.
"Did you not hear me the first time, Ramsay Snow?!" Shireen bellowed, the fury of her House's words radiating off her whole body as she waved the tiny blade. "Let Lyaella go! Right now! You… You're nothing but a coward, using her as a shield!"
"Aye, and it's me you want, isn't it?!" Rickon demanded. "I'm the one you wanted to kill! I'm the real threat to you, aren't I?! I'm my father's trueborn son! It's me you want!"
"Rickon, shut up!"
"But Sansa—!"
"Shush!" Sansa seized his shoulder, shoving him behind her in one quick swoop. Then she did the same to Shireen. The little doe sputtered furiously, but Ser Davos and Lady Melisandre did not allow her or Rickon the chance to step forward again. The two pointedly restrained the two children, ignoring their thrashing attempts to break free and keep challenging Ramsay.
Ramsay himself had the audacity to be openly amused by their antics. "Ah, little Lord Stark and little Lady of the Stormlands. So good of you both to join us! I was starting to worry I'd have to send my hounds down into the crypts to find you two. I stand corrected! Little Targaryen? You will have your dragon allow myself, you, and your two little friends climb aboard. I can't risk leaving while the rightful Lord of Winterfell is still here and alive. And as for you, Shireen Baratheon? I'm going to be needing a new wife after your friends' dragon roasts my dear Sansa alive right now. My current wife made the mistake of trying to outwit me on the battlefield, so I must punish her appropriately. You, though? You'll make a suitable replacement being the heiress to the Stormlands… though I will have to slash your face up, first. I refuse to bed a wife who's already ugly from scars I did not contribute to."
Pandemonium overtook the courtyard as dozens of voices snapped at Ramsay or urged Shireen, Rickon, and Sansa to back away from him immediately. Lyaella didn't pay attention to any of their words though. Red hot rage was coursing through her entire body. It didn't matter to her what Ramsay planned to do to Sansa. She and Torrhen had never tried dreaming about killing their aunts or uncle themselves — they would never stoop so low as their Stark relatives level by allowing themselves to even dream of becoming kinslayers — but they privately agreed that if someone else were plotting to kill them, they wouldn't stand in that person's way. They wouldn't assist in the plot, but they wouldn't try stopping it either. Sansa's behavior towards Rickon right now genuinely surprised her, but nothing Lyaella had seen from her future aunt so far in this timeline had proved to her that she was mistaken in her assumptions about what Sansa would decide to do to her future parents when the critical moment came.
No, if this were only about Sansa right now, Lyaella wouldn't care… but Ramsay was threatening Rickon and Shireen. Rickon was an innocent party in this whole scenario, and the very reason why she ended up in his clutches before this battle in the first place. And Shireen? Never in her life had Lyaella dreamt she would make a friend as good as kind to her as Shireen Baratheon had been. She would not stand idly by and allow Ramsay to hurt her. Not while she had the power to stop this.
And besides, she was as good as dead anyway. Even in the off-chance she managed to get her breathing back under control before her lungs finally gave out, Ramsay would kill her anyway if she let him fly away on top of Sōnar. It might not be today or even tomorrow, but he would kill her as soon as he was sure doing so wouldn't result in Sōnar roasting him to a crisp.
Lyaella sucked in a deep breath, her good hand tightening its grasp around her sword as she steeled herself for the inevitable.
If she was going to die, it would be on her terms.
So she might as well go out with a bang.
Jon narrowed his eyes, red hot rage welling up inside him. "Let her go, Ramsay! You've already lost!"
With each passing second that Lyaella remained half-passed out in Ramsay's arms, the more Jon's mind spun with dark fantasies of how he'd make the Bolton bastard pay. Jon had already promised Sansa that if Ramsay was captured alive, he would let her dole out whatever justice she desired when it came to executing him. But he never told his sister he wouldn't punish the asshole himself first for everything he and his House did to their family. He wasn't naturally a vengeful person though, so he always assumed he would simply beat Ramsay bloody until his anger abated when today's battle was over…
…but that was before Ramsay had Lyaella running in terror across the battlefield and decided to use her as a human shield. Before this was over, he would personally used Longclaw to chop off that hand that was holding a knife to Lyaella's throat right now. After breaking each one of his fingers one at a time. And after that he'd personally cut out the asshole's tongue. No more smug words from that conceited prick. However Sansa planned to kill him, he would do so in rasping silence, unable to say anything.
Ramsay only chuckled at him, unimpressed. He pulled Lyaella back a few more steps. "No, I don't think I've lost at all. I have this girl, which means I have her dragon. We're leaving now, and your wild little brother and the Baratheon bitch are coming—"
"N-No…"
Ramsay blinked. Jon blinked. Everyone in the courtyard blinked. Lyaella was in such bad shape, no one there truly expected her to be able to think straight, let alone be conscious enough to understand and refuse to obey Ramsay's orders. How she was even still holding onto Dark Sister right now was beyond Jon's understanding. She was half-flopped over in Ramsay's arms like dead weight, and in addition to the small gash near her right temple that dripped blood all across her face and was turning her silvery hair to crimson, there was a distinct, deeper cut across the back of her left hand. She'd been pointedly avoiding moving it in the slightest since he'd entered the courtyard. Something was very wrong with that hand, as every time Ramsay jostled it her face contorted in pain.
