Dragons of Ice and Fire

by Diablo Snowblind

There are things hidden in the far north, secrets buried under ice. Jon Snow faces the white walkers early, and stumbles upon a power that could change the world. It forges a new path for him and everyone around him - and a new journey south, a journey as a dragon. The world begins to change - with steel and snow, fire and blood…

33. The Battle of the Snows

The Battle of the Snows

---

Bran

It was time.

The night air came alive with the Stranger's coming. A night's snowfall came over the Bastard Boy's backwoods keep, bringing a chill colder and harder than anything that should have ever come in this cycle of the season. A cold that bit, a cold that hungered.

Stirring and shivering, Bran could feel it all around him. Something even deeper than the cold. A force beyond the ordinary senses. He could almost see the unnatural icy tendrils twisting round every corner, curling like a spectral hand tightening all around them.

The Stranger was close. Close enough that his influence had already preceded his coming. And Bran knew that if they didn't leave, now...

Meera was already moving. She hoisted Bran's body up off the ground with a strained grunt, heaving him over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Meera nearly buckled lifting him, but she didn't stop. She held a rusted iron bar in one hand to pry the door open, and a sharpened, knifelike hunk of stone in the other. Even with Bran's dead weight across her shoulders, even after months of captivity, the bog-devil was fully willing to go down fighting.

Bran was left trying to hold on, with Meera's bony shoulder digging painfully into his chest, staring down at her feet where the broken iron manacle on her ankle clattered across the stone. He could feel her beneath him, gasping and panting with the strain as she staggered up the stone steps of the dungeon.

"Two men outside in the hall," Bran whispered when she reached the doorway, crowbar in hand. "Don't."

"Tell me when," Meera said in a hoarse voice.

It was past the hour of ghosts, but Thistle Hall was wide awake. The Bastard's Boys were all moving towards the courtyard, staring upwards at the sky. Even in the dark night, they could see clouds churning over the waxing moon. There was something in the air - an eerie energy that even they could feel in the night.

It's the Stranger, Bran thought with a gulp. It distorted the world around it with every step it took. I called it and it is here.

The storm brewed all around them, the sky stirring unnaturally fast. The clouds looked... wrong. And then the first flurries of hail came raining downwards.

Bran closed his eyes, and then he left his body behind.

He could feel everything through two dozen different skins. The rodents were all twitching, screaming silently in their burrows. The birds were fleeing on frenzied wings. The insects were digging deeper. A small herd of deer were already bounding south, their hearts pounding out of their chests as their simple minds, so accustomed to knowing all the different colors of fear, sensed a predator far, far beyond their ken.

Summer's howl echo through the trees, warning boy and Bastard's Boys alike.

It's here, Bran thought with a shiver, as he and Meera huddled in the tunnel, waiting for their chance. The Stranger is here.

Bran watched the courtyard above through a horse's eyes. He saw dozens of men rousing and mustering, drawing their steels and muttering to one another. The gate - the best exit - wasn't just closed, but sealed by drawbar.

And then a slow boom rattled through the courtyard. The knock of something solid against the barricaded gate. Not in violence, but in... greeting.

The whole keep seemed to hush, every breath frozen by the echoing noise.

"Bran?" Meera whispered, her breath trembling as she shivered. Not in cold, but in sheer fright. She could feel it too.

"Wait."

The gate rattled again, and again, the yards echoing with the noise.

Three knocks, one after the other, but each one felt slow, rasping, weirdly steady. An almost mocking sound. The courtyard was rustling; dogs barking, horses quivering. And then, after some shouting, a semblance of order was found: the Bastard's Boys began moving towards the gate, blades held to hand.

They had not expected guests.

"Now," Bran whispered. "Now—!"

Then the night air split apart with violence.

Bran felt the Bastard's Boys horses buckle in panic as the sound of tearing wood filled the air. Men shouted from everywhere, raising the alarm.

The solid oaken gates were being torn from their hinges, old hardwood tearing apart underneath an inhuman strength. The sound of splintering cracked through the air, as the Bastard's Boy's panicked.

He felt birds and bats explode from the bushes as dead things rushed through the woods. Summer smelt them; dead, decayed bodies milky white in the cold. Shambling through the leaves from all directions.

The Stranger had them surrounded.

