Diablo Snowblind note:

Hey folks. A lot has happened over the years, and I'm sorry for dropping off the radar. But for various reasons, I've decided it's time to finish editing and uploading the rest of Dragons of Ice and Fire, a project I'll approach over the next month or two. I have a few chapters of 'Book 2' of Dragons of Ice and Fire written/half-written, following from the most intact portions of Serpentguy's old notes plus my own additions, but no promises on if that tentative project ever goes anywhere.

I am determined to finish uploading the rest of this story up to chapter 51, though. Despite my massive, massive complaints regarding this failure of a website's broken formatting when I upload word documents here.

In the meanwhile, I've been collab-writing another story over on Archive of Our Own, in the Cradle fandom by the name of 'Eternal Star', alongside the fantastic author Daoist Mystery. I'd suggest checking it out! I hope you're all doing well.


Prelude to the Battle of Winterfell, the Battle of Snows…


Sansa

The Merry Midwife creaked and groaned with the waves. She was an old cog, her figurehead carved of ill-treated white pine, rotten at the edges. A laughing matron at the prow cut through the waves, holding an infant by one foot, as if dangling the wooden babe over the water. The woman's cheeks and the babe's bottom were pocked with wormholes, and the leavings of seagulls speckled her brow. Sansa leaned over the railing and for a long time found herself staring at the carved midwife and her fixed, wooden smile. Perhaps it was just poor craftsmanship, but that wide, merry grin seemed forced, desperate, as the mother offered her child to the sea.

Sansa pulled her wool-lined hood up against the bite of the wind, but her long hair still whipped across her skin. After so long, the black dye was beginning to fade; Sansa's tips were still dark, but the red roots were showing. On the narrow cog, there had never been the time or space to braid her hair properly as she had used to, so Sansa let it hang and grow free.

A horn sounded in the distance, and the chiming of bells carried over the water, to the sound of faint echoes. In the distance, she could see the shape of the Seal Rock jutting out of the bay, wreathed in mist like some great, eroded hunter. A remnant of a past age, a protector. White Harbour, the city beyond, was a faint haze obscured in the cold morning mist, inscrutable in the distance, but the shadows of sails loomed over the mouth to the White Knife. All aboard, from captain to sailor to cook, were tense as the Merry Midwife wafted in the wind towards the fleet of House Manderly.

Yet above all, Sansa wondered if she would see the dragon. Her heart was in her mouth with the thought. Her eyes lingered on the shadow of the Seal Rock, trying to imagine a dragon hidden atop it in the mists. After all that she had heard, the rumours and hedge tales whispered over meals or muttered in dark corners, it couldn't help but remind her of the tales Old Nan had once told.

There was a cold edge in the soft wind, she clenched her furs closer to her form. Jon Snow. An ice dragon. The north at war. My home. She felt like a girl venturing into the storm, the legends of an earlier age made real. Should I be excited or scared? she wondered. Instead, she just felt queerly detached to it all.

"You should not be on deck, my lady," a low voice warned. "It would not do if you were to fall ill. And we ought to keep your return as discreet as possible."

Sansa found herself smiling faintly at the exiled knight's words. She glanced at him from the corner of an eye, as he took a place beside her at the cog's prow, slightly staggering into place.

Ser Jorah's face was a slowly recovering ruin, his features still bruised and bloated, his eyes a little weary, lined by shadows. He was clad in a moth-eaten cloak of wool, lined with sealskin, looking larger and gruffer than ever under layers of worn and salt-stained clothes.

"They will know soon enough." Sansa could see the shadows of sails through the fog, an indeterminate number of them rocking in the bay's waters, forming a barricade across the harbour. Galleys, she realised. Fairly large hulls, large enough to be seen across the great distance yet remaining. The fleet of House Manderly slowly took shape from the vapours, each one looking crisp and clean, fresh from the shipyards. The first northern fleet in a hundred years. "Will we be allowed to pass?"

"They will board us first, and search our hull," Ser Jorah admitted. His voice carried weirdly in the damp air. "White Harbour is under lockdown; even more so than it was when I was last here." Silence stretched for a passing of moments as the bear knight stared into the mist, his eyes visibly roaming for detail in the grey vapour. He was on edge; shoulders tense, his fingers drumming.

"How do you suppose so?" Sansa asked.

"The evidence is before your eyes." He pointed, drawing her attention to the harbour's near shores. Port and starboard, the two shorelines slowly converged as the Merry Midwife approached the White Knife's mouth. She saw nothing, save for dark shorelines. She shook her head.

"Look," Ser Jorah insisted, drawing her attention to a point in the distance, drawing her attention away from the vessels of the blockade. "There."

She saw it. Empty wharfs, silent docksides speckling the far shoreline. A small yellow flag, devoid of decoration or heraldry, raised above the quay, flying beneath a pennant emblazoned with the Manderly merman. It was a small stead, too small to even be called a village, at the very edge of the harbour outside of the city proper.

Ser Jorah continued at the slight widening of her eyes, at her curiosity. "Do you see the empty berths? The guttered lighthouse? You look upon the plague wharf, the cheapest dockage along the waters of the White Knife. At any other city, a fleet blockade would normally escort vessels to such a dock, or some equivalent. In times of peace, the vessels of smallfolk will likely seek harbourage there. All port cities of sufficient size have such a wharf." Somehow, Ser Jorah's features darkened even further.

"All throughout the seas, during times of blockade, vessels seeking entry to port are typically brought to the plague wharf or some lesser equivalent for inspection." He took a breath, gripped the railing, and explained through a grimace. "If they are not repelled, taken, or sunk at first sight, that is. If brought in by the blockade, standard practice dictates a full and thorough inspection by the port authorities, ensuring that a hull's contents conform to the law of the land. It is a process that may take days of labour. It isn't so unusual to see vessels lie in wait for weeks, if they seek entry during times of blockade. In my time in Lys, I once saw the Triarch refuse to admit all vessels for a month, during a rumoured outbreak of the Sothoryi Sailor's bane in the Stepstones - the boats were jammed so tightly in the water that one could have all walked across the bay."

She stayed quiet. The bear knight turned to her a little, glancing at her with rough, but not unkind, features. "White Harbour is the busiest port north of the Neck, my lady, yet we see no vessels under inspection here. It is a dark, dark sign."

She could see the lines tightening across his eyes. She measured him quietly through the edge of her gaze.Yes, she thought, he's very nervous. Scared of facing the north's law again? Scared of facing his family? "One does not look need to see through these mists to know that there have been few merchants seeking harbour in the city, my lady." Jorah continued. "None, perhaps. In times of quiet, a plague wharf may see use by petty fishermen, seeking less tax. Yet we see none; no vessels under inspection, no smallfolk, though we are still in the season for herring. Meaning that the smallfolk dare not tread these waters now. Where even commoners fear to tread, men of birth and power will never walk. The blockade has been blockading nothing, I think." The bear knight paused for a breath, his eyes lingered on the small tower. "Set the plague wharf aside. I imagine that the Lord's Port and the Merchant's Quay will be places for fit for ghosts."

Silence lingered for a long moment, as their small cog tepidly approached the Manderly fleet.

"What will that mean for us?" Sansa asked finally.

"They will be suspicious of our ship, if only out of one part prudence, two parts boredom." Ser Jorah muttered. "We will be boarded and inspected. Thoroughly, I expect. Few with petty cause would seek berth at a city that has raised its banners in revolt, and the caution of the inspectors and longshoremen will be redoubled now that they have a vessel in sight." Ser Jorah sighed, taking in some of the salty air, as if it gave him a little strength.

"But, when they learn of you, my lady. then I have no doubt that Lord Manderly will be most eager to welcome you home. Before, he would have certainly seen you smuggled into the keep, under hood and cowl and in cover of darkness. Now, with their banners raised against the Iron Throne?" There was a pause, and he seemed to consider his words carefully. "I do not know. Lord Manderly will certainly want it known that the eldest daughter of Eddard Stark has returned to the North, and stands with him. I would suspect he would want tale of you known amongst the people sooner, rather than later. But he will want to speak with you for himself, to understand your wishes."

Sansa just nodded absently. Ser Jorah was so quick to speak of the great lords of the north, but Sansa had to wonder. Would she even be recognized? Would Lord Manderly know her? Doubtful. So many years had passed, and Lord Borrell had declined to send a letter to vouch for her identity. Arriving like this, unannounced, gave the Lord of Sweetsister deniability should the news of her arrival spread, but it weakened her stance. He'd refused to put any words to writing - men could talk, he had said. Ravens weren't secure enough, he had insisted, any word or letters so found could reach back to the Vale.

It had taken over a fortnight of negotiations and arguments before she had convinced Lord Borrell to send her on to White Harbour. The Lord of Sweetsister had been slow to convince, but Sansa persevered. This could be a huge benefit to your house, she had argued, in a dozen separate facets of argument. There is no better way to earn advantage than to openly stand with those who would win.

But still, even after he had come to agree with her, Lord Borrell wanted to hedge his bets. He had put her on a small cog and sent her to the city unannounced. The Merry Midwife, captained by the hard and hairy Casso Mogat, was the only ship willing to even approach White Harbour - a ship that had done the journey a thousand times. Men spoke of the city as though it were cursed, whispering of wildlings, dragons, and rebellion.

I will need to convince Lord Manderly of my identity, she knew. After being someone else for so long, the need to convince someone, anyone that she was Sansa Stark felt so queer. She had spent the trip trying to recall all the details she knew of House Manderly, but it all still felt… unreal.

Sansa had visited White Harbour before, only once, and it had seemed a grand thing then. But, now, strangely, the city seemed so much smaller. White Harbour was a dwarf compared to King's Landing.

Sansa kept her black-hilted dagger hidden in her dress. She had never had a dagger before, her mother would never have allowed it. It was unladylike, but now the sleek, sheathed blade had become… comforting? No, comforting was the wrong word. So many restless nights had been spent cradling the dagger for protection and sleeping in the rough, as she was smuggled across the Vale and through the Bite. And now I am sailing into a dragon's lair.

Maybe the thought should have scared her, but instead she just felt thoughtful. Recollective, even melancholic. The north is my home, but I barely know it anymore.

Weirdly, Ser Jorah seemed even more nervous and agitated than she was. His maimed hand - wrapped in wool - never strayed far from his sword. She kept a watch on his expression from the corner of her eye.

They stood in uneasy silence for a long time, watching for their vessel's approach. Strangely, the wind no longer felt cold. She heard the chime of bells above.

"Will we see the dragon, ser?" she asked finally.

Ser Jorah twitched. "Casso says it is unlikely." His voice was torn, his expression strained. "He says the dragon is often away, but returns frequently enough."

"I see." Sansa looked to a large white sail emerging from the mist, pennant above flying the merman and trident of the Manderlys, lined with a border of silver. "Do you believe the tales of Jon Snow and the dragon?"

There was a long pause, the swell of small waves shuddering the prow. "I have heard many people saying it so, my lady."

"That is not what I asked, ser."

"And I cannot say for certain," he said, shaking his head. "I dare not say. It is the way of smallfolk, to confuse and exaggerate in times of strife. But the stories all agree on a precious few points; that the Night's Watch is fallen, brought down by a King-Beyond-the-Wall and dragonrider named Jon Snow." His lips twisted. "Little else can be trusted."

He was rambling, talking on about little and less; rumours and tall tales. Her focus went elsewhere. She remembered her brother Jon.

She remembered the often sullen, brooding boy. A bastard who retreated from her mother's glances, but came to life with her father and older brother. She remembered a boy more at home in the practice yard than the great hall. She remembered a few of the countless times he'd spar with tourney swords against Robb, Theon or the men-at-arms, or sometimes boys from the winter town.

She didn't remember much else. What were his likes, his dislikes? What had he thought of her? Had he ever seemed jealous, hateful, as she'd oft heard that bastards were wont to do, for their trueborn siblings? She couldn't say - she could hardly recall sharing more than single word conversations with him.

She tried to match what remained of her memories to the stories she heard - those of the Bastard King. The King-Beyond-the-Wall and his ice dragon larger than a storm. And she struggled to see it. She had often wondered if it was a different Jon Snow, or an imposter pretending to be Lord Stark's once-least-known son.

An imposter seemed... likely. No matter what she tried, she couldn't see that quiet, brooding boy she had once known becoming this... tyrant, this barbarian and sorcerer of infamy now whispered of all throughout the south. A danger to the entire realm.

Yet I am still going to him willingly, because there is no other option. Whatever happens, whatever or whoever Jon Snow is, I will handle it.

Sansa's eyes flickered towards Ser Jorah. The memory of that moment, jumping off the cliffs into the lake, running from clansmen, flashed before her eyes. She remembered thrashing and flailing, screaming as cold water consumed her and heavy limbs dragged her down. Ser Jorah hadn't been able to swim in his armour.

That was me, she remembered. I saved Ser Jorah's life and dragged him to shore. That was me.

She spent a long time staring at the knight, grizzled and worn. White Harbour was the end of their journey. She could hardly even describe the emotions scintillating inside of her.

"You have seen dragons before, haven't you, ser?" Sansa said finally.

His mouth tightened, but he was slow to reply. "I saw the way you talked of Queen Daenerys. How you reacted to news of dragons," Sansa insisted. "You said you spent your exile in Essos, but you were with Daenerys Targaryen, weren't you? That is why you returned to Westeros now."

"Aye," Ser Jorah replied, reluctantly. "Those tales are true. Queen Daenerys has three dragons - I was there when they were hatched."

"So when you saved me?" Sansa asked. "You were doing it for her?"

Jorah nodded, averting his gaze. Sansa didn't feel betrayed. Rather, she felt relieved - it felt good to understand more of the knight's motivations. Everyone has their own ambitions and vulnerabilities, and understanding is power. It was a relief to know the strings which Ser Jorah danced on.

There was a moment of quiet contemplation. She heard the bells chiming in the distance, becoming clearer. "And what do you want, ser?" she asked curiously, still leaning over the railing. "Tell me, what do you hope to gain here?"

The man shifted, looking uncomfortable. He took a deep, slow breath. "I want you to convince your brother to ally with Queen Daenerys Targaryen," he said finally. "Advocate for her, for an alliance. Convince Jon Snow to support her, to renounce his rebellion, and in return Daenerys could legitimise him and put the Seven Kingdoms to order."

