Warg Maiden

Disclaimer: I do not own Game of Thrones

Chapter 42: An Offer of Surrender

Jon's POV

The day came to meet with Ramsay Bolton. A messenger had come the day before to discuss terms of surrender outside of Winterfell. There would be no surrender, but Jon was willing to see Ramsay Bolton. Therefore, he, Sansa, Ser Davos, Tormund, Fenrir, Imogen, and the Head of the Allies Houses came.

Jon led with Ghost, Tormund, Ser Davos, and Sansa. Fenrir and Imogen were in the middle of Valko and Skadi. Both wearing their wolf masks. Meanwhile, the heads of Houses Mormont, Mazin, Overton, and Horwood were behind with their guarded shields.

They were just outside of Winterfell along the open fields with the Wolfswood behind them. The last time Jon was here, he was a naïve boy wanting to join the Night's Watch to escape the reminders of being a bastard. Leaving behind his siblings. A part of him wonders if he has stayed. Accept the abuse from Lady Catelyn. Would he have helped Robb in the war? Would House Stark be in a better position than it already is?

Jon sighed, for he had made his choice.

He was no longer the boy who believed in heroism.

But a man who has gone through hell and back.

A company of ten men came as two bannermen held the Bolton sigils. Sansa inhaled sharply when seeing them come. Jon glanced at his sister. Maybe she should have stayed in the camp. The man who constantly raped and tortured her will be here any moment.

"You don't have to be here," Jon murmured.

Sansa took a deep breath, fixing her composure, "Yes, I do."

Jon watched her for a moment to be sure before facing the company.

On three dark horses, they came closer with Ramsay center. Jon looked to his left to see Lord Smalljon Umber, and on his right was Lord Harald Karstark. Men who may vow to House Stark. Jon also noticed something else. Strapped to Ramsay's waist was none other than Dark Sister.

Ramsay gave a sickening smile as his gray eyes focused on Sansa, "My beloved wife."

Sansa did not return the greeting.

"I've missed you terribly," Ramsay said, then focused on Jon. "Thank you for returning Lady Bolton safely. Now, dismount and kneel before me, surrender your army, and proclaim me the true Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. I will pardon you for deserting the Night's Watch. I will pardon these treasonous lords for betraying my house."

Jon noticed Ramsay's tone of feigning authority. Challenging them to bite back. Let alone Ramsay omitting the Free Folk.

"Come, bastard," Ramsay said to Jon. "You don't have the men, you don't have the horses, and you don't have Winterfell. Why led those poor souls into slaughter? There's no need for battle. Get off your horse and kneel. I'm a man of mercy."

Jon doubted it from all the stories he had heard. How Ramsay butchered his own men to mess with Theon before mutilating him. How this man whored his way through the North and chased poor women through the woods like some animal, shooting at them before his hounds did the rest. Killing his own father and possibly killing his stepmother and half-brother. Most of all, the rape and torture of Sansa. Brutally changing her and worse than what the Lannisters did.

Jon will not forgive Ramsay for that. Especially when Northerners and citizens of Winterfell are being tortured physically or mentally. All Jon saw was a rabid dog that needed to be put down. Not a human being. Not a man.

Unless Ramsay can prove him wrong and duel.

"You're right," Jon replied confidently. "There's no need for a battle. Thousands of men don't need to die. Only one of us."

The confidence Ramsay had started to falter.

"Let's end this the old ways," Jon offered. "You against me."

Jon knows he has the advantages. He was trained by Lord Eddard Stark, Ser Roddrick Cassel, Benjen Stark, and many men with a sword at age five. From what he heard of Ramsay, he was more of an archer and knife. And using a Valyrian longsword is more complicated than an arming sword. Let alone, if Ramsay was truly honorable, he would accept. If he declines, then there is a chance men from his army would desert, not wanting to serve a coward.

Ramsay started chuckling.

"I keep hearing stories about you, bastard," Ramsay said. "The way people in the North talk about you, you're the greatest swordsman who ever walked. Maybe you are that good. Maybe not. I don't know if I'd beat you. But I know that my army will beat yours. I have six thousand men. You have, what, half that? With savages."