There was shouting across Thistle Hall, panicking men calling for arms. Meera broke through the door, her feet clapping over the hard stones. The walls were trembling under the howling winds, the gales screaming through the stone hallways as if they were alive.

Bran was in dozens of bodies at once; flickering through so many skins he couldn't process them, trying to make sense of the chaos. He could see it. He could feel it. It was maddening, like the whole world was screaming - howling - at him to run.

The gates fell.

First the dead rushed through, then it limped through after them, heralded by a blast of snow and cold.

The white walker was winter incarnate - a figure of scorched black and icy white, blade in hand as it cut forward, shambling things pouring forth from the tear in the gate. The Bastard's Boys were all armed, holding spears, bows, axes and swords.

Seventy-four men facing against one white walker. There could have been seven hundred, and they still wouldn't have stood a chance.

Bran could barely hear their screams over the howl of the winds.

"Run," Bran gasped. He could feel Summer in the woods, the direwolf tearing through the leg of a misshapen corpse. There were more walking bodies, all of them flooding around the Other like a tide of rotten flesh. "The stables. The horses. The back gate."

Meera didn't reply. One of the men spotted her, but before he could call out there were a dozen crows swooping through the hall to peck at his face. He fell screaming, thrashing at the squawking, flapping shapes. A murder, Bran thought numbly. A murder of crows.

The dead creatures shambled over the walls from all sides, shaking the battlements as they swelled upwards. Arrows were useless against them. Wood splintered and tore, and bones cracked, but they found grip where no man could. Ramsay's men hacked, shouted, staggered, and died.

Meera had reached the main doors of the hall. Bran had already seized control of a horse's body; there was no gentleness from him, nothing but raw force. The beast felt mad with fright, but Bran grasped the animal so hard it could have crushed - forcing the horse to stand as still as shivering statue. Meera tripped over the stone steps and Bran dropped off her shoulders. Still, she barely even hesitated as she clutched his arm and started to drag him instead. Bran's body thumped hard against the stone, but he couldn't even feel it.

The hallway. The steps. The stables. Bran was trying to plot their path, gathering birds to clear the way for Meera. His heartbeat was pounding so fast that even a dozen yards felt like an age. Two dead men tried to jump at her, but Bran grabbed the body of another horse and jerked it to trample through the creatures. The dead creature dragged the horse down with it, and crushed the horse's spine with its black hands. You can't stop them, Bran realised. You could only hope to slow them down and run.

The Other was coming closer. Bran could feel it, cutting like a blade of ice, an unstoppable knife shredding through the tide of chaos. Meera reached the horse, but her strength failed her trying to hoist Bran's body over its back. The Stranger was outside, cutting through men with such ease its movements seemed lazy.

Bran could feel it. His lungs froze in its presence. He could feel it staring at him, even through the wall, its single blue eye as bright as a star.

"Scared little boy," its crackling voice was almost soft as snow. It lifted the milky blade and limped forward. Even despite its lopsided gait, its every movement was sleek and graceful, like a predator in its element.

The Other was only a dozen heartbeats away. Meera was screaming something. Bran couldn't hear it. Couldn't think. There was nothing but terror.

And then suddenly an entire black writhing cloud dropped from the sky. Everything exploded into flailing, squawking bodies, lunging and flapping at the Other. Meera fell to the floor as the shapes burst through the windows, tearing over Thistle Hall.

"Bran!" Meera screamed.

It's not me, Bran would have shouted, if only he had control of his tongue. Ravens, crows, bats and a hundred other creatures swarmed around them. There were even moths, flies, hornets and wasps. Insects. Bran hadn't even known it was possible to possess insects. Hundreds, thousands of swarming creatures all bursting around them.

And behind the creatures, Bran could feel another presence, vast and ancient, blanketing over the entire keep - an immense, shapeless will that seemed to swell upwards from the roots of the earth.

The three-eyed crow. The greenseer.

Bran could feel his power in the air, seizing control of life as if he were the living will of nature itself.

Why? Why now?

The greenseer had been unwilling to intervene to save Bran from men; perhaps the greenseer had even preferred Bran to be held captive and out of the way. But the greenseer would never allow the Other to reach Bran. It was the only thing that made sense.