Sansa laughed hollowly, after a brief silence. "I have not spoken to Jon Snow in over three years, ser. I barely spoke to him before then. I did not say goodbye when he left to join the Night's Watch. We grew up in the same castle, but we lived at different ends of it. Were it not for meals, I could go without seeing him for days at a time." She shook her head. "I have no influence with him. I don't even know his feelings towards me - perhaps he resents me for our childhood, perhaps he'd be threatened by me, perhaps he'd want to punish me? For all I know, he might just be another man who'd try to exploit me." Like yourself, she thought quietly.

"And yet still you're going to him?"

"What choice do I have? I am a Stark - the north is where belong." She shook her head. "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. No matter the type of man Jon is, I'll deal with it. But I do not know Daenerys Targaryen."

"She is the Seven Kingdom's best option for peace and stability," Ser Jorah insisted. "A good queen that all will rally behind - one with the most rightful claim to the Iron Throne. She will bring dragons - three dragons - she will bring an order that the realm has not seen for hundreds of years. If you convince your brother to join with her, then the war will be half-won already."

"And why would he?" And why would I?

"Queen Daenerys could legitimise his position in the north. He is a king of wildlings. The realm will turn against your brother quickly, but Daenerys could help him." Ser Jorah's eyes were grim. "Or she could destroy him. Unless your brother wants to see the Dance of Dragons come again, then he must make an alliance."

Sansa nodded, but didn't reply. She kept her posture non-committal. Jorah grimaced. "My lady, please. Queen Daenerys is good and kind and just, I can vouch to it. She freed the slaves in Astapor, Yunkai and Meereen, brought liberation to Slaver's Bay. I swear to you, there could be no better liege - no one more deserving or worthy than Daenerys Targaryen."

She paused, measuring his expression. "Do you love her, ser?"

Ser Jorah seemed to falter. "She has my undying loyalty."

So that's a yes. For some reason, Sansa had to suppress the bitter chuckle rising from her throat. "By the telling, your queen is half the world away, yet you still advocate for her? Here, to the granddaughter and niece of lords whom her father burned alive? You have such 'loyalty' that you went halfway around the world with no clear goal, I think, if you set your hopes on something so dubious." Sansa mused. "You were willing, perhaps eager, to die in her service, ser. You set yourself to an impossible task with no idea how you could return from it. And then you found me."

His eyes narrowed with her tone. "Are you mocking me, my lady?"

"No. Quite the opposite." A jaded, humourless smile played over her lips. "What you do goes beyond loyalty. She can do no wrong in your eyes, can she? You've devoted yourself to her, you define yourself by her. Do you consider her your future, your destiny? She… she owns you, I think."

"She is my queen," Ser Jorah growled, bristling.

Sansa shook her head. "No, ser. She is much more than that to you."

The knight was obvious. She could see straight through him - there was nothing but possessive love and admiration inside him. I know that type of love. I've felt that type of love.

The images of all the handsome and horrible men she had loved flashed before her eyes. Sansa thought of Lysa, crazed and mad with devotion. Strangely, she even thought of Cersei too. That type of love is worse than poison.

He didn't reply. In the distance, the hulls of the White Harbour galleys were slowly taking shape through the mist. Nineteen, she counted. Their freshly painted hulls gleamed, even in the fog.

From the city, bells were still ringing. The first few chimes were expected as a ship came into harbour, but the bells didn't cease. They were close enough towards the White Knife now to make out the walls of the inner harbour, and there was hectic movement on the docks. Sansa frowned. Why are the bells ringing?

"My lady," Jorah tried again cautiously, unwilling to let the matter lie. "You must consider it - when Queen Daenerys arrives—!"

"Sails!" A sharp voice called through the cry of gulls. "Sails to the south!"

Jorah jumped. Sansa turned, but she couldn't see anything through the mist. "Who is it?" Casso Mogat boomed in his gravelly voice, stomping out onto deck as the planks creaked. "Mermen?"

"Don't recognise the flags!" the spotter shouted from the perch above. "They're coming round the cliffs of Oldcastle now."

The whole cog stirred as footsteps rushed towards the stern. Sansa had to squint to try and make out anything through the fog.

The great grey cliffs seemed so tall and looming in the mist. The galleys in the bay were forming tight ranks, each one flying the green merman of Manderly.

She heard Ser Jorah bellowing, demanding to know what was happening, while Casso placed a seashell horn to his lips and blew tightly. His dyed green whiskers wafted in the cold air, and his red cheeks bulged.

Sansa still couldn't see, there were too many bodies covering the deck. She felt herself linger back, as the pitch of the voice raised.

"Turn her around!" the captain ordered, his voice somehow cutting through the air. "All hands to deck - tack and bring her to the beach."

"What of White Harbour?" Ser Jorah bellowed over the sudden clamour. "We must go to White Harbour!"

"I ain't having no part of that!" Casso objected. He was short man, barely five-foot-tall, but stocky and muscled enough to size up against Ser Jorah. The man was hairy and stout-legged, clearly of Ibbenese heritage. "Get us out of this bay!"

"How many are there?" One of the men called out to the crow's-nest.

"I count eight!" the spotter high above called down. "No, wait… twelve - no, more… Oh, by the gods…"

"We must go to White Harbour!" Jorah bellowed at the captain. "We can't go back! Go forward! Into the city!"

Sansa finally managed to see, climbing onto a crate and clutching the rigging against the rocking deck. She could see the masts coming through the mists, taking shape as the vessels turned the cape. At first, they seemed small in the distance, but then she saw all the oars.

Oars, hundreds and hundreds of oars, sweeping through the waves in trained synchronisation. Moving quickly, forming into a charge. The ships at the front were three-decked dromonds; great vessels with red sails and painted hulls of gold, green, and brown. There were more dromonds, and then galleys and more warships. The vessel at the front, leading the charge, was massive - as large or larger than the King Robert's Hammer.

Dromonds of that size made the White Harbour galleys look like dwarves.

The mists weakened, and the shapes beyond were becoming clearer. At least thirty, she realised with a gasp. Maybe as many as fifty. The ship at the front bore a coat of arms showing a black shape against red that Sansa couldn't recognise, but then she could slowly make out the colours of the vessels. Some were plain and bleak, others had brightly striped hulls, but Sansa's eyes were drawn to the reds and golds, purples and greens - the colours of Lannister and Tyrell. The royal fleet.

Her breath froze. How could… No, it's impossible, why are they…?

It was a fleet. A mixture of ships from great dromonds to cogs, some Westerosi and others in the style of the Free Cities, of mismatched colours and sizes, but they all looked ready for war.

Behind her, White Harbour's bells were still ringing, and growing in pitch. Ser Jorah and Casso Mogat were screaming at each other in the middle of the deck. Sansa could barely process it, but slowly the thoughts started to form.

The bay of White Harbour seemed so peaceful and serene for a moment, but Sansa watched the warships coming closer and coming fast.

White Harbour is under attack.


Jon

They camped in the middle of a frozen farmstead, a hamlet of barely a dozen houses and barns that had been overwhelmed by the legions of men. A city of tents surrounded the scarce few wooden structures, sprouting endlessly from the snows, like a field of winter mushrooms. The ghost of a cold, pale sun loomed overhead, washed out from behind the thick, dark clouds.

The snow was three feet deep in places, and crunched underfoot into a muddy slush. The army - my army - flooded out over the snow and the ice, camped in the ruined fields. A few of the further perimeters spilled forth onto a nearby frozen lake, squeezed outwards from the camp's cramped core. Jon watched a few men fish on the lake, in separate groups around holes laboriously cut through foot-thick ice. Out on the ice, wildling stayed far from northerner, and vice versa, occasionally shooting one another mistrustful looks. The sight made Jon frown.

He'd wanted to keep going, but then the threat of snowstorms to the north had brought the march to a halt, forced the army to take shelter and hold out for better weather.

Long Lake was to the northeast, where the White Knife and a dozen streams cut over the rolling hills. The kingsroad was somewhere to the east, but the host had abandoned the road to trek through the acres of hard, deserted farmland. Jon stood out atop one of the snowy hills, staring at the silhouette of stone walls and towers hovering in the distance.

Winterfell, my home. It has been so, so long.

Even despite the dull clamour of the men below, and the faint howl of the wind, it seemed so quiet from the hilltop. Jon stood and stared at the Winterfell, trying to reconcile the far-off view with his memories.

"That storm looks like a killer," Ewan Bole warned, looking off at the clouds swirling over the mountains to the north. Jon did not turn to him. He remained focused on the castle.

"How far off is it?" Ser Alek asked. The knight stood behind Jon, with in a steel hauberk with a white dragon stitched on his surcoat and the Manderly merman on his shield.

"Hard to say. Anywhere between three days or a fortnight, but she's moving south quickly," Ewan grimaced. They could hear the wind howling faintly, the storm looming over the forests on the horizon to the north. The weather had slowly but surely been worsening. "We better be well and truly dug in before the snows hit."

The Boltons are as unlikely to risk the weather as us, but their shelter is superior. Winterfell is old and strong, fit to station an army. The longer this lasts, the more desperate our efforts. Jon's eyes were still fixed on the seat of House Stark, trying to map the pale and looming towers to what he remembered from all those years of childhood. I was a summer child.

"It won't fall easily. She's a strong castle," the Greatjon's voice warned with a grunt, as the large man trekked up beside him.

"Strong enough to survive dragonfire, do you think?" Tormund Giantsbane scoffed from his other side.

It seemed like no matter where Jon went, he walked with a constant retinue. Of his Dragonguard, Ser Alek, Ewan Bole and Toregg the Tall were on duty around him now. Men were constantly demanding his ear, and more and more problems demanded his attention.

"We want to take Winterfell, not destroy it," Jon said, as he turned away with a final, forlorn glance. My hands are trembling, he suddenly realized. He willed them to still. "Sonagon's frostfire could raze the castle to the ground, but I'd not destroy the seat of the north. Not while other options yet remained."

"What about the men?" the Greatjon asked, folding his arms. "You have any problem torching those inside?"

"If they refuse to surrender, then none."

"Good." Tormund guffawed. "Then all we got to do is get them out of their castle."

"They'll be fools if they did. They likely have several thousand holed up in there. We've got eighteen thousand out here," grunted Hugo Wull, the great-chested leader of Clan Wull. The Big Bucket, as he was called, was said to be the largest stomach in the north, and he looked even broader with a rugged tapestry of furs, leather and mail wrapped over his body. "This fight is ours."

Men from the northern mountain clans had joined their host a week past, and before that Lord Umber's and the Weeper's hosts joined together at the curve of the White Knife. The last reinforcements from White Harbour sailed up the river to meet them. Slowly, painfully, his army had converged.

Twelve thousand wildlings, Jon thought, and six thousand northmen. There were around one thousand from the mountain clans, one thousand Umbers and Mormonts, and one thousand from White Harbour. We could outnumber the Boltons three to one, Jon thought. And yet they still haven't surrendered.

Yes, the Boltons had a castle, yet he had a dragon. Logic said that they never stood a chance. So why haven't they surrendered?

Jon could raze Winterfell down if he had to. It would be a bitter victory for him, yet he could do it.

His army was camped around a small lake, a pond in the curve of the hills and sentinel trees. The host had encamped around the north and western edges of the lake, with wooden spikes jammed into the snow along with a bulwark of troops wrapped around the perimeter.

To the south, he could see the dragon roosting in the middle of the frozen lake, coiled like an island rising from the snow and ice. The water was so frozen the ice was as solid as the earth, easily strong enough for the dragon. The Dragonguard had set up a perimeter around the dragon to keep back any onlookers, but Sonagon had been snoozing sluggishly for days. Their slow progress and his rationed meals food seemed to have gradually pushed Sonagon into a lull, for which Jon was grateful. A sleeping dragon was far better than an agitated one.

Supplies were already a problem, and the dark clouds stirring to the north gave him worry. The mountain clans and the supplies they brought had helped save lives, but even the semi-regular supply chains from White Harbour struggled to feed a host of their size. I could likely lose more men to starvation and the weather than I will to battle, Jon thought with a grimace. A quick battle is good for us.

We are only a day's march away from Winterfell. Arya is so close.

Tormund and Greatjon were bickering again. "Gather up the war council and bring them to my cabin," Jon ordered, turning around and limping away. "We must discuss battle plans. Call the Weeper, Lord of Bones, Ser Wylis Manderly, Jeremy Locke, Alysane Mormont, Robett Glover, Torghen Flint, Morgan Liddle and Brandon Norrey to me." Now there's a list of names I never thought I would see sitting around the same table together.

Jon's cabin was a wooden thatch fishing hut on the lake. He had felt guilty about ejecting villagers from their homes, but there had been little choice. His commanders took the dozen simple wooden houses for themselves, but most of his men still had to sleep exposed to the elements. Jon himself took largest building in the hamlet, but it was a bare and empty barn - previously it had been used to store salmon. The fish had been requisitioned, but the stink remained. They used empty barrels and crates as chairs. It was hardly warmer inside than out, but it was shelter from the wind.

Jon's squire, Bennard Locke, waited at the doorway. "Is there to be a battle, Your Grace?" the dark-haired boy asked. It was hard to tell if there was fear or excitement in his voice.

"Perhaps." Likely. "If there is, I will fight on Sonagon. I expect my squires to hold position with the Dragonguard."

Bennard's face looked crestfallen. "Your Grace, I can fight! I am a man grown, I should be with you in the battle."

He's fourteen; same age I was when I joined the Night's Watch. The thought made Jon flinch. "You have your duties. You will support the guard - I expect you to stick by Fur's side throughout. Pass the message onto him."

It took a few hours for the commanders to gather from their various posts. Jon dressed himself in his armour - steel and iron wrapped under wolf and shadowcat furs - as he broke his fast on dried horsemeat. Two dozen men came and went giving reports and updates. His lords trekked through the doorway; some walked easily, others more tense. This close to the battle of Winterfell, every man in the camp kept their swords close and they were clad in chainmail at all times.

"Robett," Jon called. "Any update on enemy numbers?"

Robett Glover shook his head, dark brown mane bristling with snow. Jon had appointed Robett as commander of their scouts and outriders, a duty the man had once served for Robb. "None, Your Grace," he replied. "There are no hosts for as far as Cerwyn; all resistance must be within Winterfell. If Roose Bolton has been consolidating his power, you could expect up to ten thousand."

Ten thousand. Most likely less, though - the Boltons must be struggling to keep rank by now.

The last commander through the door was Rattleshirt, his bones crackling as he skulked in at the rear.

"We are going to win this battle," Jon announced to the room. "We have far more than their number, and Sonagon can breach the walls. We can beat them."