"Aye, you have the numbers," Jon agreed, yet continued the act. "Will your men want to fight for you when they hear you wouldn't fight for them?"

The North holds more honor than anything.

Ramsay made a face knowing that, as he pointed his finger at Jon, laughing his annoyance, "He's good. Very good." He took a deep breath. "Tell me, will you let your little brother die because you're too proud to surrender?"

"How do we know you have him?" Sansa challenged.

Ramsay stared at her with a smirk. He gestured to Lord Umber, who went into his horse's satchel, tossing a dark fur wolf head in front of them. The wolf's head was too large to be a normal wolf. A direwolf.

Three growls could be heard. Skadi and Valko had gone into an attack position and were ready to pounce. Jon stared at the direwolf's head and then at Ghost. Seeing the fury in the albino wolf. As the white fur had bristled, teeth fully exposed, red eyes narrowed, and claws out. Ghost could tell that this was Shaggy Dog. His brother.

Lady, Grey Wind, and Shaggy Dog were dead.

Nymeria and Summer's status was unknown, and they were the same as their owners.

Leaving Ghost, the last of his pack.

It shouldn't be the lone wolf to survive.

It had to be the pack.

Jon needed to make sure his siblings survived this ordeal. Robb and Eddard are dead, and Arya is missing. Bran is somewhere in the True North, escaping the Wights. Sansa was next to him, and Rickon…Rickon is nearly there as a prisoner.

Jon knows he can redeem himself if he can protect Sansa and Rickon.

Ramsay smiled at them, "Now, if you want to save –"

"You're going to die tomorrow, Lord Bolton," Sansa interrupted.

This dumbfounded Ramsay.

Sansa glared at him, "Sleep well."

With nothing else to see, Sansa galloped off back to the Wolfswood. Imogen, with Skadi, followed after her. Jon was relieved that Imogen was following Sansa.

"She's a fine woman, your sister," Ramsay complimented. "I look forward to having her in my bed."

Jon's eyes narrowed, glaring at him.

Ramsay smiled, "And you're all fine-looking men. My dogs are desperate to meet you. I haven't fed them for seven days. They're ravenous. I wonder which parts they'll try first. Your eyes? Your balls? We'll find out soon enough. In the morning, then, bastard."

With nothing else to say, Ramsay led his company back to Winterfell.

Once they were gone, Ghost went over to Shaggy Dog's head. He nuzzles the dry-up husk of a head, whimpering. Jon came over as he got off the horse to collect the head. Fenrir came as well, still on Valko.

"We will cremate the fallen wolf," Fenrir said. "To honor the fallen."

Jon stared at Ghost with a nod.

Ramsay will pay for this.

.o0o.

Later that evening, Jon was in the officer's tent, reviewing the plan one last time. It was clear they needed to do this right. One mistake will not only cost Rickon's but also the lives of their men. They gathered around the table with the map of Winterfell, battle tokens set in place with the Houses, and plain chips for the Free Folk.

"If he was smart, he'd stay inside the walls of Winterfell and wait us out," Jon said.

"That's not his way. He knows the North is watching." Ser Davos disagreed. "If the other houses sense weakness on his part, they'll stop fearing him. He can't have that fear in his power. It's his weakness, too."

"His men don't want to fight for him," Jon said. They're forced to fight for him. If they feel the tides turning…"

"It's not his men that worry me," Tormund interrupted. "It's his horses. I know what mounted knights can do to us. You and Stannis cut through us like piss through snow."

"We're digging trenches all along the flanks," Jon said, making gestures on the map. "They won't be able to hit us the way that Stannis hit you, in a double envelopment."

Fenrir, Tormund, and Imogen looked at him to be specific, not in their vocabulary. Jon realized this as he tried to find the right words.

"A pincer moves," Jon clarified.

Imogen nodded, as did Fenrir, but Tormund was still oblivious.

Jon used hand gestures, "They won't be able to hit it from the sides."

"Good," Tormund agreed.