But even so, Lyaella had somehow found her voice right now, and she was pointedly shaking her head back and forth despite the knife against her throat to repeat herself again and again.
"No… No, I won't… w-won't help you… Sōnar, don't… help h-him…"
Ramsay stared at her disbelieving for a half-second, then quickly flashed a furious scowl. "Perhaps I wasn't clear the first time, Targaryen Bitch!" He snatched up Lyaella's hand, squeezing it pointedly .
Lyaella threw back her head and screamed. Not just a quick scream or a scream of momentary shock. This was a true, bloodcurdling scream of complete agony. Jon flinched, his teeth on edge from the sound. Ramsay hadn't even squeezed her that hard. Something very serious had happened to her hand if she was screaming like that. Did she break it during the crash?
She moaned helplessly when he finally let go, more tears running down her cheeks as she rasped for air.
Ramsay sneered at her. "You truly believe you're in any position to refuse me right now, you little bitch? You can't even move this hand here at all, and you've been wheezing nonstop since last night. You must be the most miserable excuse for a Targaryen I've ever seen! And on top of that, I'm still the Warden of the North, regardless of what Jon Snow or my beloved Sansa have to say about it. It's a title that was bestowed upon my House by the crown. The very crown that was stolen from you and your family during the rebellion. You are just a bastard girl of a House that has long since seen the end of its glory days. And you are a Targaryen bastard of the North on top of that. You of all people have no right to be even standing in the Winterfell courtyard right now. Let alone tell me what I can and can't do."
Jon clenched his fists. "Leave her alone. She's not involved in this! I highly suggest you reconsider my offer of one-on-one combat right now because—!"
A choked cough cut him. Followed by hoarse, dazed bouts of laughter.
Everyone — even Ramsay — stared at Lyaella in complete disbelief as she wheezed and laughed away, as though the world's funniest jape had just been told to her and she didn't feel the need to share the story with anyone else. She was sick, she was being held hostage, and she was seriously injured… and yet she was laughing. What in the world…?
It took Ramsay several seconds to snap out of his surprise. "What? Have you already succumbed to the infamous Targaryen Madness? Have you finally snapped yourself?"
"M-Madness…?" Lyaella gasped, laughing even harder. "No… I'm l-laughing… at you! You and… and y-your ignorance…!"
Jon just stared, his mind blank. What was she talking about? And what was possessing her to speak about it now of all times?
For once, Ramsay seemed to echo his thoughts. "Just what are you prattling on about?"
Lyaella wheezed again, a glazed look clouding over her eyes as she stared up at the sky without even seeing it. "Me! I'm… I'm talking about… m-me!" She puffed. "I'm h-hated even more than… than you… because I'm T-Targaryen… but I'll always h-have more of… the right to be in Winterfell than you do!"
He scoffed. "House Targaryen is gone, you stupid girl. Your Valyrian blood has no—!"
"N-Not Valyrian!" She rasped, still laughing away. "First Man blood! Stark blood!"
Sansa suddenly looked at him, her eyes shining in confusion. Jon just shook his head. What is she talking about?
Even Ramsay was lost. "Stark blood? You truly are as stupid as you are mad. Just because Jon Snow takes care of you does not mean you are welcome in the Stark family keep, even if you are of the North."
Lyaella was laughing so hard now, more tears were streaming down her face. "You… You aren't l-listening to me…! I'm welcome here more than you… if I'm d-descended from House Stark and you aren't!"
Aside from her hysterical laughter, it suddenly became so quiet in the courtyard one could hear a pin drop if they listened hard enough. Jon went rigid. Completely rigid. Did he hear her right?
Ramsay himself was stunned. "What?"
She breathed heavily, but her amused smile was permanently fixed on her face. "It's obvious w-who I am if… if you s-stop and think about it… I'm the g-granddaughter of… Lyanna Stark!"
A multitude of shouts and cries of disbelief emanated from both the onlooking armies. Sansa suddenly gripped his shoulder and started speaking rapidly in his ear. Ramsay's grip on his knife slackened, and his eyes immediately snapped up to him in silent shock. Even Rickon and Shireen started babbling incoherently from somewhere behind him, unable to process this revelation.
None of this registered for Jon, though. He stared, stunned. Completely stunned.
Lyanna Stark? His dead aunt? Lyaella was the granddaughter of his dead aunt?
If Lyanna Stark was her grandmother, then Rhaegar Targaryen was her grandfather.
Rhaegar raped a baby into his aunt. And that child — boy or girl — had grown up and had a child of their own…
Lyaella Snow was the bastard child of the bastard born from the violent defilement Rhaegar inflicted on his aunt.
Lyaella Snow was his cousin once removed.
She was… family.
His mind whirled at the revelation. So many thoughts were running through his head he couldn't tell where one ended and another began. This changed things. This changed everything. Why hadn't she said something about this sooner? Why didn't she—?