There were quiet nods, but hard eyes meeting his. "However," Jon continued. "Right now, the difficulty is not how to beat them, but how to make it a good victory. We cannot afford a long fight, we cannot let them bleed us. We must capture Winterfell soundly."

"And Ned's girl," added Morgan Liddle - the Middle Liddle, as he was called, although not out loud in his earshot - second son of Clan Liddle. His father was too old to fight, so the Middle Liddle came south along with Glover and Mormont reinforcements. Morgan was a big, bearded, bald man, wearing a byrnie of patched and rusted mail, arms folded. "We rescue Ned's girl."

"Aye," Jon agreed. "We save Arya Stark and any other hostages they are holding."

There was a moment of quiet. I do not want to raze Winterfell, so Sonagon cannot destroy the castle. And I cannot let my sister die.

"Roose Bolton is a cunning as they come," Ser Wylis Manderly noted, casting a nervous look around the room. "He won't fight any battle that he can't win."

"In all likelihood, Bolton has already fled," Jeremy Locke agreed. He was a slender and short man - Lord Ondrew Locke's son and heir - but he had hard, sharp eyes. Ser Wylis and Jeremy Locke both shared command of their rear. "Perhaps to Cerwyn, more likely to Moat Cailin to raise forces from allies in the south. He knew we were coming, why would he stay?"

"We haven't received any reports of any large force heading south. Sonagon hasn't spotted any host leaving, either." Jon looked to Robett for confirmation, and the man just nodded.

"We have the men. We could take that castle," the Weeper said with a scoff. All of the northern lords kept their distance from the man, Jon noticed. Come battle, the Weeper was to lead the vanguard.

"You could lose ten thousand men against Winterfell's walls and count yourself lucky," Alysane Mormont warned. The second daughter of Lady Maege was a big woman. She'd arrived days before with the reinforcements from the north, and was to command their reserves in her mother's absence.

"How about with a dragon fighting alongside us?" said a gnarly toothless man with red-knuckled hands as big as hams. Old Torghen Flint, appointed commander of their train.

Jon shook his head. "Sonagon can't aim his breath very well," he said. "If it's a dispersed battle, the dragon could hurt our own as much the enemy by scorching the land with dragonfire."

"So all we got to do is getting them lined up in a row in the open for your dragon, then?" the Greatjon said sarcastically.

"Then what good is that dragon?" The Norrey muttered, not quite under his breath. Brandon Norrey was wrinkled and slight of build, but sly-eyed and spry like an old fox clad in fur and iron. "How do you hope to win with it if you refuse to use it properly?"

"Sonagon will destroy as much as he helps." Jon replied coolly. The thought of Mole's Town and the Twins flashed before his eyes. "Sonagon will assist, of course, but this battle can only be won by men."

The Norrey's eyes narrowed, but he didn't reply. "If you're a coward, Norrey, then walk away," said the Middle Liddle, but his gaze drifted towards Jon. The Flint and The Wull muttered agreements too. "The rest of us are fighting for the Ned's girl."

"And how do we breach those walls?" The Norrey objected. "We got the strongest walls in the north standing between us and the lass."

"Then we need to draw them out. Set a trap," Rattleshirt spoke up, his voice low, arms folded.

"Hard to imagine them failing for any trap when they know that dragon is out there," Hugo Wull grumbled. "Them cowards are holed up in the castle like rats."

"Fuck traps," the Weeper objected. "I got raiders that are real good at climbing. We get hooks over those walls at night, we get in there and we start cutting throats. We'll steal your sister from her bed and we'll slaughter those fuckers from all sides."

"You expect to climb over eighty-foot walls and cut through thousands of soldiers?" Jeremy Locke said doubtfully.

The Weeper grinned toothily. "That's what my men are good at. Hells, I'll lead them myself - you think I haven't done it before?"

Jon noticed how the Greatjon and Torghen Flint stiffened, both of them hatefully glaring at the grinning Weeper. The wildling's voice was taunting.

"It's possible," Jon admitted. "Very dangerous, but possible."

Rattleshirt nodded in agreement. "It could work. We'll have the dragon in the sky making a big distraction for us too," the Lord of Bones agreed. "You southerners pretend like you're ambushing one side of the walls, while the free folk climb over the opposite side and do all the real work."

"You wildlings want another castle to rape and raze?" The Norrey growled, but others pushed in.

"If it goes wrong, you could be sending a lot of people climbing to their deaths," Alysane Mormont warned.

"What I want to know," the Big Bucket said loudly, "why should anyone be climbing at all? Your dragon has wings, don't it?"

"Sonagon cannot ferry men over," Jon said, shaking his head. "Not easily, at least. He could only carry fifty men at a time, and it takes too long to dismount."

"How about dropping men on to the roof then?" The Wull grumbled. "If you've got a dragon with wings, we should bloody use them."

"You said that dragonfire is too destructive to use easily," Ser Wylis noted. "But what about other ways? Could your dragon drop boulders or whatnot?"

Jon wasn't sure how to reply. He stayed quiet, hesitating, while the chorus of voices became more pitched.

"We need siege engines. Ropes," Torghen Flint was shaking his head, his raspy voice crackling. "If your dragon could help make a bridge over the walls, then our men would do the rest."

"It's a bloody dragon," the Greatjon grunted. "Let it go in first and break down the gates. Problem solved."

"The Bolton men have been holed up in there for months," Ser Wylis warned. "We'd be fools to think they haven't made preparations against a dragon. They would have trained their men not to panic, and expect them to have built scorpions and heavy weapons."

That was a concerning thought. Sonagon wasn't invincible, and had to be used very carefully. If I lose my dragon I lose everything. Sonagon is too important to risk.

Jeremy Locke slammed his hand on the table. "I've seen your wolf. And that cat," the northmen announced suspiciously, looking at Jon and then around at the wildlings. "Your king can control animals. Why not let them chew those men out?"

Jon was about to protest, when the Big Bucket guffawed. "We got giants," the clansmen laughed. "Giants and mammoths. Let those bloody beasts go first and break the walls for us."

"Those walls are eighty-foot-high, my lord, and the gates are solid. We don't have enough giants to risk them on the front lines."

"Your dragon is bigger than giants, ain't it? Use it."

Sonagon could do a lot, true, and the dragon would be nigh-unbeatable flying overhead and spewing down frostfire. If the dragon had to break a fortified gate, however, or drop into the courtyard, then that became riskier. All I need is to open up a way to get men into the castle, Jon thought. But how to do that when the castle is as strong as Winterfell and the enemy is heavily entrenched everywhere in the castle, but especially around the castle's yard?

Above all, Jon considered a possibility of such force that might it as well have been an actual prophecy, shining through the fog of war and the veil of tomorrow. Roose Bolton has had months to prepare against a dragon. He must have scorpions in place, certainly at the gates.

The Wull was insisting on storming the gates. Ser Wylis argued constructing siege equipment, while other voices were mixed. Jon was caught trying to answer three different questions at once.

"Fuck off if you think free folk are going to bleed for you," Rattleshirt snapped, glaring at The Wull. "It's your castle, you southerners should take the front-lines."

"You expect to use our men as fodder?" Jeremy Locke accused. "Like you do with Karstark?" That caused the Weeper to snap. Jon tried to intervene, but the voices were rising.

The meeting was dissolving into a pointless bicker. Tormund and the Greatjon were arguing again, the Weeper was spitting angrily against Ser Wylis and Jeremy Locke. Everyone at the table had their own ideas, their own way of doing things. Nobody's used to this type of battle, he thought with a grimace. Nobody here has ever fought alongside a dragon before. Or with each other.

"You southrons like to argue," Rattleshirt sneered quietly, arms folded as he clattered towards Jon and then rested back against the wall. The thought made Jon grimace. This is not a unified council.

Jon listened for as long as he could handle, but every man was talking over each other. "Enough!" Jon snapped. It took a while for the room to silence. "Enough! We will not be divided. The Boltons will take advantage of us if we are. No, this is a battle that will be won calmly, with deliberation and certainty."

A man scoffed from the back. Jon suspected it was Rattleshirt. "Lord Umber," said Jon carefully, looking around the room, "Tormund and Morgan Liddle shall lead the forward siege. We'll set up camp at the east gate and fortify position. Sonagon will do regular passes overhead to keep them down. We assess their strength, and go from there."

There were a few grunts and nods. "Rattleshirt, you take the northern boundary, Ser Wylis, the south. Watch for any attempts to flank us around the walls. We need eyes on every gate and scouts watching every stretch of outer wall." Jon wasn't going to risk his numbers trying to siege every gate; they'd focus their efforts on the Hunter's Gate. Jon turned around. "Alysane, Lord Norrey and Jeremy - I need you to start preparing siege weapons. Battering rams, ladders and ropes at the very least. Stone-throwers and towers if you can."

"And how bloody long is that going to take?" the Weeper grumbled.

"I did not come to camp outside castle's walls," the Big Bucket agreed. "Winter is almost upon us, boy. My men are here for Ned's little girl, not to waste ourselves in the snows."

"The weather could easily turn," The Flint warned. "If we're still exposed…"

"It will take as long as it needs to," Jon said sharply. The argument gave him worry. These are my commanders, they should not be squabbling like this. "We have the clear advantage, I will not lose it with rash action. We go forward step by step."

"What of our supplies?" Ser Wylis pressed.

"And what of your sister?" the Middle Liddle demanded, louder. Morgan Liddle was focused on Arya, Jon noted.

"When they feel the jaws closing, they'll ransom her as a hostage. Their men will mutiny, and sooner or later they'll try for a deal to save themselves," Jon promised, wishing he believed it.

"Aye," the Greatjon nodded, mouth twisting. "But we will not let those rats get away. Not after what they've done."

"No," Jon agreed. "We will not."

The men started to shuffle. "Tormund, Weeper," Jon said quietly. "Get some good men ready to climb if need be."

The two wildling raiders nodded as they headed to the door. He met with the men one by one afterwards, trying to delegate the commands fairly. Jon was painfully aware that every man there had more experience than he had. Still, their attitudes towards him ranged from stoic to vaguely aggressive. The Norrey only grunted at him.

My army still has its fractures, he thought with a grimace. The northern coalition came together, but not cleanly. Sonagon is the only thing really keeping the host together.

That and Arya.

Alysane Mormont was waiting for him afterwards; a short, chunky and muscular figure with big breasts and thighs, who seemed round under layers of leather and mail. Alysane was heavier-set than her mother, but Jon could see the likeness around the eyes. Alysane also shared her mother's hands - she had a calloused grip that seemed built for holding a mace. Underneath the half-helm, her hard face was lined with worry.

"You know Winterfell is one of the strongest castles in the realm?" Alysane commented. "Somewhere between Casterly Rock and Storm's End, if I had to rank it. She's larger than the Red Keep and the walls are thicker than Harrenhal. Not the fanciest castle, true, but it's hard to find many stouter or well-built."

"I'm aware."

"Then do not go thinking this battle is won just because you've got a dragon," the woman warned. "Winterfell has never once been taken by siege before and I worry that men seem to think the Boltons are no threat to us. I do not like the attitude in your army."

"Yes. I will need your help to keep them in line," agreed Jon. "Stop any from advancing too far. I don't trust the Boltons not to set a trap."

Alysane gave a curt nod, but the discontent on her forehead didn't ease. "Aye. Just be wary, Your Grace." The honorific sounded more flippant than respectful. Her head barely bobbed as she bowed and left.

Jon pursed his lips. This is the last battle, he told himself. Winterfell is only days away.

He turned to look at a rough map one of the scouts had carved in a piece of bark, with the walls as crude oblong and the gates and positions marked in crosses. Jon remembered his childhood home, and tried to imagine besieging it. Winterfell was huge - it spanned several acres, the outer granite walls eighty feet high, the inner walls a hundred feet. The battlements were old, but they had never decayed. The great keep alone could withstand an invasion.

I could have another five thousand men here in a fortnight, Jon thought. Sigorn of Thenn and forces from the Shadow Tower had yet to arrive. There may be up to twenty-five thousand with me in a month. If they turn this into a prolonged siege, we won't lose.

Still, perhaps the greatest threat was the weather. An early winter storm could be devastating for a large force camped outside. Is that the Boltons' plan - hold out behind the walls and hope for the elements to take care of us?

That could work for him.

No, Jon wasn't willing to wait.

Sonagon will end the battle for us, one way or another. In days. Not weeks, and not months.

The visitors to his cabin didn't stop. Even as the sun started to drip down over the cloudy hills, more and more protesters were coming and going. Jon had to oversee everything from supplies to perimeter, to give a hundred different orders. "You'll wear yourself out like this, Snow," Ewan Bole warned from the doorway, as he stood guard stiffly.

Jon could only grimace. The news had spread quickly that they would be marching out on the morn.

It was dusk, but the thick, black clouds left the air bleak and cold. Jon was wide awake, fretfully pacing all night. He could have looked for Val, but he was left too anxious and unquiet to even think of taking comfort with her.

The camp was stirring restlessly, torches fighting against the wind and snow. I am so close, Jon thought, only days away. The stress of leading a whole army felt unbearable sometimes.

He saw the dragon snoozing gently on the ice, white scales shimmering in the torchlit gloom. His Dragonguard had set up camps circling the dragon, huddled around fires and small fishing holes on the lake. There were twenty-seven men in his Dragonguard now, but only twenty of them were with the host at the moment.

Jon reached out gently, and the dragon felt tired. Too snoozy to respond. Mayhaps Sonagon is the only creature that is sleeping tonight.

The camp was fortified. The men were organised. It was nearing dusk, which meant there was nothing to do but wait until morning to start the final march to Winterfell. Jon looked around the camp staring at the bulwark of shovelled snow and earthen spikes around their camp.

Tomorrow, I assault the castle I was raised in, he thought with a sigh. He could feel the tension in the night. Tomorrow there will be a battle, perhaps several. It lingered in the air, put everybody on edge.

In the sky, a gibbous pale moon glimmered behind the black, swirling clouds, barely visible. Why is it that the full moon always makes everything feel more… unrestful?

A muffled roar echoed from the distance, followed by the sound of great mammoths trumpeting. Jon could barely see the giant camp at the far side of the host - huge figures huddled like rocks across the lake. The giants and their mammoths were still a source of conflict in the camp; even after months of travelling with the free folk they had to be kept to their own corner at the north-eastern fringes of the host. As devastating as the giants and their mounts were in battle, they were not the most docile to camp alongside.

Much like Sonagon, actually, Jon thought with a grimace. Twice now, men had almost died from irritating Sonagon in his sleep, and it reached the point that Sonagon had to be kept well away from the host.