"Imogen, can you stop the first wave of horses?" Fenrir asked.

Imogen paused as she stared at the map. Jon was cautious about using Imogen's warging abilities. He is aware that her visions hold consequences. And that she can warg countless crows and ravens. But can she handle a cavalry?

"I may be able to get the first row, causing them to fall," she said.

"That will cause a chain reaction of the cavalry falling on each other, delaying them," Ser Davos was pleased by this.

"We will get other wargs to join in as well," Fenrir added.

Ser Davos nodded, "It's crucial that we let them charge at us. They got the numbers; we need the patience."

Jon came over to Imogen as he adjusted the token.

Ser Davos continued, pointing at the map, "If we let him buckle our center, he'll pursue. Then we'll have him surrounded on three sides."

Tormund leaned towards Jon, "Did you really think that cunt would fight you man-to-man?"

"No," Jon sighed. "But I wanted to make him angry."

All eyes were on Jon.

"I want him coming at us full tilt." He said.

Imogen picked up the wolf token and spoke in the Old Tongue. Her voice was sharp yet fluent, as if she were reciting a poem.

Ser Davos sighed, "We should all get some sleep."

"Rest, Jon snow," Tormund murmured. "We need you sharp tomorrow."

Everyone left the tent except for Sansa. Jon sat down, feeling the weight on his shoulders yet again. He rubbed his face, trying to fight the exhaustion.

"So you've met the enemy, drawn up your battle plans," Sansa said on the other side of the table.

"Aye, for what they're worth," Jon replied, grabbing his drink and taking a sip.

Sansa became serious, "You've known him for a space of a single conversation, you and your trusted advisor, and you sit around making plans on how to defeat a man you don't know."

Jon sighed, for they had this conversation multiple times since the start of their campaign.

"I lived with him," she reminded him, staring into Jon's eyes. "I know the way his mind works. I know how he likes to hurt people."

Jon grasped her words, aware that Ramsay was no ordinary man but a sadist.

"Did it ever once occur to you that I might have some insight?" Sansa asked.

Jon tried to find his words, "You're right."

Sansa took a deep breath, "You think he's going to fall into your trap. He won't. He's the one who lays traps."

"He's overconfident," he disagreed.

"He plays with people," She reminded in irritation. "He's far better at it than you. He's been doing it all his life."

"Aye, and what have I been doing all my life?" Jon barked, standing up. "Playing with broomsticks?"

Sansa stepped back.

"I fought beyond the Wall against worse than Ramsay Bolton." He said. "I defended the Wall from worse than Ramsay Bolton."

"You don't know him," she grounded out.

"All right, tell me," Jon challenged. "What should we do? How do we get Rickon back?"

Sansa inhaled sharply as she angrily answered, "We'll never get him back."

That broke Jon's heart.

"Rickon is Ned Stark's trueborn son, which makes him a greater threat to Ramsay than you, a bastard, or me, a girl." She explained. "As long as he lives, Ramsay's claim to Winterfell will be contested, which means he won't live long."

Jon glared at her at her shrewdness, "We can't give up on our brother."

"Listen to me, please," She pleaded. "He wants you to make a mistake."

"Of course he does," he said, making his way over to her. "What should I do differently?"

"I don't know," she cried out, trying to keep some distance. "I don't know anything about battles. Just don't do what he wants you to do."

"Aye, that's good advice," he said sarcastically.

Sansa glared at him, "You think that's obvious?"

"Well, it is a bit obvious!" Jon yelled, frustrated.

"If you had asked for my advice earlier, I would have told you not to attack Winterfell until we had a larger force, or is that obvious, too?" Sansa scolded.

"When will we have a larger force?" Jon bellowed, gesturing to the map. "We've pleased with every house that'll have us. The Free Folk gave us those willing to fight in our war. The Blackfish can't help us. We're lucky to have this many men."

"It's not enough," Sansa spat.

"No, it's not enough!" Jon practically screamed. "It's what we have."

Both panted as frustration and fear exposed themselves. They were near even. Even though they lacked the number of horses, they had a fighting chance.