His was a power so immense Bran could hardly even imagine it. The birds were all around them, so many that the Other had to slash its way through. The Stranger spat a sound, a word Bran couldn't recognise - not so much in anger, more in annoyance.

"Old crow," Bran heard the Other tut to the screeching air. "Lost watcher. Tree-fiend. Death-stealer."

Death-stealer? Bran didn't know what the what the words meant, but they were said like an insult. Like the words meant something not just taunting, but foul. There was no time. Bran made the horse kneel low, and then Meera was already pushing him onto the horse's back, straining for breath, her eyes wide with fear. And then they were both up, and Bran willed the terrified horse to move.

The birds spiraled and burst around them, forcing a path for them and only them.

'Go!' A voice screamed through the world. 'Go, you fool child!'

Meera moved, sobbing with effort as the heaved and stumbled under Bran's weight. Could she hear it too?

It felt like the wind and snow were clashing above them, like the clouds were wrestling. The storm was raging, the air crackling with power. It was so intense Bran could barely even process it, he could do nothing but try to hold on.

Bran felt himself tumbling. He was falling out of those bodies, his mind dislodged and spinning.

Behind him, he heard the creak as the tide of the dead pushed their way through the wooden palisades. The gale tore the roof off Thistle Hall, sending tiles and bricks scattering over the yard.

Bran felt Meera fumbling, trying to fight off some bloated dead woman in washerwoman clothes. Meera could only slash out with her iron bar to beat the thing back. The horse didn't wait for her as it broke into a gallop. Bran couldn't even be sure who was controlling the horse anymore, but it wasn't him.

He felt Summer, rushing through the gate with jaws bared. The great wolf tore a dead man down with his fangs, and then shook the body like a rodent. Bran's heart nearly pounded out of his chest when he saw his old friend again, leaping to protect him.

The three-eyed crow's birds were slamming against the Other like a hail of frantic bodies. They couldn't hurt it, but the animals were throwing themselves just to try and slow it down.

The wind, the dead, the panic… it was all too much. The air crackled. Bran felt it all spinning, burning, screaming, unable to make sense of it. It was all blurring. The world - blurring around Bran… He couldn't…

He felt himself falling off the horse at the gates, only for Summer's jaws to yank him out of the mud and drag him away. He remembered how the ground seemed to be shaking. He saw the forest was rippling, every tree seemed to shift in the wind. Summer dragged him roughly through the brambles, while Meera ran backwards as she fought off the dead things as well.

The earth was churning. Bran could feel an otherworldly sound echoing in the air, ringing like a song that roused the woods. A dead corpse of a black-cloaked man tried to lunge at Bran, only for the trees around it to twist - the roots of the ironwood trees seemed to curl around the thing's legs, gripping it still. Another dead woman, entangled in rippling branches.The forest itself, Bran realised,the greenseer is in the trees.

The trees themselves were dancing around them, clearing their path and blocking the dead.

In the moment, all of the old stories that Maester Luwin or Old Nan had ever told him about the magic of the children of the forests came rushing back to him. Wearing animal's skins, possessing the trees and the streams, moving through rocks, like reshaping the earth and the hammer of the waters. Bran could feel the power - the magic- all around him, and it was so intense it felt like a different scale to warging. This is a greenseer's power.

Bran could see the Other's blue eye watching him through the world, through wood and stone and flesh and cold. There were now hundreds of yards of trees and palisades blocking the distance between them, but Bran could still feel the Other's gaze. Above them, the storm seemed to be growing.

The last of the Bastard's Boys was hiding, weeping, in the cellar beneath the main hall. Bran could feel him vaguely through a dozen scattering rats. The Stranger killed the man with a lazy lunge through his chest, barely even breaking stride.

We would never have escaped without the greenseer's assistance, Bran thought with a gulp. He didn't know how many dead things there were, but they couldn't overwhelm an entire forest. There was strength in the trees. Even the Stranger itself seemed hesitant to follow them through the thick forest.

Meera was screaming something at him, but Bran couldn't hear it. He couldn't feel or hear a thing from his own body. Sometime in the clash of elements, he had become dislodged from his skin. Everything just felt numb, surreal.