The sound of a mammoth's horn filled the air. "Toregg," Jon ordered to his man. "Find Hatch and see to the giants, they sound unsettled."

"Aye, king," Toregg nodded, before stomping off. Doubtless there would be another complaint of northmen intruding on the giant clans, or their mammoths breaking the perimeter, Jon thought. Such scuffles happened several times a week.

Across the ridge, there was sound of yet another squabble breaking out between free folk and northmen, while raiders and soldiers rushed to extinguish it. Jon turned, trying to assess it. The camp was never quiet or peaceful.

"Snow," Jon heard the Greatjon call to him from behind. "We need words."

"Lord Umber." He turned. The lord's jaw was tight, his gaze dark under his half-helm.

"I've been hearing things, Snow. What do you know about Creston?" the Greatjon demanded.

"I'm not familiar."

"It's a village by the kingsroad to the north of here. Little place, my son and I stopped at it often enough on the road to Winterfell." His voice was grim, walking closer imposingly like a wall of mail and muscle. "A few farms, a mill, a pretty lass used to serve in the tavern." There was a pause, as if daring Jon to speak. He didn't. "And now I hear that your wildlings burnt the village to the ground."

What? Dammit. "Lord Umber, I was not—"

"Does it fucking look like I care for excuses?" the Greatjon growled, dangerously low. The man was often shouting, but his voice was most dangerous when it turned quiet. "You promised me you'd keep those savages under control, Snow, and then my men overhear yours bragging - bragging! - about what they did to that village."

"It was not my order," Jon protested. He could see the commotion in the camp spreading to the north.Dammit.

"Yet it happened. You promised me there'd be no raids, Snow."

"I will see to it, Lord Umber, I will." He stepped forward, sizing up against the lord. The Greatjon looked ready to spit on him. "I don't know which warband was responsible, but I'll find out."

"Aye, and now I'm wondering how many more villages have been pillaged that I haven't even heard about. Fucking savages," the lord snarled, sounding disgusted. His voice was still too loud, the wildlings around them all glared.Dammit. "You said you'd keep them leashed, Snow."

"I will find whoever is responsible, I will make sure—"

"Your Grace!" A voice called through the gloom, and Jon heard shuffling feet through the snow. A podgy figure was running towards him. Harlow was panting for breath, face covered in wool-lined hood. The Greatjon glowered. "Your Grace, there's - the Ser Wylis says there's a rider from White Harbour, Your Grace. They are calling for you."

"A rider?" At once, Jon twitched, tightening his shadowskin cloak and hood against the chill. "A scout?"

"I think a messenger, Your Grace," Harlow said with a gulp, quickly lowering his head.

"We ain't done here," the Greatjon warned looking at Jon.

Jon turned to the Greatjon impatiently. "I will deal with this later, my lord. If there's been word I must see to it."

There were other bodies moving in the same direction. From the Manderly encampment, a trumpet bellowed. Jon heard Lord Umber calling after him, while Harlow quickly rushed away to spread the word. On the ice, he saw the fires of his Dragonguard stirring.

The Manderly encampment was towards the southern edge of the village, by the broken and rickety dock on the edge of the icy lake. In summer, you could have launched fishing vessels from the small boathouse that would trawl all the way to Long Lake, but not when the waters were ice. Ser Wylis and the White Harbour knights took the old boathouse for themselves, while their men huddled in wool and sealskin tents compared to the hide and leather of free folk. House Manderly provided the vast majority of their heavy horse, and the green merman banners fluttered over tents.

Another trumpet blew - they weren't under attack, but calling for attention urgently. "What the blazes is going on there?" Jon heard the Greatjon grumble behind him as he followed. Jon didn't reply.

He saw Ser Wylis' party at edge of the encampment, figures gathered in front of a bonfire by the boathouse. A crowd was already forming, their sharp murmurs barely audible over the windy wails. Jon heard Tormund's voice shouting over the din. "Bugger off, you cravens!"

"If we do not move out now, we could—" That was a highborn voice, fighting amidst the rising frenzied racket.

"You don't get to give us orders, kneeler!" a wildling jeered.

"—is more important, they won't be able to hold!"

"The commands are clear, we must gather south—!"

"You do not command us." Jon easily recognised the Weeper's guttural voice, growling to the sound of murmured agreements.

"—under attack!"

Jon broke into lopsided jog. He could see the figures gathered before a bonfire in front of a barnhouse, horses neighing while more and more pressed to be heard.

"What's going on?" Jon shouted, while Ser Alek and Ewan shoved their way through. Jon noticed how the White Harbour knight received more than a few glares. His voice struggled to be heard - Jon was wearing his hood, and few had recognised the king approaching. "What is happening?"

"Order, you bastards!" the Greatjon boomed, so loud that everyone went silent. "The blazes is this?"

He saw Ser Wylis, red-faced, caught off-guard. "Your Grace," the knight gasped. "The southern patrols spotted a rider, but in the snows they weren't sure. Three men had to go out to find him, I thought it urgent, but your wildlings…"

"Speak, Ser Wylis," Jon ordered. "There was a rider?"

"Aye," the Weeper snorted, and his armour clanged as he stepped forward next to Jon. "And these cravens want to run away."

"A messenger hailing from House Beck of Daleton to the south, the man rode his horse so hard the beast nearly died. House Beck relayed a raven from Ramsgate," Ser Wylis insisted, "who received the message from House Locke, who speaks of fishing sloops coming from Sisterton. Your Grace, Lord Locke must have sent many ravens, we're lucky that this one managed to find us, Oldcastle is reporting—"

"The witless old man."

"—is reporting a fleet of warships sailing through the Bite. Your Grace, White Harbour itself is under threat."

What? Jon could see the nervousness in Ser Wylis' face. Many other northern knights looked the same. "How many?"

"He writes of a great fleet. Truthfully, Lord Locke doesn't know, but he guesses fifty."

"Aye, and I could write that my member is four-foot-long and oft used as a spear," Tormund harrumphed. "Those little words mean nothing unless someone is actually about to get stabbed."

Standing next to Ser Wylis, Jeremy Locke flustered. "You doubt my father's word?"

"I doubt his sense, his wits and, hells, his messenger too," Tormund retorted. "How do we know those words are true?"

"Let me be clear, ser," Jon pressed. "Are you saying that White Harbour is under attack?"

"Aye," Ser Wylis gulped. "Lord Locke writes with the utmost urgency. The garrison at the city will not be able to hold."

Jon shook his head, but he felt uneasy. "It doesn't make sense, a fleet of fifty ships? On the east coast? How could House Bolton muster such a thing?"

We were never expecting an attack against White Harbour. We secured the lands piecemeal, and House Bolton doesn't have a fleet.

"Perhaps it's not them, the fleet of King's Landing, or the Redwyne's…"

"They are both indisposed with their own wars," the Greatjon said. "There should have been more warning."

"Your Grace, I do not know," said Ser Wylis. He sounded pained. "But the message is at least three days old already. White Harbour could be under attack right now."

"What of the White Harbour fleet?"

"Manderly's fleet is dispersed, but even if it musters in time they will not be able to hold the harbour against such numbers," Jeremy Locke chimed. "The city is in peril."

"Only if the force is a large as the man says," the Weeper said, to mutters of agreement. Lord Umber looked torn. "How can we base anything on a single bloody scrap of paper?"

"But if it is," Ser Wylis urged. "Your Grace, White Harbour will need support. Let us gather mounted men to move swiftly. And we must fly the dragon south."

"On one letter, on the eve of battle?!" Tormund's voice was incredulous, and Jon was caught looking at Ser Wylis' desperate face. He felt the dread seeping through. "Far more likely that someone is sending bloody lies."

Move Sonagon south? "The storms…" Jon muttered. They had seen the black clouds rumbling south, not even Sonagon could fly safely through such weather, certainly not with a rider.

"It's a trap," the Weeper snapped, glowering.

"My father would not have lied…"

"What of our families?" Ser Wylis insisted. "We have families- wives, children, babes - in the city, to lose such… We must delay the march on Winterfell, Your Grace, turn south instead."

"To delay costs lives, boy," an old wildling said angrily. "We got eighteen thousand men exposed right here in the snow."

"If we knew for sure the words were true, then maybe…" the Greatjon muttered, and then shook his head. "But no, we can't commit from one letter alone. Those words and seal are too easily forged."

Jon agreed, but Ser Wylis' face looked desperate. Jeremy Locke was by his side, and many other White Harbour knights looked unnerved. "And yet the second letter could arrive far too late! To wait on a second rider reaching us, in this weather, how could we…?"

"We can't trust them," the Weeper insisted.

"You dare to doubt—" Jeremy bristled.

"If there's an assault—"

"—re outside the gates of Winterfell!"

The voices reached fever pitch. In the distance, he heard the sound of giants booming, barely audible over the wind and snow. The ripples were spreading outwards, the whole camp felt like a melting pot. Where could such a fleet come from? Could White Harbour truly be under attack? His initial instincts said no, but…

Jon's hands tightened. "Enough!" he snapped, but the voices barely ceased. "Enough! Ser Wylis, I understand your concern, but I cannot move Sonagon right now without proper cause."

The knight's mouth opened to object. "However," Jon continued. "I have my shadowcat at New Castle still. If the city is truly under attack, I can soon tell through her."

"You can know?" Jeremy Locke demanded.

"Aye, I am linked to her." And yet the shadowcat is far away, and my link to Phantom has always been tenuous. Jon grimaced. "I need… I need concentration. Let me focus. Give me time, and I will bring you a better answer."

Ser Wylis gaped, and then nodded. Other northmen looked confused too - few of them understood warging.

Phantom is sealed in her chambers. Would any of the household think to warn the shadowcat in an emergency? Jon could only try to concentrate, but the chorus of voices still rang around him. The noise and wind echoed around his head.

Jeremy was shouting that that wasn't good enough, while Ser Wylis was fretting. Arguments rising from the free folk and knights all around him. Focus, Jon pushed. He could only try to feel the sliver of the shadowcat's presence at the edge of his mind. Focus.

… He felt stone floors, darkness and shouting, and hurried noises…

Something was happening in Lord Wyman's castle, mayhaps, and yet his commander's voices still rang in his ears. More and more demands coming at him, endlessly, making it impossible to think, impossible to tell what the truth of White Harbour was.

"What is happening?", "The letter says…", "Your Grace, the giants…"

"Fuck you and you kneelers." Jon heard the Weeper curse. "Fuck you if you think the free folk will jump to attention for you and yours!"

Jon's eyes snapped open. In the crowd, he saw the Weeper facing off against a burly knight. "You are obligated to White Har—"

"I ain't obligated to shit," the wildling's voice rang, spittle dribbling with every word. "You and your pansy knights don't order free folk around."

"That's enough, Weeper!" Jon snapped. The air was too tense, everyone's blood running too hot. The dread and the panic seemed to seep into the air. This is not helping. "Move these people out, this is over! I want this tent cleared. Weeper, go patrol the bulwarks."

The raiders face twisted in fury, but Jon was already turning away. "Clear it out, we'll deal with this properly in the morn," Jon ordered to Tormund, and then turned to Ser Alek. "Ser, see to Ser Wylis. He seems distressed - reassure him, keep him content."

Both Tormund and Ser Alek nodded. Too much happening, Jon cursed. Could barely keep track of half it. I need time to think and focus.

"What of White Harbour?" Jeremy Locke demanded, face flushed.

"We'll deal with it in the morn!" Jon snapped. With cooler heads.

There was already a crowd, blocking his way back to his cabin. Jon could have groaned. The night was stressed and anxious and nobody was sleeping. It didn't sound like the arguments around him were settling.

Morgan Liddle was at the front of the group, along with many other clansmen. "Snow, I heard about the letter," he growled. In the dark, his eyes flashed with anger.

Jon's voice turned curter than he intended. "Ser, the Manderly men will inform you, but excuse me—"

"I want you to inform me, Snow," Morgan replied, stepping sharply in front of him. There were shouts from the free folk. There was an iron axe at the clansman's side, and his hand wasn't far. "Is it true?"

Jon blinked, startled. The clansmen were stirring, and the Middle Liddle looked seething. "Excuse me?"

"Bloody bastard," Morgan cursed. "I knew we shouldn't have called for you, Snow."

"Stand back, Morgan," Jon growled, fingers twitching for Dark Sister. "What are you speaking of?"

"The letter, Snow." Morgan waved a curled parchment in his other hand accusingly, as if that was supposed to mean something. "You think we wouldn't find out?"

"You are mistaken, ser." What is this? The man seemed to think Jon was being evasive.

The man's jaw clenched, the scar over his cheek twisting. He stepped in confrontation, towering over Jon. "You deny it? I got from your own man, Snow. You promised that you would save the girl, and I'm fool for trusting an oathbreaker's word."

Jon stepped forward too, until they were nearly pressing against each other. Ewan Bole shouted warning, while free folk clutched spears. "I have not seen that parchment before. I do not know what it says. You are mistaken. And I do not have time for this."

He tried to push back, but the man blocked his way. "Step back Morgan!" Ewan shouted.

"Fucking liar," the Middle Liddle spat, slamming the parchment against Jon's chest. "It says that you're a fucking liar."

The heavy hand jarred his shoulder. Jon fumbled trying to grip the parchment in his gloves. In the dark he couldn't make out any words, but it was written in pink paper. Boltons? Jon thought confusedly.

"I trusted the Lady Mormont when she said we could trust you," the man cursed. He was really angry, and Jon was just left baffled. "And the one thing that you promised - the one thing that actually made us rally for you - you said you would rescue the Ned's girl."

Wildlings stepped forward warningly, and Jon had to hold up his hand to stop them. "She is my sister and I will."

"Then explain the bloody letter," Morgan growled. "And the nose!"

What?

The seal was already cracked, the parchment worn. It was so hard to even pull the page straight in the howling wind and flecks of snow. Jon had to squint to make out the words in the flickering torchlight. "To Jon Snow, King Beyond the Wall," the curled handwriting read, "I, Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort, Warden of the North, offer my complete surrender."

What?

All around him, there were shouts and pressing bodies, shouting questions, demanding answers. The Middle Liddle was demanding answers from Jon when he had none to give. The mountain clans were well and truly riled up. All semblance of order was lost in orchestra of incensed voices. It felt like the chaos was rising around him. What's going on here?