"Battles have been won against greater odds," Jon reminded.

Sansa stepped away but stopped to look at him. "If Ramsay wins, I'm not going back there alive. Do you understand me?"

In other words, she would rather die than be taken again.

"I won't ever let him touch you again," Jon promised. "I'll protect you, I promise."

However, Jon could see the doubt in her blue eyes, "No one can protect me. No one can protect anyone."

With that said, Sansa left.

Jon watched him leave before leaning against the table.

He needed guidance.

He noted one person was absent, Melisandre. She has been avoiding people even on their campaign, taking refuge in her tent or in her chambers. So, grabbing his cloak, he went to see the Red Priestess. Jon barely talks to her unless necessary, as he is conflicted about the woman's magic. As she brought him back from the dead.

When he arrived at her tent, he found Melisandre sitting by the brazier, staring into the flames.

"My lady," he greeted, standing next to her.

She had a slight smile looking at him.

"You weren't at the war council," Jon said.

"I'm not a soldier," she murmured, rubbing her hands.

"Any advice?" he asked.

She stared into his eyes, "Don't lose."

Not very helpful, he thought.

"If I do, if I fall…." He paused, about to give this one request. "… don't bring me back."

Melisadre gave him a look, "I'll have to try."

Jon couldn't go back to the painful void. He had welcomed death until the searing pain in his wounds and the voices. Yet one voice stood out. Jon blinked, not thinking about the owner of that voice. He couldn't come back, knowing he had failed his family.

"I'm ordering you not to bring me back," Jon commanded softly.

"I'm not your servant," Jon Snow," Melisandre reminded.

"You're in my camp. I'm the commander," he countered.

"I serve the Lord of Light," she said. "I do what he commands."

"How do you know what he commands?" Jon asked bitterly.

"I…I interpret his signs…as well as I can," she answered with hesitation, then looked at him while her hands gestured to the flames. "If the Lord didn't want me to bring you back, how did I bring you back? I have no power. Only what he gives me and gave me you."

"Why?" he asked.

"I don't know," She confessed, then stared into the flames. "Maybe you're only needed for this small part of his plan and nothing else. Maybe he brought you here to die again."

Jon stared into the fire, "What kind of god would do something like that?"

She looked at him, "The one we've got."

Jon glanced at her, finding no support in this conversation. So, bobbing his head, he left for his tent. When he arrived, he stared at the table where armor was placed on the table. He stared at it, noting it was basically the one he was wearing, yet sturdy and strong. There was also chainmail. A tunic rested on the back of the chair.

Although armor held significance, Jon always found chainmail to be resistant—one he barely used, if not never. Then a thought came of Imogen: how she simply wore her leather vested armor, with bracers and nothing else for protection. He picked up the chainmail, estimating its weight and length before taking it to Imogen.

As much as he convinced her not to fight in his battles.

It only seemed fair he gave her something to secure her safety.

He is not making the same mistake he made with Ygritte.

.o0o.

Moments Earlier

Imogen's POV

Ser Davos walked with Tormund, Fenrir, and me as we made our way to the camp. Many thoughts linger about what has transpired in the last week with the upcoming war. There was no passion, not like Mance Rayder's attempt on Castle Black. Instead, there is this sense of dread.

"You think there's hope?" Ser Davos asked.

"I've never seen the Bolton fuckers fight," Tormund answered. "And they've never seen the Free Folk fight, so yes, there's hope."

Fenrir nodded in agreement. I wouldn't say I saw them fight, but I have seen many battles with the Three-Eyed Raven. Battles between the Children and the First Men, their alliance against the White Walkers, and battles amongst men alone. If not, the battles with dragons. There were so many fighting styles, yet the Southerners had one thing in common: Obedience and control.

"Even so, it's a pointless battle," I murmured. "When the Great War is nearing."

Fenrir and Tormund nodded agreement, but not Ser Davos.

Tormund noticed this, "You want to avenge your king, don't you?"

Ser Davos shook his head, "It wasn't the Boltons defeated Stannis. It was Stannis himself."