A strangled scream suddenly tore from Lyaella's throat, and without warning, she suddenly plunged Dark Sister down hard into Ramsay's right foot. Ramsay let out a howl, blood gushing wildly from his boot.
He snarled, enraged. "Why you little—!"
She released her sword, grasping onto him with her good hand with all her might. "I'm… fire and ice… S-Stark and Targaryen!" She proclaimed, still breathless but now full of renewed strength. "So I… I have every… every right to t-tell you this, Ramsay Snow… W-Winter has come for you…with fire and blood!"
Her eyes suddenly met his for a brief second, and she flashed him a sad smile before letting them fall shut.
"Dracarys," she whispered.
Ramsay's eyes went wide. So did his own. But before either of them could react, Sōnar roared and let out a great stream of dragon fire, roasting Ramsay and Lyaella where they stood.
Screams erupted from everyone watching. Ramsay roared, the flames licking away at his flesh as he was charred to a crisp. The soldiers backed away, afraid of being burnt themselves. Smallfolk wailed, utterly terrified. Shireen was a babbling mess of hysterics. She wept and wept as she clung to Lady Melisandre, mourning her best friend.
Jon was the only one there though to dash towards the raging inferno. "Lyaella!"
He didn't make it very far. He didn't even make it three feet before he was literally body slammed to the ground by Tormund. "Fuck me, King Crow! Have yeh lost yeh're bloody mind?!"
Jon snarled, thrashing like mad. "Get your fucking hands off me, Tormund!"
"Like hell I will! Yeh're not burnin' today, yeh damn fool! Not while I'm still here!"
"Let go! Lyaella's in there! I-I-I can't just—!"
"No!"
Davos had to get down on the ground and help Tormund restrain him, that's how hard Jon was fighting. He refused to relent. Lyaella… if he didn't break away from them now, she'd be gone forever. He had to save her!
Sansa just stared wide-eyed into the flames, white as a ghost. She seemed incapable of coherent thought. "She… She just… and with him…" she shook her head, not even aware of herself while doing so. "That… That was just…"
Tears pricked the corners of his eyes, and slowly his desperation to break free died away. Lyaella was gone. Gone. She had made the ultimate sacrifice to ensure Ramsay wouldn't escape today. She had proven herself to be the bravest one out of any of them in terms of defying House Bolton. And yet she was gone.
Slowly he sat up, Tormund and Davos letting him. He turned away, unable to look at the fiery maelstrom for even a second longer…
…until a breathless cough suddenly echoed from deep within, followed by a pained whimper.
His head snapped around, eyes going wide. Did he hear that right? He couldn't have. Surely his mind was playing tricks on him in his grief. There was no way anyone could possibly survive—
A small, naked figure with silvery locks suddenly stumbled out from the flames. It wheezed heavily, swaying lightly while cradling its left hand to their chest and dragging a sword with the other, but other than a few cuts and bruises, they were unharmed. No burns or scorch marks marred their skin at all.
They swayed there back and forth for several moments… and then they mustered the strength to lift their head.
"J… Jon…?" Lyaella whispered.
Stunned silence enveloped everyone. No one moved. No one spoke. No one dared to even breathe.
Lyaella was alive. She had set herself on fire via her own dragon… and yet she was still alive.
She wearily smiled, but before she could say anything more, more raspy coughs escaped her lips, and she lost her strength and fell to the ground. Another scream tore out of her as her injured hand whacked into a lone piece of rubble.
Jon snapped back to his senses upon seeing this and leapt up. "Find something to cover her up with, Davos! Anything!" he ordered, rushing to her side. From the corner of his eye, he saw the old man jump and start searching desperately for a cloak or even a long piece of fabric to drape over her, but he ignored him. Instead he knelt down by Lyaella's side and tried to help her sit up. His hand accidentally brushed against Lyaella's injured one though, and she screamed yet again. "Sorry! Sorry, Lyaella! It's okay! You're going to be okay!"
She didn't even seem to be aware he had spoken. Her eyes had glazed over again as she stared vacantly up at the sky. And she was wheezing far harder than he'd ever heard her wheeze before.
But what really scared him was how her lips were starting to turn blue.
"Sansa! Bring the maester here!" He ordered, dread filling his chest.
"W… What…?"
"Do as I say! Now!"
He didn't waste the energy to see if she did as he said or not. All his attention was focused solely on Lyaella. She was still alive. And she was family. He had to protect her. It was a miracle she was still here, and he'd be damned if he let her die right now just because her lungs were giving out on her.
Jon stroked some stray silvery strands out of her eyes, forcing a smile onto his face. If he stayed relaxed, she would relax too. At least, he hoped she would. "It's okay, Lyaella… You're going to be okay!"
Lyaella huffed, a weak groan passing from her mouth as she forced her eyes to look at him. "I'm… I'm t-tired, Jon… I wanna sleep…"
"No! No, don't sleep, Lyaella! Stay awake!"
But she didn't hear him, and with one last tired smile she closed her eyes and gave into her exhaustion.