Jon could only struggle to make out words, still staring baffled. "All I ever intended was a peaceful land and a quiet people, and yet I will not ruin the realm in defiance. In return for safe passage for me, my wife and my loyal men beyond the Narrow Sea, taking with us the wealth of our houses," the letter read, "I offer the complete and unconditional surrender of my forces, and the safe return of Arya Stark of Winterfell.

"My prime concern is the security of the realm, my family and my allies, and I am forced to place my faith in that you can preserve it.

"If accepted, I shall surrender Ramsay Snow, my ill-blooded ilk, to answer for his crimes. I do not, I have never, condoned such brutality; I am prepared to surrender Ramsay to your justice. All I seek is the promise of safe exile and there need not be a war."

It was signed, "Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort."

People were shouting. Jon was caught off-guard, trying to keep up. "And that arrived a month ago, with more following it. Lord Bolton offered the same surrender four fucking times," Morgan Liddle accused. "Why the fuck did you refuse the offer, Snow, and why did you not tell anyone of it?"

Wait, what? Jon was struggling to process it all, but Morgan Liddle had already reached his own conclusion. All around him the camp was howling. "I have not seen this before."

"Your maester says otherwise. It was delivered to your quarters." What? "You know I think, Snow? I think you never intended to save Ned's girl from the beginning. I think it's better for you if you let Arya Stark die, so nobody can challenge you."

"Tell us about the nose, Snow." That was Old Torghen Flint's voice, staggering with his spear as a walking stick. "The Bastard of Bolton threatened you with the poor girl's severed nose, and then you abandoned her for the dog to cut off more parts of her. You wanted Arya Stark to die."

"I… I did not," Jon protested, but his head was spinning. The severed, wrinkled nose that Ramsay Bolton sent to him at Castle Black. The nose? I never told anyone about the nose. I've been trying not to even think about the nose. Sam and Val were the only ones who knew of the pink letter, how could the clansmen find out…?

"You didn't want a surrender, did you?" a man accused. "You wanted to burn them all and let Arya Stark die."

They were pushing too close, the crowd stirring. "Stand back!" Ewan Bole ordered. "Your Grace, get back."

"Why did you keep the letters a secret?" Torghen Flint demanded. Crowds turn into mobs turn into riots… "Why hide them unless you had something to hide?"

"I did not keep that bloody letter from you, I have never seen it before!" Jon snapped, but there was no chance to explain. Too many voices all shouting, he couldn't reply to them.

Their glares were all accusing. They found these letters and they were already convinced of his guilt, for it confirmed what they had already feared. The mountain clans were fiercely loyal to Stark. Declaring for Arya was the only thing that persuaded them to come to my side, and if they think I abused that

He heard more accusations. Jon's head was spinning. "You are mistaken," he shouted, shaking his head and pushing his way through. Heart was pounding. Get to the cabin. Calm down, focus… "Enough of this, I have urgent matters to see to."

"You do not walk away from us, Snow," Morgan Liddle bellowed. "We want answers."

Bodies all around him, and in the dark Jon couldn't hardly make out anything more than stomping and flickering figures.

"Your Grace… !" That was Ewan Bole, shouting warningly.

He heard White Harbour men stomping up behind him, their green cloaks billowing in the increasing wind. "Ser Wylis demands to know what of White Harbour!" A White Harbour knight shouted from behind.

There was a panic rising. More voices, blurring into each other. Jon tried to see, but the bodies blocked his view. All the cries muffled together, a howl like the storm…

"What's bloody going on here?"

"You want your sister to die, trying to usurp…"

"Bastard—!"

"Fires!"

"We must return to the city… !"

"Snow, the giants are-!"

"Fucking wildlings!" A sudden voice shrieked through the gloom. Jon didn't know who was bellowed, but it was like scraping a flint over dried kindling. "Fucking savages!"

Something snapped. He heard a muffled cry, and bodies thumping together. A fight. The earth rumbled. Somebody lunged at somebody else. Jon couldn't even tell who was attacking who, or where…

There was no order, there was just so many bodies. All of them armed and on-edge and not sure what was happening… "ENOUGH OF THIS!" Jon screamed at the top of his lungs. They all wore hoods against the snow, in the crowd and dark it was so hard to even tell who was who. "ENOUGH OF TH—"

And suddenly the cabin collapsed as with an almighty shape exploded through. Jon felt something collide against his skull.

The earth trembled, great roar trumpeting…

Bodies screaming, running in chaos.

Flames, immense cries of pain.

His head spinning, couldn't understand…

Jon glimpsed a great mammoth running amok, stampeding wildly through his cabin. Its shaggy fur flickering smoky red, blazing with the stench of scorched meat as the creature went mad with panic. Everyone was running, crashing into each other, while the mammoth thrashed.

Its great trunk blared with an ear-shattering cry. It's on fire, Jon realised slowly. Someone set the mammoths on fire, and they stampeded

All around him, it was like the whole camp was being plunged into pandemonium. People were running, screaming, fighting. He saw more flames; the ground was shaking…

His forehead was bleeding. A splinter from the cabin cracked against his skull when the mammoth burst through. Ash and smoke in the air. The whole crowd had been sent scattering, he couldn't even make out any figures.

Under attack. That one thought pushed its way to forefront of his mind. We're under attack. Need to muster, need to rally

Men screaming his name. "Snow!" the call came. A chant in the dark, the voices strained, urgent. "Snow, Snow, Snow!"

"To me!" he screamed, but he was still gasping for air. Bodies rushing towards him. "To m—"

His throat jammed, the word turned into a grunt. His blurry eyes focused to see a flash of steel. A dagger in a man's hand, as it slashed at him. Jon twisted from the knife, just enough so it barely grazed his skin. He felt blood welling over his cheek, the warmth stinging against the cold.

Jon could barely even make out the figures approaching him. They had just been shapes in the crowd, slipping out of the blackness. His hands reached for Dark Sister, but his fingers were suddenly stiff and fumbling.

Steel flashed again. His flailing arms managed to catch the blow from the front, but the blade from the side caught him completely off-guard.

His felt himself gasp as blade hit his torso, grinding against chainmail. He didn't feel the edge, it was more like a kick to his chest. Pain washed over him. Stick them with the pointy end. His whole body trembled, trying to thrash, but in the dark and madness…

Someone was still screaming for him, calling his name. He heard the clash of fighting. In that moment, there was absolutely nothing but stampeding feet, black shadows and screaming shapes.


Val

It was a cold night. Tense. Quiet and restless.

She sat and she watched the sun slowly setting over the snows, her face huddled under double-lined furs. Val had spent a long time debating on whether to try to sleep; to keep herself focused for the coming morn, but her nights had been restless for a while now. In an army on the march, most would welcome whatever rest they could have, wherever they could find it. But something in Val kept her awake, restless and pondering, where others would sleep.

Instead, tonight, she sat by the cages of ravens, sheltered under a thick hide tent, snows packed around it. The birds had been carted by donkey all through the snows. The black birds fluttered, pecking at their metal bars, cawing for corn. The maester, a brown-haired, round-shouldered and aging man named Medrick seemed nervous with her presence. Still, she didn't care to leave, and the birds fascinated Val.

There were two maesters travelling with the army; one a young greenboy named Henly who seemed constantly scared out of his wits, and the other the fretting, fidgeting Maester Medrick. Henly had come serving House Slate along with the Manderly men, while Medrick had been with Lord Umber's host since Hornwood. As far as Val could tell, their duties including ferrying letters, seeing to injuries among the nobles, and trying to stay away from all the free folk.

Outside, the sky was dark and the camp was ready for war, but during her restless walks Val oft found herself lingering by the maesters' tents. Benefits of being the king's paramour, she thought with a quiet scoff. I can go wherever I wish.

Paramour. She knew what it meant, but the label was meaningless to her. Still, these southrons seemed to have put the name onto her, and Val had better things to do than object.

The ravens pecked the tips of her fingers hungrily, while she dangled her hand over the cage. Maester Medrick was fidgeting, cycling around his birds with handful of corn, as he always did when he was nervous. He is a podgy greybeard, not a man comfortable with war.

"So these birds," Val asked curiously, after long stretch of silence. "They send messages. But how do they learn where to go?"

The maester blinked in surprise. "My lady?"

"These birds, how do they work? I've known men who trained hawks to hunt, but how could you train so many birds to deliver messages?"

"Um, the ravens are trained to recognise castles, my lady," Medrick explained. "They are bred for strong homing instincts. Most know only of a single castle. Some few can be taught to fly between two or three castles, but those are rare."

"Rare," a raven echoed between the bars. The maester flicked at the cage. "Rare, rare."

"So I understand. Then you keep a bird trained for a certain location?" The maester nodded. Val scratched her chin. "But then how do you get the birds back?"

"Often you don't," Medrick admitted. "Most of a maester's rookery is collected from birds that have been sent to you."

"And if you run out of birds?" she mused. "If you send more ravens than you receive?"

"Then you must either trade birds from a nearby castle, or send a request to the Citadel in Oldtown for a new shipment."

"And then who teaches them?" Val pressed. "Does that mean there must be a person who walks a learning raven to a new location and repeats the name? Is there a poor sod who has to travel between every castle to teach the ravens?"

The maester seemed off-guard by her questions. Perhaps it was so mundane to them that nobody else asked? "It is difficult," he explained, blinking. "Most maesters have to work together to teach their flocks. When a bird is learning, first we teach it to follow a more experienced bird. Quite often, there are birds that arrive with blank parchment - they are requests for a local maester to train that bird, release it, ensure it comes back to their castle reliably - and afterwards it is expected they send the trained bird back to the maester who sent the request."

"I see." Val mused. "And yet that could only work so long as every maester train each other's flock."

"Just so."

"Is that not exploitable? What stops one person from using their birds without helping any others? Or couldn't an enemy steal all the ravens from a certain a castle?"

"The… The Citadel, my lady. That is why all maesters are trained at Oldtown - we are an order that must rise above such conflicts. Maesters must focus on the greater good," There was just a hint of a quiver in Medrick's voice. "Maesters must share and trade with each other freely to keep the communication working. Lest your castle may end up like Greywater Watch, which can neither send nor receive any messages at all because they have neglected their ravencraft."

She nodded as she moved her hand away from one of the cages. The bird cawed for corn. "But you are not in your castle at the moment - these ravens won't know where to return to, correct?"

"That is correct. We can only reliably send messages; a camp on the move cannot receive them. The birds will return to their trained roost only."

Her gaze moved around the cages. The maester stood stiffly like he was being interrogated, Val noted with amusement. She was just curious.

"I took a good selection of ravens, birds trained to the most significant of the northern castles and a few of the greater keeps. And I keep track of the birds diligently," he explained quickly, pointing to each in turn. "Those birds are trained to White Harbour - they are important. Those are for Last Hearth. Those three are for Castle Black, and they have suddenly become in high demand. I cannot send any raven further south than Moat Cailin, I'm afraid, with the exception of one bird trained for King's Landing, which I dare not send but for the direst message."

"I thought you said that maesters train all other maesters' birds."

"They try. But Hornwood has had little reason to message distant castles in the realm for a long time. If my lord wished to send a message to a holding for which we lacked the birds, then common practice is to relay the raven through a greater rookery, like Winterfell or White Harbour, and request for that maester to forward the message onwards. If I were to send a letter for… somewhere in Dorne, for example, it is possible that the letter would have to be relayed between several castles."

"So many distant places. How queer to think your little words can travel between them," she mused. "But it hardly the most secure means."

"It has its limitations," Maester Medrick said, before risking, "You… You are very curious about ravencraft, my lady."

"It is… interesting," she admitted. "You southerners treat it as something so mundane."

She wondered what it would be like, to have a raven's wings. To be able to fly between some many queer and exotics places, lands so vast that Val hadn't even known of their names, they they even existed. She couldn't have, not beyond the Wall. Tis a big world, Val thought with a twinge of sadness.

"The art of ravenry is one of the cornerstones on which the Citadel itself was founded," Medrick explained. "It is one of the core duties of every maester, to allow communication between the realm. Without us, the realm would shatter and break."

"Break," a raven cawed. "Break."

"Indeed." What a strange thought. Val tried to imagine any of the free folk devoting their life to something as trivial as other people's letters, and she couldn't. Sacrificing themselves for the convenience of others. And yet, nevertheless, all of these ravens in cages and maesters in chains kept this southern realm running. Each one of them was a greying old man, but they contributed to something greater.

How long would it have taken an army of this size to assemble, if we hadn't been able to send ravens from White Harbour to Castle Black to Eastwatch to Last Hearth? They would have had to wait for messengers on foot, and maybe they would have lost their timing altogether.

Maybe that's why the free folk always, always lost in every invasion, she mused. The southerners were just so much better established, better organised - the 'wildlings' had never really had a chance.

Outside, the sun was setting, and the gloomy skies were turning dark. The camp felt restless. Nervous. It would likely be a battle tomorrow, and the unease lingered in the air. Val had found that it was better to distract herself rather than fret.

"Help," a raven cawed dumbly from its cage. "Help, help, help."

Val stared at the bird curiously, as a few others picked up the chant. She just shrugged, and turned away.

Jon will be pacing, she thought quietly. He always started pacing, winding himself up and obsessing manically. She knew Jon well enough to know how prone he was to turning stoic or snapping with nerves. Perhaps Val would have gone to him, except Jon wouldn't want to ease off tonight. She cared for him, sweet fool that he was, but there were times when getting him to relax was like drawing teeth.

"Jon," another raven cawed. That caused Val to stare. She wondered where it had picked up the word. "Jon, Jon, Jon."

Noise from outside, beyond the tent's furs. The camp was a bustle. Val didn't care to be caught up in it, she wished to linger in this little place of peace and quiet.

She roused herself and idly set herself to her curiosity. She found herself thumbing through scrolls and parchments filled with words that she could not understand, keeping out of the maester's way as he saw to his own duties. Medrick's logged all of the army's correspondence, she noted. She couldn't make sense of the words, but she could still tell something of the nature of most of the letters. The messages meant for nobles and lords were all long and squiggly, filled with far more details, courtesies and addresses than needs be, while the stock counts and scouting reports were all short and abrupt, oft with few words, some marked with more scrawling numbers than words. Many field commanders couldn't read, and so they oft sent doodled sketches with stick figures and maps rather than proper letters.

Occasionally, there were small sheaves of parchment with large, crude lettering, written by a hand using the charcoal as one would a carving knife to wood. She had caught glimpses of these letters in Jon's rooms. So the Lord of Bones has been teaching himself to write, Val noted, riffling through the sheaves.

There were quite a few letters from Rattleshirt, actually.