"Greed and pride are dangerous things," I said.

Ser Davos nodded, "I loved the man. He lifted me up and made me something. But he had demons in his skull whispering foul things."

"You saw these demons?" Fenrir asked.

"What?" Ser Davos replied.

We stared at him, knowing the dark magic the Red Woman possessed. We have seen her blast fire out of her hand to kill Orell. Tormund and I had witnessed her resurrect Jon from the dead. Demons were part of dark magic if not blood magic. Magic that should never be used.

Ser Davos realized what Fenrir meant and said, "No, it's a manner of speaking. Not actual demons."

But the way he said it gave the impression he saw a demon himself.

"Oh, well, you loved that cunt, Stannis, and I loved the man he burned," Tormund argued quietly. "Mance didn't have the demons in his skull. He didn't torched people or listen to some red witch. I believed in him. I thought he was the man to lead us through the Long Night. But I was wrong, just like you."

Tormund nodded his head to Fenrir and me before making his way.

"Maybe that was our mistake, believing in kings," Ser Davos said.

Tormund stopped as he turned to face the knight. "Jon Snow's not a king."

"No, he's not." Ser Davos agreed.

We stared at each other and gave a slight chuckle. We can all agree that Jon Snow would make a terrible King. However, he can be an excellent leader with the right council.

"I need a good drink to help me sleep the night before a fight. You want some?" Tormund offered. "I have a jug of sour goat's milk stronger than any of that grape water you southern twats like sucking on.

I made a quiet gesture to Ser Davos not to partake. Tormund drinks are a required taste. If made incorrectly, you will be vomiting in seconds. The Dire Tribe has its own alcoholic beverage, which we distill and ferment over a period of time and mix with mountain berries and flavor roots. It has a strong kick and burns right through to keep warm. Mountain Moonshine. Enough that one's breaths can ignite a flame. Let alone kill a person if drunk in large portions. It burns all through the body and knocks a person unconscious, not like Tormund's sour goat's milk.

"No, thanks. It does sound delicious, but I better keep a clear head," Ser Davos declined. Then heaved a sigh, "I can never sleep the night before a battle."

"So what do you do all night?" Fenrir asked curiously.

"I walk. Think and walk," Ser Davos answered. "Think and walk until I'm far enough away from camp that no one can hear me shitting my guts out." Horror suddenly registered on his face as he looked at me. "Apologies."

"I'm no delicate lady," I assured him.

Fenrir and Tormund laughed at that.

"Happy shitting," Tormund said to the knight, then looked at us, Dires. "Part tak?."

"I'm going to sleep," I said. "If I'm going to warg a lot of horses, I'm going to need all the energy."

Fenrir nodded as he patted my back and then looked at Tormund. "I could use a drink."

Tormund nodded as he and Fenrir made their way. Ser Davos and I waited momentarily, and then I turned to the knight.

"Do we have a chance?" I asked.

"I do not know," Ser Davos confessed.

I sighed, "Thank you for your honesty."

Ser Davos nodded.

"Good night, my lady." He said.

I gave him a hard look. I'm no fancy lady. Not like Sansa or Stannis's wife. However, exhaustion won as I simply replied, "Good night, Ser Davos."

Afterward, we went our separate ways. I headed back to my tent. A lot is going on in my mind in the battle that is to come. Even though I will not be fighting, I want to help. Even if it means warging the horses to stop. Doing so will take a lot of energy to warg that many horses.

When I came to my tent, Skadi and Valko guarded it. I petted both direwolves before going inside. I took off my cloak and leather armor vest. I sighed, sitting on the cot to work on the bracers. There is so much that needs to be done. But Ramsay is an obstacle that is preventing the preparation for the Great War. I had met Thenns who are barbaric, except there is a means to their actions. Ramsay, from what I have gathered through Frigg and the first encounter…takes pleasure in people's suffering.

Bloodraven told me that type of behavior is called a sadist.