Visions swirled around him. Bran saw an ancient lord - as pale as a corpse - coughing and spitting blood amongst old white roots, as he was tended to by small creatures with the shape of men. Bran saw a frail, wailing babe abandoned in the snows, waiting as silent figures came to collect it. He saw nearly a hundred cloaked men dying to an icy blade, their eyes bulging in horror before their bodies turned cold. The visions flashed before him, writhing and dancing in the air.

The whole forest was alive, pulsing with a power the trees hadn't known for millennia. The snowstorm was spreading outwards over the mountains, the clouds brewing and churning. Flashes of cold lightning burst through the dark, and thunder rolled over the hills.

It's a song. Bran didn't know where the thought came from, but he knew it to be true. It felt like song, reverberating in the earth. A song so intense that Bran was left spinning in it.

And Bran saw Meera. She was gasping, wheezing and coughing blood. She looked barely able to stand, but she was dragging his limp shape, shambling through the snows. Meera was the only thing keeping him tied to his skin.

It will be chasing us, Bran thought with quiet horror. Whatever it was that the greenseer did to let them escape, Bran didn't think he could keep on doing it.

It was a long and cold night, huddled for shelter on the mountainside, shivering in the fierce winds. Meera kept on trying to rouse Bran, but he faded in and out of consciousness. There was so much energy all around him, Bran didn't understand how Meera could even stand it. It felt like the earth was still quaking, squirming beneath them. It was a power so vast that Bran fluttered before it like a leaf in a gale.

"Bran!" Meera was shouting in the distance, shaking his shoulders. "What do we do? Where do we go?"

I don't know, Bran would have replied. He could feel the Stranger moving over the hills, leaving a ruined Thistle Hall in its wake. Bran remembered the warning of Osha, a lifetime ago. Osha had warned him where to run. South, as far south as south goes.

"Bran! Bran, wake up!" Meera hissed, trying to shake him awake. Bran was outside, staring down at his own unconscious body. "Bran, I don't know what happened back there or what you did, but… but you've got to…"

She didn't seem to know how to finish that. Summer moaned, nuzzling against Bran's chest.

Meera had to hoist Bran over Summer's back to move him the next morning. The direwolf whined in protest. They had to trek through the winds, moving as quickly and as quietly as a fatigued woman and a cripple could. The storm didn't ease - the winds were so fierce that even Summer struggled, so sharp that they could kill a man within minutes.

The only cloak that they had was one which Meera had snatched from a dead man - a hemp cloak that felt mouldy and smelled foul. Still, they both huddled beneath it, desperate to preserve any heat on their skin. Bran pressed against Meera, her lean and strong arms hugging around him so tightly, but he flickered in and out of his skin.

They could light no fires. The snows swallowed all warmth.

Vaguely, Bran could recognise the plains stretched out before them - the fields to the north of Winterfell. We trekked through here, once, he thought, back when we heading north towards the Wall. There had been eight of them back then - six people and two wolves - but now there were only two and one wolf.

Osha, Rickon and Shaggydog were gods-know-where, while Hodor and Jojen could well be dead. Ramsay had said they were dead, but Bran wasn't sure if he believed him. How many people died, all because the three-eyed crow was calling me?

Once, these fields had been grassy and green, but now it was hard to see anything but endless plains of snow. Winter isn't coming anymore. It's here.

They holed up in the roots of an old birch tree, and they chewed on bark for dinner. Not even Meera could hunt in weather like this. They had few supplies after their escape, and no help. We will starve if we do not escape the snows quickly, Bran knew.

They hid from any hunting parties, either Boltons or worse, all the while trying to make their way south. Meera had to lash Bran onto Summer's back, despite the direwolf's protests. A direwolf was not a pack mule - Summer might have lashed out, if they had not been so desperate.

It was an uncomfortable journey, but Bran spent most of it outside of his skin, as he scouted all around them. The storm scattered everything, even the wildlife. There were no fluttering wings in the branches, there were no foxes scurrying through the trees. The north seemed to be huddled, hidden, bracing against winter.

Then, to the south, Meera reported seeing a shadow in the distance - a huge host of men marching south towards the kingsroad. It was an army, but there was no way of telling whose or where they were heading. Meera wanted to follow in their wake, to see if they could sneak in amongst the camp followers to find shelter.

"A cripple will draw attention," Bran mumbled weakly. They had to press up close to hear each other over the sound of the snows. He was so close he could feel her heartbeat, soft and steady.