She found herself distracted, flicking through the crude letters and trying to figure out what they were saying. Maester Medrick was twitching, his hands fumbling as he went through the locks on the cages, feeding the ravens a cage at a time. Oft, he would fumble, dropping a handful of corn to the floor of the cage, where the ravens would fight over the cobs. Val observed him through the corner of her eye, as he fumbled yet again, slightly sweating despite the cold. He is really nervous.

After a passing of minutes, a haggle of mountain clansmen came looking for the maester, and he met with them outside the tent. Whatever they spoke of, she didn't pay attention. The maester went off together with the clansmen, seeming to linger outside the tent for a moment, not quite looking at her. Val frowned, realising her sudden solitude.

Time trickled by. Slowly, the hairs on the back of her neck started to shiver. She went through all the papers and squiggles again, picking out Rattleshirt's. She could tell the Lord of Bone's letters from the hand they were written in. The force from Eastwatch, under his command, had joined them two weeks ago. Yet there were copies of letters sent by him, from after that time. Now why is Rattleshirt sending messages when there was nothing to be sent?

Val couldn't read, but she had good instincts. Something felt off but she couldn't quite place it.

It took her some time to realise what was bothering her; Medrick's organisation was meticulous. He kept all the slivers of parchments jammed under the respective raven's cages, everything ordered by sender and time, copies of letters sent and received in separate loosely bound books. Every letter sent and received had been copied and put into its place in the maester's system. And yet there were holes in the system, spaces were no letters had been sorted. Differences in the numbers of letters sent and received. On its own, it wouldn't have brought about her attention - ravens are sometimes lost, the maester had said - but the numbers were high, too high, for letters from certain specific locations and commanders.

It was all so foreign to her, but Val had to go through it again. She tried to match up the birds to their destinations, which ones were from White Harbour, which ones to Eastwatch. The nagging suspicion in the back of her head just kept on getting louder.

"Jon, Jon, Jon…" the ravens mournfully intoned, attracting her brief glance.

The southron lords all insisted on having their maester around. But who really checks what the maester is doing?

In the distance, she heard a roar coming from the giant's camp. Snow and wind whipped through the night. Outside, she saw men shuffling in the dark.

After a moment, Val made her decision.

She pulled her cloak on quickly and stepped out through the muddy slurry, between the mismatch of tents and fire pits clustered together haphazardly. It seemed like everyone was sharpening swords, fletching arrows or wrapping rope for the march tomorrow.

Val saw the mountain clansmen stirring, and then she caught the glimmer of the maester's chain in the gloom. Men were haggling together, ganged around Maester Medrick. Val couldn't hear the words, but she could read their posture and tone. The maester was crouched, scared, while mountain clansmen were demanding answers.

In one of their hands, she caught sight of a pale pink parchment. A bald man held up the parchment accusingly, and Medrick stammered out something with a nod.

Val kept her hair hidden under the hood, watching from the distance. She looked for familiar faces - free folk she trusted, that could reinforce her - but she saw only strangers in every tent.

Men were moving out, trekking through the fire pits. Val's hands twitched towards the blades on her hip - two steel shortswords with leather grips, hidden under her cloak.

This is wrong. Something was happening, yet the camp was so large she could barely tell what.

As soon as the men left, the maester was left tottering in the snow nervously. First chance she got, she confronted Medrick. The old man squealed - actually squealed - as she lunged at him, grabbed him by the collar and dragged him to one side.

"What are you playing at?" Val demanded. "What was that about?"

Wordless gasps came from the man's throat, stammering helplessly. Val tightened her grip. "What is going on?"

There was sweat on his brow even despite the cold. Trembling weakly. Even before any accusations had been made, Medrick looked guilty. "It's not… I… I didn't…"

Not all correspondence made it through him, Val realised. The ravens don't add up; he's been sending birds nobody told him to, and receiving ones he has not been telling people about. And that pink letter the clansmen had been holding… Val had been with Jon most of the march, there had never been a pink letter. But why…?

Val had seen Medrick nod as the Liddle men confronted him.

Somebody is playing silly buggers. Her grip tightened. "Who are you answering to?!" she demanded. "Who?"

"I didn't… I didn't have a…" Medrick choked, weeping. His chain dangled like the chime of bell. "… It's my… conclave… I didn't…"

He fell back into the snow a sobbing mess. Around her, Val heard men shouting, demanding to know what she was doing with the maester.

Val grimaced. Their camp was too large, too quickly assembled. They had free folk from dozens of clans, northmen from over a dozen houses, and clansmen that had all come together quickly. Lots of unfamiliar faces to everyone. Everyone knew that Jon Snow was in command, but nobody was really sure of the chain beneath him. Nobody really knew where they were expected to get their orders from.

She heard a muted roar break over the camp. It was coming east, from the giant's camp. She couldn't see anything in the dark, but she could feel the camp stirring. Movement to the east.

This is wrong. With barely a moment's hesitation, she turned and she ran, towards the noise. She drew her blades, sprinting through the snow.

Across the lake, she saw great shapes rippling. There were specks of fires dancing. Then, shouting. Screaming, amidst dull giant's roars. There were already groups of armed men, and hundreds of voices shouting.

There had been orders for men to leave the giant's camp alone. The giants and their mammoths were too easily agitated.

She heard cries, grunts and in the gloom there were wrestling shapes. Men tried to rush to help, but all the bodies just made it worse.

She heard the boom of Tormund's voice through the dark. No - not Tormund. His son. "Toregg!" Val shouted. "Toregg, what's going on?"

Toregg the Tall stood head and shoulders over most of the crowd. Men were trying to push forward, but a white-haired giant at the front was stomping and wailing. "Bugger if I know!" he snapped. "Lun Leg Dar Tar just started screaming!" In front of them, the giant took a thundering step forward, Toregg's voice bellowed in the Old Tongue. "Back down Lun! Back down and calm down!"

The great hulking shape howled something. Technically it was the Old Tongue, but the giant's dialect was so thick Val couldn't even make sense of it. Men were trying to push back, and Lun Leg raised a great wooden maul with an iron tip.

"Get back!" Toregg bellowed, but even his voice was lost in the chorus of sounds. "Get back, you fools!" Then, in the Old Tongue, he shouted, "What are you saying, Lun - whose attacking you, who…?"

There was an earth-trembling cry. Val caught a glimpse of flames. Suddenly, an immense mammoth burst from the camp, raising up onto hindlegs and trumpeting. Not even the giants could stop them - the mammoths lost control. Bodies were sent scattering, and the mammoths were stampeding.

Each mammoth was like an avalanche, the ground trembling as they thudded.

Everything lost control. In all the noise, it was near-impossible to tell it was happening. Maybe that was the point.

At first, Val caught sight of a flick of flames. Then she began to see many.

The giant's camp was on fire. She saw great shapes wielding clubs, chasing after shadows in the dark.

Three men charged forward, Lun Leg's maul snapped outwards with bone crunching force. Three bodies broke and went flying.

Val heard the cry that the giants were attacking. And yet Lun Leg's posture seemed more panicked than aggressive. Men charged forward around her. "NO!" Val bellowed against the tide. "NO! NO YOU FOOLS, LOWER YOUR STEEL! STOP!"

Her voice wasn't loud enough. No voice could be. You fools, Val cursed. They're giants- they can't differentiate between humans.

Somebody had slipped into the giant's camp and started lighting fires. All the while the giants tried to chase after their assailants in the dark, more men rushed from the camp to help. Except the giants couldn't tell that - they thought that all of the people coming to help them were also attacking them. The men just thought the giants were going berserk.

And then when the mammoths stampeded, all semblance of order was lost.

"STEP BACK!" she heard Toregg boom. Another two bodies were crunched by Lun Leg's great swings. Corpses sent flying, men smeared by immense strength. Some were listening to Toregg's orders, but others were not. Maybe they never heard, maybe they weren't listening. The camp was too large, too many bodies, nobody could make sense of it. "STEP BACK!"

Giants were wrestling to try and control their terrified mammoths. Val couldn't blame them… in that moment, with all the shouting, the darkness, the panic and the chaos… her heart was beating furiously and even she was terrified.

She saw fires spreading. She heard the clash of steel, mammoths charging blindly…

To the south, a flaming mammoth trampled through the opposite edge of the camp.

More giants coming, but they were pulling Lun Leg back, restraining him. Toregg's voice was starting to take control of the situation, at least locally. Another giant - a matriarch, more level-headed than the fighters stepped forward and wailed questions. She was demanding to know what was happening. Toregg demanded the same.

In a beefy paw, the giant raised up a corpse from the ground, a man whose body had been crushed into pulp. Her huge hands wrapped around the corpse's skull, easily lifting it like a ragdoll, holding it up as an example. "Attacker," she cried. "Attacker."

The dead man was dressed in hides and bone totems. He was a free folk. Val cursed.

Fuck. Fuck. Enemies in our camp. One foe inside the camp could do more damage than a hundred outside. Traitors in our camp, and they're hitting us we're most vulnerable.

It was all so chaotic. Toregg was bellowing for order. The mammoths were stampeding and the giants were flailing trying to recover them. Frantic activity all around her, and Val had to make the decision on where she could do the most good.

Instantly, Val turned to the north. Rattleshirt. She saw moving speck of lights at their northern perimeter.

"Toregg!" Val screamed, pushing her way forward to be heard. "Look to the north. It's him, it's the bloody Lord of Bones!"

He turned. From incline, they could see the northern bulwark. It was impossible to tell any details through the dark and snow, but there was a patter of torches that were heading outside of the camp. Men in the hundreds were breaking ranks.

The Lord of Bones has been sending dozens more messages than he should have been, Val cursed, and now his men were fleeing a devastated camp. The man learned to write so he could betray us.

"That's him, isn't it?" Val hissed. "Rattleshirt is in command of the north perimeter."

King Snow had been clear. Nobody should be going anywhere tonight. Val's hand went to her sword.

"Oh that cunt," Toregg cursed, voice turning dangerously low. He barely hesitated before he turned towards war chiefs he recognised. "Abel, Rolf - work with Tar Tun here, help her get those bloody mammoths under control. Sten, run to Snow, let him know what's happening. And alert the Dragonguard, make sure they're ready!" Toregg turned and raised his greatsword, white cloak fluttering in the howling wind. "All others, on me! Now!"

Val clutched her swords tightly and ran with them. Toregg was at the front, charging north and screaming orders.

The whole camp was alive, screaming, moving, fighting. Men were bellowing, demanding to know what was happening, but Val was most fearful of all those men who might reach their own conclusions.

Panic spread faster than communication. Chaos was the bane of every army. Miscommunication was worst of all.

If Rattleshirt was up to something, a lot of loyal men might follow him out of the camp on the assumption he was obeying the king.

Val could see Rattleshirt's men moving at the fringes of the camp. There weren't that many - a few hundred men amidst eighteen thousand - but the torches in their hands still lit them up. It was very easy to trace the fluttering torchlight in the dark night.

A cold wind cut through them, a flurry of snow twisting through the skies. The threat of a storm hadn't passed, but the night was still bitter.

Val heard a scream howl on the wind. A clash of metal, coming from the north.

Toregg's eyes were bloodthirsty in the gloom, and he growled. "Come on!" the warrior roared. "Rattleshirt!"

Bodies rushed everywhere. Val saw flames. She past a stable, and it blazed with fire and billowy smoke through the snow. Men were setting stables and tents alight. She heard the flames roar, horses neighing. She saw bodies clashing, but in the darkness she couldn't even make out who was attacking who.

"Stand down you fuckers!" Toregg bellowed, but his voice barely broke through the chaos. "Stand down or I'll put you down!"

There was another shouts and roar of flames somewhere else. It sounded further away. Somewhere else in the camp, she saw tents burning as torches were thrown madly. She could see corpses littering the crowd - but were they of foes or allies? How could you tell?

Enemies in the camp, Val thought with a flash of dread. There was nothing scarier. Foes outside could be dealt with, but how could you even identify your enemies mixed between your own men?

The brawling, the crashing bodies, the panic - was spreading outwards. Toregg rushed into the fray, while Val held back, trying to make sense of it. It was hard to understand anything from sight - the camp was too large, too crowded, too dark - instead she had to rely on all the sounds. Where was the fighting coming from, where were the screams the loudest?

Standing here, right in the middle of it, it sounded like everything was magnified a hundred times.

Suddenly, a man lunged out of the darkness at her, a cry broke through his lips as he jumped between the tents. Val barely reacted in time. She dropped as bronze speartip cut at her skull. It came so close that it scraped her hood off her cloak, but then her sword was in her hand, slashing upwards. Her blond hair billowed in the wind as blood splattered. As he fell, she glimpsed a man wearing sheepskin tied with hemp. A free folk.

She didn't have the swing - her blade crunched against his torso, but it lacked the leverage to pierce deep enough. Instead the man howled, and jumped at her. He was too heavy, dragging her into the snow.

Her sword was in her hand, but then another - one of Toregg's men - reacted in time. Her attacker's head was crushed beneath a stone maul, teeth shattering. Blood splattered across Val's face.

Across from her, Toregg had cleared through the dozen or so men who lit the fire, but the fighting wasn't stopping. The fighting was everywhere. We are fighting free folk.

"Rattleshirt!" she heard Toregg roar. "Fucking Rattleshirt! My pa should have bitten the head off that chickenshit."

Rattleshirt didn't scare her, but those letters outside the camp did. This was planned, this was organised. Hitting us from within and without.

She saw the earthen spikes of their encampment to the north - dunes of snow packed around sharpened logs. Horns were echoing in the wind.

The warriors rallied quickly. At once, Toregg was charging through the snow into the tents, demanding Rattleshirt's head. She saw figures meet them, everyone clutching weapons.

Val's head spun as she tried to keep up. The Lord of Bones only had about three hundred men, yet Toregg's men were still gathering.

It wasn't a battle. No battle could ever be so mad.

So many feet pounding, hearts racing, bodies grunting and wrestling.

Focus, Val thought with a gasp. Focus, don't let the panic overwhelm you too. Focus, stay back, think.

She heard a voice howl. Toregg was leading the charge through the tents, but Val turned around and slipped through to the barricades. Rattleshirt wasn't the sort to get trapped in the meatgrinder of bodies; he would try to sneak away. Val kept on running, until she heard the distinctive crackling of bones and the slashing of swords.

The Lord of Bones looked like he was halfway out of the gate, trying to sneak out through the barricades in the dark. Val's hands tightened around her sword. Grunts of fight, gurgling of blood. She saw two men fall to Rattleshirt's spear, stabbing with bloodthirsty ferocity. His eyes looked crazed, blood splattered over his giant's skullhelm.