Once the bracers were off, I sat there, lost in thought. I know we need more men, yet Jon decided to rush things. Pride is a dangerous thing. A part of me wanted to seek more men from the Nightfort. I understand why Boudica is not sending anymore. She tried to preserve as many fighters for the Long Night. But we need more reinforcement.

The sound of the tarp moving caught my attention. At first, I expected it to be Fenrir. Instead, it was Jon. He paused, realizing he walked in without permission. Yet the two direwolves haven't sensed him as a threat.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to intrude," Jon said.

"As if you haven't seen me topless before," I teased, even though I was fully dressed.

Jon nearly blushed, shaking his head.

I chuckled, then sighed, "Why are you here?"

Jon cleared his throat, "I wanted you to have this."

He handed me something made of metal. I took hold of it, unraveling it to reveal a chainmail tunic. Chainmail was something valuable to the Dires. It's something tedious to make and costs a lot in trade. Something that holds value. So, Jon gave this to me, and it was surprising.

"Why are you giving me this?" I asked.

Jon grabbed a chair and took a seat across from me. "I thought you could use it."

"Chainmail is valuable," I said.

"Not really," he disagreed.

I raised a brow.

"Maybe for the Free Folk," he clarified. "But not here."

I nodded, "Why?"

Jon paused, then said, "I don't want what happened to Ygritte to happen to you."

Last, I recall, chainmail doesn't stop arrows. However, it is going to protect against swords from hacking and slicing flesh. Let alone the fact that Jon was concerned about my safety. I bit my tongue, for Jon unintentionally did the first step of the Dire Tribes courtship ritual. As the man, he gave me an item of protection to show he cared about my safety. I doubt Ygritte told him. Therefore, I did not mention it.

It's a gift for a friend.

An ally.

Not a lover.

"Thank you," I murmured.

"You're welcome," he replied with a small smile.

We stayed silent for a moment.

"Can I ask you a favor?" he started.

"Another one?" I teased.

Jon sighed, "I've been asking a lot, haven't I?"

The way he said it tells me this favor is far more personal to him. "What is it?"

"It's Sansa," he murmured.

"Is she all right?" I asked.

Jon took a deep breath, "No…She thinks we won't win."

I remained silent.

"She doubts me, thinking I'm falling into Ramsay's traps," he bowed his head, grabbing his hair. "That our brother Rickon is most likely dead. And…"

He stops himself.

"And?" I encouraged him to continue.

"That she will kill herself if we lose the battle," he finished.

My eyes widened, for suicide is a sensitive subject. To the Dires, it's frowned upon to kill oneself except to sacrifice and protect. To end one life…so freely…I can never understand.

"If we lose this battle, I want you to take Sansa back to the Nightfort. Protect her the best you can."

"Are you sure?" I asked. "Her soul's been damaged."

Jon nodded with regret. Despite everything he went through as a child and how he was treated, he still wanted to protect his sister. Whether it is an obligation or familial love.

"I will try," I promised.

"Thank you," he breathed.

I snorted, "I find it amusing you trust a wildling to protect your sister."

His lips twitched slightly, "I trust a friend."

"Friend," I repeated.

Jon nodded. At this point, we might as well call each other friends. Even though our friendship didn't start out well. Yet Jon proved himself, even when he has made mistakes. However, will this battle be a mistake? There are times I wish the visions I see can be of the future, not the present or past.

Noting it was getting late, I said, "You should get some rest."

Jon stared at me in deep thought.

"Jon," I called out softly.

Jon blinked a few times, "If you were to die, would you allow yourself to be resurrected."

I stared at him, baffled at such a question, "If I'm already dead, then I'm dead."

Jon took this in.

"Death is something not to mess with," I murmured. "There is an order to nature."

Jon thought about it.

I took his hand, which snapped him out of his trance.

"Tell me, do you want to be resurrected again?"

Jon shook his head.

I squeezed his hand. "Then I'll try to honor your wishes."

Jon squeezed my hand back, "Thank you."

We both agree that what is dead should stay dead.

After several moments, Jon got up and wished me goodnight. Once he was gone, I took my boots off before getting under the furs. I lost in thought in my conversation with Jon until exhaustion won.

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