"I know," Meera said with a grimace. "But I could go myself, try to steal some supplies for us."

It spoke to how dire their conditions were, that Meera would even suggest leaving him.

They made poor time, and all the while the winds didn't ease. Bran could only watch as Meera became more frail, pale and helpless - weaker than he had ever seen her. If not for Summer sticking by Bran's side, he didn't know how they could survive.

No, Meera would be able to survive. If she left me, she would be able to survive by herself. The very thought caused his stomach to twist. Perhaps I could survive without her too - if I left my old body behind and moved into the trees.

Still, neither of them did. They clung to each other, still futilely trying to push through the snows together.

"I can see the wolfswood," Meera called to him. "We can shelter there. This is the last chance if we want to meet up with that army."

Bran only nodded. Winterfell, he thought with a gulp. We must get to Winterfell. The Boltons in Winterfell didn't matter, not anymore. Bran had to return home.

It was a dark morn when they reached the first pockmarked sentinel trees of the wolfswood. He knew these lands; he had ridden through them with Father as a boy. Those days felt like an age ago. Bran had never seen the forest so grim, so foreboding, every tree trembling in the gale. Meera clutched that rusted iron bar - the closest thing to a proper weapon they had - with both hands. Even Summer was so frail they could barely last much longer. Bran watched Meera fumble uselessly trying to light a fire, cursing and begging the woods, and he felt his gut clench.

As night fell, they saw the bulbous full moon shimmering over the woods. With the light reflecting over the snows, the moon seemed to glow as bright blue as an eye.

The weather had followed them south. Bran could feel the rumbling of northern winds moving closer. There was something in the air, that power again.

The cold crept after them, sucking their strength. The snows made hard travelling, and they had to retire for shelter quickly. We need help, Bran thought. We're going to die out here, buried under the snows…

There was no choice. Bran took a deep breath, and he stretched out his mind.

For a second, he felt nothing but emptiness, or animals hiding against the snow. He felt an owl stranded by the winds, torn out of the sky. He felt a fox starving in its den.

Then, he felt something at the edge of awareness, like a bonfire in the darkness. There were men, thousands of men all huddled together. The minds of men felt so different from animals - where animals were sharp, distinct and focused, humans felt intricate, bright and wispy. Bran could barely focus on the presence of humans.

There were more. Horses, plenty of horses, and there were ravens too. Birds squawking in cages. He reached out to them, trying to understand, trying call for attention.

It was an army. Not too far from them, either. Ramsay had been preparing to fight against someone, Bran remembered. The Bastard King, he had said. Wildlings?

Bran reached out further, trying to understand. His mind extended, his presence flittering over the fields.

Then, he felt something recoil. A mind that snapped back at Bran's touch, responding to him. A mind that sensed him. It felt sharp, primal even. Strong. Familiar. The boy gasped, his body jerking. "What happened?" Meera called instantly. "What is it?"

He could only blink, stuttering. Bran recognised that feeling in a way he could barely describe. "It's my brother," Bran stammered out. "Jon."

Jon?

Meera gaped at him. Bran could barely make sense of it. Around him, the winds howled.

They sat for a while in quiet confusion, huddled by the trees, as Bran reached out, trying to feel what was happening. Bran couldn't make sense of half the things he sensed through his third eye.

Then, in the distance, Bran felt something spark. Like a little flash in his mindscape. It was followed by a second, and then a third, until one by one there were dozens. Each one was so wispy that he could barely feel it, but together they became something more.

It was only by the hundredth spark that he started to understand. In his mind, every presence was like a little light and when they died, they flashed. People are dying, Bran thought. I can feel them dying.

It felt like power. Like every person was a little bit of power, and when they died they sparked. Like fireflies in the night, that he could reach out and hold.

I felt the same thing at Last Hearth and Thistle Hall too, back when I had been so close it felt overwhelming. I blanked out both times, Bran realised. The feel of all those people dying around me overwhelmed me.

The tide of deaths didn't stop. Bran could feel it growing in intensity. It was a battle. A storm of death.

Meera shuffled to his side, staring wide-eyed. Her brown hair looked wispy, like it was going grey in the snow. "Bran?" Meera asked. "What's happening? What is it?"