Just for a second, their eyes met. He froze at the sight of Val. Her hood was missing, and her golden hair whipped in the wind.

Then, Rattleshirt's face twisted in rage.

"You fucking bitch!" Rattleshirt hissed, as he turned and charged. Abandoning his escape to try and kill me, she noted.

She twisted as the mammoth tusk spear jabbed into the snow. He's fast for someone so scrawny.

Val dropped and spun, listening to the clatter of his bone armour coming for her. Blood pounded through her, so much anger… so much fury…

Her sword slashed outwards. She could see the wide-eyed, crazed fear as the blade clipped against bone. "I will gut you will like a pig!" Val shouted, meeting spear with sword. Fighting all around them, but Val could only focus on Rattleshirt.

"You traitorous fucking whore!" His spear flashed again and again. He has the reach on me, need to get close. "You chose southern cock over your own people!"

That spear was deadly. Val fell back, losing ground, but Rattleshirt was relentless. She darted backwards and forwards, forcing Rattleshirt to parry, all the while her two blades spun.

Underneath the giant skull helm, his wide eyes looked mad, greasy hair whipping over his brow. "If that fucking 'king' wants me head, he'll not get it!" The spear grazed her furs, far too close for comfort, but there was no time to think of that. "I warned him what would happen when the cunt betrayed us!"

"You're the cunt here!" He overreached himself. As he tried to pull the spear back, her sword glanced against his shoulder. Bones crackled in the wind. "Fucking traitor!"

"Like hells I am," he hissed, and they paced around each other. There was a slight flicker in Val's eyes.

"Who are you working with?" Val demanded. "You must have planned this with someone."

"Bah! I told the 'king' - the minute he stopped acting for the free folk, my spear would be the first through his treacherous back!" he spat. "Bloody kneelers, I knew it!"

She paused. His voice, his body language… "What are you talking about, Rattleshirt?" Val demanded.

"Fucking ambush," Rattleshirt spat. "You give me orders to lead a sortie in the middle of the goddamn night. What, did you want me out of the camp so you could get rid of me?"

She blinked. "Wait, what?" She had to shout to be heard over the wind. "There were no bloody orders!"

"Well, I sure received them."

Was that why Rattleshirt's men were breaking ranks?" What about the letters?" Val screamed. "Those secret messages you've been sending? What are you plotting, you braying goatfucker?"

Now it was Rattleshirt's turn to look confused. "What bloody letters? What plot?"

There was a long pause. Around them, men were still fighting or running in the dark.

"Who gave you the order to move out?" Val demanded.

"King Snow."

"Directly?"

"No." She caught a flicker of doubt. "He sent one of his guards."

"Who?"

"...don't know."

They stared at each other. They both swore.

"Get your men to back down!" Val ordered, turning to run.

"Get that fool to stop killing my men!" Rattleshirt screamed, but he was running too. The bones crackled with every panting step.

She saw Toregg stamping his way through the tents, his greatsword bloody. One of Toregg's own men tried to attack her as she ran towards him, and if Toregg hadn't have noticed and bellowed at him to stop the stone axe could have broken her skull.

"It ain't Rattleshirt!" Val shouted.

"What?"

"Those weren't Rattleshirt's men, Rattleshirt thought it was us." Her mouth tightened. "Someone's playing us."

Toregg swore. She heard Rattleshirt howling for order, but it was hard for men caught in blood-fury to accept commands like that. It wasn't a fight, it was a brawl.

They were at the northern fringes of the camp. In the camp proper, the conflict wasn't stopping.

For a second, she caught the flicker of fearful doubt in Toregg's eyes. Normally the young warrior was so bold and brash. "Where's Snow?" she demanded. "Where is he?"

"Last I saw, he was with the Manderly men. He sent me off to see to the giants."

Any other weird orders going around, man?"

Toregg hesitated. "I saw Furs heading eastwards with ten or so men, near half the rest of the Dragonguard."

"Why?"

Toregg hesitated for even longer. "...Furs mighta mentioned something about orders from the King, saying the King ordered them go and see to some supplies."

"That doesn't even make sense. Supplies ain't their job. Jon hasn't even been near them tonight. Who gave those orders?"

Toregg groaned. "...I don't know. Someone's playing us in the King's name, aye?"

I should have gone to Snow straight away. If this is happening here…

"Nothing else makes sense," Val said, nodding, then ordering. "We need to rally around Snow. Gather around him, call loyal men. If we get these people into ranks, then we'll be able to see easily which ones aren't friends."

"Aye, aye, except…" Toregg looked pained. "If it's not Rattleshirt, then who exactly screwed us?"

Val grimaced. The sounds of fighting were only getting longer, turning as loud as a battle proper, not damping down. Just how many attackers were there?

Above them, the pale shimmer of full moon glittered over the snow. The wind was churning. It might have started out as few brawls, but it was escalating. Too many warriors who attacked first and asked questions later, too little trust.

The traitors were nothing, the chaos was devastating. Firefighting is only spreading more fires. This isn't working.

Jon. Val grimaced, and cursed in the Old Tongue. "Start calling warbands!" she shouted, as she started to break into a run. "Gather them one by one - make sure they're men you trust. Reform the ranks, gather them together. Do it!"

Her whole body was gasping, shivering for air, but she couldn't stop now. The king's tent was to the south, near the edge of the lake. I'm running backwards and forwards over the bloody camp like a bloody fool, she cursed.

Over the lake, she could see the shadow of the dragon coiled on the ice. The dragon was kept far away, but it hadn't reacted at all. That could either be good or very bad. Perhaps Jon was deliberately holding the dragon back, to avoid more chaos in the camp?

Val sprinted as fast as she could, shambling through tents and stomping bodies. Some were fighting, others were trying to call for order. She saw men fighting, being dragged to the ground. Where those the attackers or men trying to defend themselves? In the chaos and the dark, it was impossible to tell.

Eighteen thousand men, all of them unfamiliar with each other, all suspicious, all crammed together in a crowded camp on high alert. The bulbous moon was gloating over them in the churning skies above.

These types of attacks can only work for a brief moment, she thought. There were maybe a few hundred enemies scattered over a large camp? Burning tents, attacking small parties - trying to sow as much confusion as possible while slipping beneath notice with their own smaller numbers. It was devastating at night and when nobody could track them, but as soon as people caught on they would lose any advantage. Come morning, the traitors wouldn't stand a chance.

That thought wasn't encouraging, though. This attack is well-planned, which implies

She saw the old fisher's village, nestled in the tide of soldiers. She had to push her way through the mob. She heard men calling for King Snow, but Val could only push her way through the ramble.

There was a dead mammoth littering the snow, its bloody hide impaled by dozens of spears. The king's cabin had been destroyed where the mammoth rampaged through, and afterwards it looked like it had taken half a hundred men to hack the great beast down. There were corpses left as squashed paste from where the beast stampeded over them.

But there were other corpses that had died from wounds made by blades, Val realised. There had been fighting here, right next to the king's cabin. She could see the signs of battle - skirmishes, really - leading all the way down south towards the Manderly boathouse.

Val ran. Other free folk were running too. Val heard screaming, and bodies wrestling in the snow. She ignored the fighting outside, and burst straight into the main building.

Snow and wind howled behind her. Even in the gloom, the first thing she saw was blood.

Someone was weeping. Bodies littered the building, and they were all wearing steel armour, green cloaks, and tridents on their clasps. The sound of a sharp blade grinding through skin and bone filled the air, blood gushing.

Inside, she saw the Weeper, covered from head to toe in blood. The man had his scythe in his hand, as he separated Ser Wylis Manderly's head from its shoulders. The bloody, decapitated head dropped to the floor. The heir to White Harbour had his mouth open, blood covered his beard, and a look of surprise and fear fixed on his face even in death.

Val's eyes widened. She clutched her sword, trying to take it in. All around her, free folk raiders pulled up spears. There were dead bodies littering the floor and walls, blood-stained wooden planks beneath. All of the Manderly knights and commanders had been residing in the boathouse, and the Weeper's men killed them all.

"Oh gods, Weeper," Val called. "What did you do?"

The Weeper cast her a look, and then grunted as he motioned the others to lower their weapons. "These bastards fucking betrayed us," the Weeper growled, kicking the headless corpse. "Their men attacked Snow, murdered his guards and I found them trying to run."

Attacked Snow? Would Lord Manderly betray us, or…?

There was only one Manderly man left alive in the boathouse. He was a tall figure wearing a steel hauberk with a white dragon stitched over his surcoat. The knight was sobbing uncontrollably, surrounded by dead men. By the looks of it, the Weeper had killed most of them single handed.

One knight. He only left one knight alive. "Take this traitor out," the Weeper snapped, motioning at the knight sobbing nonsensically. Piss stained the knight's breeches. "I figured Snow might still want this one."

Her head was still spinning. "Where is Snow now?" Val looked around desperately, such for some semblance of order to latch on to.

"I don't know. He disappeared in the attack, I got men out looking for him." The Weeper spat over Ser Wylis' headless corpse. "Fucking kneelers tried to screw us. I bloody knew they would."

Val's lip pursed. "Are you sure?" she demanded. "Are you sure that it was really Manderly men?"

"Fuck yes. These cunts faked a letter, trying to give them an excuse to run away before setting up this ambush. Snow refused, he was heading back when the assassins hit." The Weeper kicked Wylis Manderly's head as he walked, and it rolled leaving a bloody streak over the floor. The heir of White Harbour stared blankly up at the ceiling. "I saw the bodies, and a dozen witnesses pointed me to this scunner here leading the attack."

That statement, Val struggled to process it. Jon attacked, missing, but… "Witnesses," Val repeated. "Where are these witnesses?"

There was a feeling of pure dread coiling in her stomach. She really, really hoped that she was wrong. The Weeper stormed out of the boathouse, a great cry cutting through the air as he bellowed orders. The crowd was still forming, both northmen and free folk. So many unfamiliar faces, demanding answers. As far as anyone knew, the mammoths had stampeded and there were skirmishes breaking out throughout the camp.

Val heard the Weeper scream for his lieutenants, trying to figure out what was happening. Others in the crowd were calling for Manderly. Nobody knew where Jon had disappeared to in the ambush. Gods no

The voices grew more pitched. There had supposedly been eleven free folk witnesses that saw Manderly men attacking Jon. As it turned out, all while the Weeper had been slaughtering Manderly's men, those 'witnesses' had died trying to escape from guards the Weeper had assigned to them.

Four of the men run away and slipped into the chaos of the camp, but another seven bodies in sheepskin furs littered the bloody snow. No one in the crowd had known what was going or how to intervene.

The Weeper's face twisted. "What the hells is going on?"

"Oh, you fucking fool!" Val hissed, keeping her voice low. Pieces started to fall in place. "Those men weren't witnesses, they were the bloody attackers! Your men found them, and they pointed the finger at the Manderlys."

The Weeper froze. She saw his mouth twist, jaw clenched. "No, couldn't be - they were free folk," he growled. "Snow's men, white stones."

"How do you know? Did you recognise them?"

"I can't recognise most the people in this bloody camp!" he snapped, but his hands were gripping his scythe angrily. "But they were free folk!"

Val could have screamed. Of coursethe Weeper would instinctively believe free folk over kneelers. In the heat of the moment, the Weeper had been all too willing to believe that the southerners had betrayed them. The Weeper was not known for his calm head during battle.

Too much panic, the winds were howling and the chaos…

Her hands went to her head, taking deep breaths. She stared around her, listening to the shouts, screams and fights. The northmen would demand to know what happen, and the bodies of House Manderly's noblest knights were littering the boathouse. The lords would demand answers, otherwise the whole army could schism…

How many enemies actually were there? Who could count?

No, there was no time for counting. There was nothing but this moment. "Get this bloody camp under control!" Val bellowed. "Get the men to form up, get them to stop fighting. Rout out who the real enemies are."

The Weeper's face twisted, but he nodded and turned away. Val's hands were shaking. How did this happen? Who did this?

No, those were fool's questions. It happened all too easily, actually - the free folk had no discipline. Wildlings had little experience forming large armies, and no experience in working with anyone who weren't wildlings. Despite his best efforts, not even King Snow could change an entire culture. The intruders had cut through all the cracks in the coalition army, like a hot knife through warm butter.

As for the whom… she cast a wary eye over to the black horizon in the west.

Val's eyes looked outwards. She saw the shadow of the dragon in the distance, still coiled on the lake. There were firelights on the ice too - the king's Dragonguard.

"Find me the king. Find me Snow!" Val bellowed, pointing over the lake. She could only guess what happened. Jon had been attacked, disorientated, so he must have run instinctively towards his dragon. A single figure in the wake of the mammoth's stampede and the ambush would have been all too easily missed.

The wind was picking up intensity. She couldn't see in the darkness, but she could the black cloud churning overhead.

There was a pit of tar twisting in her stomach. It was coordinated, and we reacted far too late. There had been letters being send outside the camp, that maester had been a part of some scheme. This was planned, for the maximum effect; maximum discord, maximum chaos, maximum opportunity. If I was planning an assault like this, she thought, Then what would be the next step?

She didn't like the answer she came up with.

Val heard the horns far, far too late. They were panicked, urgent horn blasts that strangled over the western perimeter. We should have had more warning - what of the scouts, the outriders… no, that is foolish too. The scouts and outriders, or anyone who could have provided warning, must have been the very first to fall.

Instead, there was nothing but a salvo of frantic howling horns in the wind, and the cries of alert rippling through the camp.

She knew what was about to happen before it came, but there was no way of reacting in time. One faction inside their camp, sowing bedlam, making sure everything was nice, chaotic and vulnerable for the main assault. And on the outside...

The ground was shaking, rumbling with the sound of cavalry while the air churned like a storm.

Val looked to the west, staring out over the fires and the screaming as she saw arrows raining down from the sky.


Jon

The bright blade flashed. Jon rolled.

His body oomphed as he landed into cold, hard snow. All around him, bodies were wrestling, tumbling together. Black shapes against the black of night.

The attacker lunged again. Jon twisted. He felt the edge scrape off against his iron mail, like a punch to the stomach.

Dark Sister was on his hip, but he barely even had time to reach for it…

Across from him, the flaming mammoth roared and thrashed, crashing through tents as it tried to extinguish itself.

Someone screamed, another mammoth roared. Chaos in the dark, coming from left and right, from forward and behind, from everywhere. Confusion in every direction. Perhaps there were words somewhere amidst the crazed screaming, but Jon couldn't even make one of them out.

He glimpsed Ewan Bole slamming into the assassin, his sword swinging hard for a man who looked like a free folk, wearing a white stone. But holding a southerner's blade.

Jon's head was still spinning trying to catch up, struggling to think…

Ambush. Assassins.

So many bodies, some running, some fighting, all screaming…

It was less a battle, and more a great fumbling, confused fighters caught helpless in the dark, not knowing friend from foe.

Ewan's blade cracked the man's skull. Then, another shadow skewered Ewan from behind. The Dragonguard didn't drop, but he staggered, flailing…

Jon gasped, dragging himself to his feet. Another body lunged at him from the dark, and Jon barely twisted to block him. Strong hands wrestled at him, both men staggering as they tried to tear each other down. In the dark, Jon caught a glimpse of wild, frenzied eyes and crooked teeth. He wore sheepskin fur, with a white stone patched to his cloak.

The attacker toppled first, flailing wildly as Jon twisted out of his grasp. The man fell face first into the snow, while Jon staggered backwards. The shadows were coming for him - hooded figures in sheepskin clutching knives…

There more shouts. Jon saw green-cloaked knights drawing swords and rushing to help him. Jon was gasping for breath, trying to focus…

A great bellow broke through the wind. The mammoth reared up in pain, maddened as soldiers tried to bring it down. Help! Over here! Jon could have yelled, but his voice wouldn't have broken over the chaos, and he was panting too hard to even scream.

Maybe there weren't many assassins, but Jon couldn't count them. They were better prepared, they had the advantage of surprise. The attackers were coming for him, abandoning all else just to try to kill him. Knights trying to stop them, but in the gloom and madness…

He saw Ewan Bole fall to half a dozen blades. The assassins were coming forward, indistinguishable from the heaving crowd, and yet acting with a single will. It was so dark Jon couldn't make out any details, only black bodies and bright blades, all moving right for him.

Run. That one thought cut through everything else. Can't fight them in the dark, don't know how many, who, or where…Just run. Run.

Jon turned and staggered away, wheezing and fumbling with every breath. His cloak had been ripped off sometime during the attack, and the cold wind cut straight through him. There were shouts behind him, but Jon could make no sense of the night at all.

But if he couldn't, neither could his enemies.

Men were running past him. Jon staggered, still struggling to breathe. In full armour and shadowcat fur, surrounded by his retinue, he was a king - but now he was just another bloody and wounded man lost in the chaos. He slipped by the men in the dark, limping away still clutching his side.

The assassins had been following him and waiting for a chance to ambush. Now, he had slipped by them. There was safety in anonymity - at least for now. Need to recover, focus

Jon's feet tripped, and then he was falling down the snowy dunes leading towards the lake. The fall took his breath away, but he was up and staggering away a second later.

He felt frozen twigs snap under the snow. Then, he felt the crunch of ice as he stepped onto the lake, shuffling through the snow. Everything was pitch black - nobody could follow him in the darkness.

Behind him, the camp was alive. Screaming. All of the noises mixed together, a bedlam of ten thousand voices. It was impossible for him to tell any detail from another.

He felt a slickness on his side. Warmth. Blood. His mail hadn't quite stopped the blade. He was bleeding from his torso. He hadn't even felt the cut.

The sounds of fighting behind him didn't cease.

Finally, Jon collapsed into the snow, wheezing for breath. I'm bleeding and it's cold, Jon cursed. I will lose strength quickly. Focus. Think.

Assassins, he thought. Now that he was alone again, the cold wind brought him a little clarity. Enemies. Mingled among the camp to get close, taking full advantage of the chaos. Who are they? How did they...?

He couldn't head back to the camp. Those assassins, they had been waiting for him, following him around in the camp. The mammoth simply provided a suitable distraction, and then they had all attacked at once. Any man among those looking for him might be secretly wanting to kill him.

Jon was in no state to defend himself. He didn't know how many more might be waiting for another chance, or where.

There was no safety, not in that chaos. The ambush had been well-prepared, swift and devastating. And, from the sounds, it was happening all over the camp.

In the morning light they could sort out the infiltrators from the loyal men, but in the bloody night under the full moon there was nothing but panic waiting for him, if he returned and tried to take order. Panic, and blades waiting in the dark.

Jon was shivering the snow, as pale and trembling hands tried to tighten his belt around the cut. He heard men shouting for him in the distance - "Snow, Snow, Snow!" - but Jon didn't return the cry. How do I know if they are assassins? He couldn't even recognise them. Focus, recover. I am safer by myself until I do.

I won't die here, he thought. He was weak, wounded and exposed, but he wouldn't die alone on the ice. How many nights did I spend trekking through the snows alone beyond the Wall, all by myself on the hunt for Sonagon?

Jon could rely on himself, he knew.

I will not die here.

The sky was howling. The snowstorm from the north had was stirring in the need, and the skies were twisting in frenzy. Whirling snow obscured his vision. It wasn't as bad as a snowstorm beyond the Wall, but it was building.

Sonagon. That thought was the only thing he could be sure about. I need Sonagon.

As soon as he was mounted upon the dragon, he would be unbeatable. No assassin could threaten a dragon. The Dragonguard, Jon thought desperately. All loyal and good men. Gather the Dragonguard, get Sonagon into the fray, retake control. Let the camp rally, and flush out the infiltrators

Through the snows, he could barely make out of the shadow of Sonagon's bulk jutted from the frozen lake in the distance. The glittering white scales illuminated by the faint fires of the Dragonguard camped around the dragon. Jon's vision was hazy, his eyes blinking through the snows battering against his face.

With a pained breath, he pushed himself to his feet and staggered forward. He tried to reach out to Sonagon, but he couldn't. Couldn't concentrate. The blood loss, Jon thought with panic. It made everything woozy.

The cold clung to his skin, shambling through the snow as he tried to push one leg in front of the other.

Jon made it two dozen steps before his knees failed him. He collapsed, face first into the snow. A hundred yards, two hundred, from the shore, lost on the expanse of ice, there was nothing but snow and darkness.

Behind him, the sounds of battle rang out over the storm, torches flickering. Jon was panting, struggling to breathe, struggling to focus. He couldn't feel the pain, it was too cold.

His mind blacked out. He might have lost consciousness, he wasn't sure.

Jon! a ghostly voice called on the wind. Jon!

Jon's eyes flickered. It so hard to hear anything but the rumbling of the storm, but there it was. Jon! the cry echoed again, like a wail. Strangely, it felt like he recognised the voice.

"Bran…?" he mumbled weakly, yet the wind didn't reply. His brother's voice was so distant, like he was shrieking something urgently yet Jon could hardly make it out.

Why my brother's voice? Am I so close to death that I'm hearing ghosts?

Jon had to force himself to pull himself up, and kept trekking forward.

He was already so far from the coast that there was nothing but a haze of fires and frenzies struggling against the snows. The sky rumbled above him like an enormous beast stomping in the clouds.

Sonagon was before him, but Jon couldn't see the bonfires of the Dragonguard anymore. Instead, there was nothing but Sonagon's massive bulk in the darkness, a black shadow snoozing over the ice.

They had very deliberately let Sonagon roost as far away from the camp as possible. But where is the Dragonguard? he thought foggily. Furs, Hatch and the others should be camped around the dragon. It was a cold and lonely post, but there had been nothing for it.

It hadn't been safe to keep Sonagon in the main camp, but the dragon still needed protection. Jon remembered him thinking that the lake was a good position for the dragon - isolated, yet in the very center all their fortifications with an army positioned by the coast.

A forlorn shriek of wind cut across the lake, nearly taking Jon off his feet. In the distance, he could see the shadow of Sonagon's coiled over the snow. Sleeping. Why is the dragon still sleeping?

The battle was thick in the air. Sonagon should have responded to my call. To the battle all around. He should be all ice and fury right now.

With no torch and amidst the snows, it was too dark for anyone to see him on the ice. Jon would have called out, but he lungs were straining just to breathe. His eyes tried desperately to such out any figures, but then his foot collided with something solid and he stumbled into the billowing snow.

Jon felt a shape beneath him that was so hard and cold that at first he thought it was a rock. Then, his flailing fingers grasped the jawline of a man's thick stubble, frozen solid in the ice. A lifeless corpse that was stiff, with frozen blood gushing out of a gash across the body's neck.

In the dark, it took a long time for Jon to recognise the body. Hatch had died with his neck slit open, his contorted face frozen stiff, his limbs scattered, as if the man had died trying to crawl through the snow.

Jon's breath froze. The attacker had slit Hatch's throat, and then left the corpse where it dropped.

Jon's desperate eyes made out the shapes of the Dragonguard's camps, the bodies already cold and half-buried by the snows. A still-crackling campfire waited in the center, and by it sat a cold pot of half-eaten soup. The Dragonguard had been huddled together around the bonfire, while others formed a perimeter surrounding the dragon's roost. Now, Jon saw nothing but two dozen lifeless shapes littering the floor.

Rolf, Maris and Gregg, all slopped around a burned-out campfire with their throats slit, and frozen blood coating their cloaks. The three of them, ambushed from behind and slaughtered. The bodies were cold.

They were all dead. Every one of them. Some had tried to squirm, but many looked like they had died at their posts, bodies hunched over their cups. Jon saw the shape of Black Meris, her face frozen into a bloody grimace, hands so frozen that she was still clutching a tankard in her grip.

All of the Dragonguard camped on the lake had been slaughtered. But there weren't... enough of them. Jon counted maybe ten and some bodies, not the full twenty that had been posted on the lake. Where was Furs? Where was Harlow?

Half were somehow sent or taken away, then the rest were killed. Killed first, before the assassins even began to move on me, Jon realised.

Sonagon roosted a good distance away from camp, nobody was allowed near, nobody but the Dragonguard. But then they had been manipulated, ambushed and slaughtered before any of the attacks happened in the warcamp, and nobody, not a single person had even been close enough to realise - not in this dark night.

Twenty one men, the elite of his personal guard, all dead or missing on the ice. How did the attackers get so close? Why did no one react? Jon stared in pure horror, barely believing his eyes. How…? It doesn't make sense. No alarm was raised. Nobody tried to fight, or run. How could they all just… just die or go missing and nobody even realised?

Why wasn't an alarm raised?

Why didn't Sonagon react?

The thought of Hatch's empty eyes haunted him as he pushed forward. He couldn't feel Sonagon at all.

He could see the wall of Sonagon's flesh and scales above him. The dragon was coiled on the ice, its body as still as stone. For one horrible second, he thought Sonagon was dead.

Then, he saw Sonagon's great hide rising and falling in long, slow breaths. He's alive. Jon wasn't sure whether to be overjoyed or horrified. He's weak, but alive.

With all the concentration he had, Jon focused and tried to reach out towards the dragon. He could see Sonagon, barely fifty feet away. Sonagon! Jon screamed mentally, pressing forward with as much focus as he could muster.

The dragon didn't even stir. Jon could feel only the faintest slivers of a connection, and through them the dragon's body felt weak, stiff and laboured. Sonagon's breaths were hoarse, strained. The dragon couldn't even rouse itself.

The dread that fell through Jon's body was cold than the ice beneath him. This was planned, a small voice whispered in the back of his mind. They attacked the camp, they needed a way to attack the dragon too.

He heard movement. There were bodies taking shape through the snows, and they had noticed him too. Jon's hand fell to Dark Sister, his ice-coated gloves clenching the hilt.

He could see three figures stepping forward. The sound of laughter was barely audible over the roar of the wind.

How did the Boltons do this? Jon thought with frantic gasps. How could anyone do this?

"Bastard!" an elated voice called, so cheerful in that moment that it was utterly, completely alien. A mirth completely incongruous with... everything. "There you are, bastard! Oh, I was really hoping I'd see you."

Jon froze. He heard footsteps shuffling towards him. Three men. "You hear the music?" The voice laughed. "That's my father slaughtering your troops. Oh, is it not the most lovely sound?"

Jon's right hand was on Dark Sister, his left was on the wound in his side. "Did you not think that some of those northern lords seemed all too eager to join your side?" the shapeless voice laughed. "We've got ten thousand men outside your camp and one thousand inside it. Which means you really didn't stand a chance at all, bastard."

Jon backed away slowly, staggered towards the dragon. Sonagon, he thought, trying desperately to concentrate. Sonagon, I need you.

The dragon still didn't even stir.

"Except for the dragon, of course," the figure continued. "The dragon would have been a problem. That was my job, you see; get close enough to put the dragon down."

Jon finally recognised the voice. In the dark, he saw a mad grin, and bright eyes. "Harlow?!"

"In the flesh," said Harlow. Jon saw the bright grin that he had come to recognise, but it was bloodier than he had ever seen it. His blue eyes seemed to shine in the dark. He was clutching a bloody slab of iron like a cleaver. The normally clumsy stable boy looked very comfortable holding it too.

Jon stared, his brain barely working. No, Harlow has served me well for months. He was the one who saved me from the black brother's assassination attempt. I named him in my Dragonguard. I… I made him Hatch's squire. So many thoughts raced around Jon's head, but the one that reached his lips… "You—you saved my life."

"Why, of course I did." Harlow seemed almost insulted by the accusation. "I don't want to kill you, bastard." Then he grinned, looking Jon all the way up and down, his eyes flickering from one wound of Jon's to the next - as if taking his measure and enjoying what he was seeing. "I was really, really hoping we'd have this moment. And now, here you are, already prepared for me. Thank you."

I named him Dragonguard. He was a good servant; good with preparing Sonagon's food, good with animals and supplies. Sonagon had never liked him, but that could be said for a great many people. Most importantly, the other Dragonguard had trusted him.

Trusted him to their deaths. He sent Furs and half the men away, then poisoned the rest and slit their throats, Jon thought with stunned horror. Harlow had run of the whole camp, being the informal master of supplies.

The Dragonguard regularly carry my orders to the rest of the army. If the Dragonguard passed a message to the army, people would have assumed it came from me. And if Harlow said he had an order from the King, the Dragonguard would have assumed it came from me too.

Jon's hand clenched so tight that he couldn't feel his fingers. He raised Dark Sister, looking between Harlow and the other unfamiliar figures. "Harlow…" Jon growled.

The man only laughed, loud and clear. "Oh, we haven't actually been properly introduced, bastard," he mocked. "My name is not Harlow. I am Lord Ramsay Bolton, and from now on I think I'm going to call you Reek. Do you like that, bastard?Reek. Reek - it rhymes with bleak."