Bran wasn't sure how he could answer that. He felt like a near-sighted man trying to describe events in the distance.

He couldn't make out any details, but he could make out the general shape of it. A cluster of men, the air broiling in the storm, and more and more presences were being extinguished. Sparks of power lighting up the sky as they dissipated. It was like raw energy, the same type that had been at Thistle Hall. Bran could feel it…

He could feel it. He felt it so much it hurt.

The flow of energy didn't stop. He was too alert, too aware. It felt like his skin was on fire, it felt like burning.

His body started to spasm, gasping. "Bran!" Meera shouted in his ear, holding him uselessly. "Bran!"

A battle. Bran thought.It was a battle, and the clash of men-the emotion, the pain, the deaths… Bran could feel it all.

Oh gods…

"It's Jon," Bran sputtered. "My brother. Jon. I… I can feel him, and…"

The tide didn't cease. In the sparks, Bran could see flashes of visions. Like beyond the green, he thought with a gulp, but… but closer…coming closer… "It feels like Jon's going to die."

All around him, the sky cackled and rumbled, the winds and snow tearing over the earth - like immense giants rumbling and wrestling in the sky.

---

The False Guard

"Oi, Harlow," the wildling called. "Bring the bloody horses around, will ya?"

Harlow jumped to his feet at once, as quick as a rabbit. "Yes ser, right away!" he replied, grinning brightly.

"Boy, you were meant to sharpen this blade," another Dragonguard complained, not too long afterwards, dropping the bone-handled greatsword onto the snow. "How am I supposed to swing an edge like that?"

"Oh - apologies, ser, I'll sharpen it now," Harlow gushed as he bowed low.

"Squire!" another shouted for him later. "Message from Eastwatch came in, deliver it on to the king."

Harlow dropped all of his many tasks to run to his feet, eagerly. "Yes, of course!"

"Oi! And fetch us some ale while you're up," a Dragonguard ordered from the campfire.

"I will, ser." Harlow broke into an urgent jog through the flurry of snow.

As soon as he returned, he heard, "Those stables are a bloody mess!"

"I'm so sorry, I'll clean them now," Harlow replied eagerly.

"And ready those saddles when you're at it," the man ordered, before shuffling away with a skin of ale in his hand.

Harlow bowed and hopped to it. "Right away!"

"Harlow, where the bloody hells are you?" another called for him shortly afterwards. "We need to prepare the dragon's meal."

"Of course, I'll handle it." He bowed again, just for good measure. "I can handle it all."

"And gods, Harlow," the great bearded figure snorted, his nose crinkling. "You stink of shit."

"Ahaa," Harlow laughed brightly. "You're right, ser, I do."

He did everything they asked of him and more. He took on the duties of half a dozen squires, and he devoted himself to each task eagerly. He smiled and he laughed, and he laboured with such zeal.

They could have fucked him up the ass, and Harlow would have grinned and asked for more.

He wore a white stone on his chest, polished to perfection. At night, Harlow would pray with the free folk around the idol of the dragon, accepted into their fold. Even as only a squire to the Dragonguard, he was a member of a sort of elite among the wildlings. The woods witch, that Mother Mole, had even said that he was blessed, to be able to serve the dragon so closely.

When the dragon shat in their breakfast, these savages would consider the feces a blessing, Ramsay was sure.

And yet Harlow would be the one to clean it up, every time. He was so very grateful for the opportunity.

It took a very special type of man to be able to maintain such an act for months. One day at time - bowing low, obeying orders, and all the while he watched, listened and planned.

Of all the accusations they could lay at him, nobody could say Ramsay was not devoted.

Every single time Jon Snow greeted Harlow, he bowed deeply. Ramsay bowed like a buffoon and he lowered his head - all to hide his Bolton eyes from the one man in this army who wasn't a witless savage.

Dressed in finery, in his armour and bloody helm with his bone falchion, Ramsay was the Red Helm, the Monster, the Bastard of the Dreadfort. Without them, he was just a podgy young man with wide blue eyes and slumped shoulders, who stuttered as he spoke and was always eager to please. A squire to the Dragonguard.

And a boy like that could go anywhere.

It was a scheme that had been months in the making, the plan evolving and adapting at every step. The Bastard King had required extreme measures. You couldn't backstab anybody, Ramsay had reasoned, unless you got behind them first. Jon Snow would be planning a campaign, Roose Bolton would be scheming to stop him, and so Ramsay made a plan of his own.

It had been the middle of the night in Winterfell, after a very rushed wedding, when Ramsay and his men abandoned his father's plan and snuck off into the night.

First, Ramsay had ridden fast and sacked Last Hearth for all it was worth, and put every man, woman and child to the blade. Ramsay couldn't allow his father or the Bastard King to get their hands on Bran Stark - either one of them would happily replace Ramsay's status as Lord of Winterfell. Razing Last Hearth to the ground had helped Ramsay get things moving in the right direction.

While most of the Bastard's Boys took shelter in Thistle Hall, Ramsay himself took a few handpicked men, and rode north. Ramsay killed his own horse, and dressed himself as a commoner. They buried their swords, wool and mail in favour of bows, hemp and hide. Without any armour, they became just another group of huntsmen, stumbling around the forest after the battle at Last Hearth.

There was a refuge in audacity. They had been captured, stripped, and interrogated. He had begged and shivered. Ramsay Bolton had walked right into the wildling's army, cold, scared and exposed.

After all, acting the prisoner had been a tactic that had served Ramsay very well indeed with Theon Greyjoy at Winterfell. Ramsay's impression of Jon Snow had reminded him much of Theon, actually. Ramsay had known that the wildlings were capturing villages rather than killing them - the risk of being put to the sword was very low. At the time, Ramsay figured that the Bastard King was trying to expand his ranks, that they would be very eager to recruit another few northmen soldiers.

Very quickly, Ramsay realised that acting servile, young and innocent would serve him far better. Even from their very first meeting in the woods by the kingsroad, Jon Snow demonstrated himself as a man who went out of his way to save the 'innocent'.

That was what Roose never really understood. His father could only think in terms of the 'big picture' - he was a man leaning over a cyvasse board. Ramsay knew differently; armies were more than just amalgamates, they were people. Together they became a force to topple countries, but individually each man was weak, exposed and prone to manipulation. If you wanted to beat a bigger army, you had to do it man by man.

Ramsay had been born a commoner. So, so often, the generals forgot that their army relied on the messenger boys, the scouts, the watchmen. It was quite easy to infiltrate an army if you were alone and looked harmless, and if you could outwit a single, bored sentry keeping watch on a snowy night. The little pieces were as important as the big, but nobody ever focused on them. One man, Ramsay told himself. One man, one blade. One very…focused man is all it takes.

That's what made the Bastard's Boys special. They were a small force, handpicked by him for their cruelty and cunning, but without the ambition for treachery. Every Bastard's Boy had no greater ambition than to kill and rape, but they had the will and training to obey his orders, and pursue them even without active management. They knew to suffer today, in anticipation for greater rewards on the morrow. They were priceless. Ramsay considered each one of his men, his best hounds, to be worth a hundred of these sheep to a man, and so far he hadn't been proved wrong.

It had served him at Hornwood, it worked at Winterfell, it worked at Moat Cailin, and it worked at Last Hearth. Wildlings or not, Ramsay knew about human nature. All men could be reduced to the hounds and the sheep, in the end.

The plan hadn't been perfect - the dragon's attack on Mole Town had been unexpected, and too often Ramsay had to fluke his way through ever-shifting events. Still, he had walked into Castle Black unarmed, and he made it work.

During the assassination attempt by the Night's Watch, Ramsay had been tailing Jon Snow. The only reason that 'Harlow' managed to save the Bastard King's life by raising the alarm was because Ramsay had been prepared for it. And so Ramsay acted the resourceful little goon, and he screamed for help and he saved the king. Ramsay had mixed thoughts about the matter, honestly, but the dragon's rage in the aftermath proved that it would have been unhealthy to do anything otherwise at the time.

Afterwards, once in earshot of King Snow, Ramsay meekly revealed a secret route to make contact with the mountain clans. Ramsay himself had been planning on ambushing the mountain clans over those forest roads, normally fit only for goats and their shephards, but he surrendered the fruit of his half-formed plans to the Bastard King. Just another sign of Harlow, meek Harlow starting to work so loyally and gratefully to earn his place near the King of Wildings.

For all his efforts, Harlow had been so grateful to be named to the king's Dragonguard, and so very dedicated to prove himself. The pink letter that arrived at Castle Black had been written months in advance, and prepared to provoke the wildlings into moving south with Ramsay among them. The king's attack on the Twins in retaliation had been unexpected, but Ramsay hadn't been disappointed.

And so Ramsay's plan started to adapt. It wasn't so much a plan - he didn't need a step by step scheme, that was far more how Roose thought. Instead, Ramsay had only an intention, and the dedication to see it through whatever came.

Every plot, every scrap of information, every resource, every blade. It had all been meticulously arrayed and arranged, and then brought into convergence on this night of the full moon; all that work of months, for a single night's blood.

The Bolton's armies would have been soundly defeated in the field; there had been no other choice but to risk everything in a different form of battle. The Bastard King had made his moves, and the Boltons had prepared for their own.

The goal had always been the same; either kill Jon Snow, or capture him, and then see to the dragon. Roose had preferred assassination, but personally Ramsay had been really, really hoping they'd capture him. Capturing the Bastard King would be... difficult, but there were so many possibilities that would be opened if it could be made to happen.

As far as the dragon went, letting it loose, letting it rampage, even the uncontrolled chaos of a monster preying randomly on the realm had been an acceptable option to his father. If it were to rampage free, bereft of its master, his father had explained, it would only drive the realm back into their own hands. Eventually the dragon would retire and find a roost like any other beast, or the north would be forced to rally together to stop it.

For the same reason, even a mass wildling horde raiding through the north was manageable.

"War is a zero-sum game," Lord Bolton had told him once, months ago, "and where absolute victory cannot be had, relative victory will suffice. There will be chaos, but we will cope with the chaos better than our enemies can. It doesn't matter whether or not victory is found cleanly, so long as our enemies lay defeated at the game's end."

"That sounds like a complicated way of asking me to kill somebody for you," Ramsay remembered scoffing.

"Of course I'm asking you to kill somebody," Lord Bolton had replied calmly. "That is your talent, that is why I tolerate you. And I have no doubt that you will - you are my son, after all."

Despite all of their differences, despite their clashing mentalities and styles, there were times when Ramsay and his father did work together quite well. My father's plan, my execution.

And now, he could see the end. Harlow stepped over the frozen bodies of the men he had spent months serving, and he laughed.

Months of work, of study, of worry, of copying orders, of passing secret messages and discreetly forging replies, intercepting ravens and constantly acting clueless… so much effort, all for working towards a single night.

And it was glorious.

The look in the Bastard's face, as he stared up at Ramsay's bloody grin. All around them the wind was howling, and the night sky echoed with the screaming of distant, dying men. "Bastard!" Ramsay cried, his heart beating in pure elation. "There you are, Bastard! Oh, I was really hoping I'd see you!"

The Bastard looked as lost as a puppy. Around them, the night screamed. "You hear the music?" Ramsay called as he stepped forward. "That's my father slaughtering your troops. Oh, is it not the most lovely sound?"

Ramsay stepped closer. The Bastard was on the snow. His eyes were wide, his face as pale as his hair. His furs were bloody, his face pale and dishevelled. He didn't look the king anymore - he was nothing but a frantic, wounded man lost in the snows.

While Ramsay… Ramsay felt like a god.

The Bastard still didn't understand, not really. Ramsay loved this moment. Every victim was different, and yet, the pleasure it brought him was always the same. The reactions, the faces. He loved it. He loved being close enough to see their naked souls, in his moment of triumph. "Did you not think didn't think that some of those northern lords seemed all too eager to join your side? Oh, bastard. We've got ten thousand men outside your camp and one thousand inside it. Which means you never really stood a chance at all."

The wind howled, and the frost of winter blew between them. But the cold chill only made Ramsay feel more. More alive, more everything. This triumph coursing through his veins, it was better than anything, any woman, any pleasure. Even better than the expression on Domeric's face at the end of it all, when the poison gripped his heart.

"Except for the dragon, of course," Ramsay continued with a sneer, as he drew his sword with the utmost care. "The dragon would have been a problem. That was my job, you see; get close enough to put the dragon down."

"Harlow?!" the Bastard gasped finally. Ramsay could have choked with mirth.

"In the flesh," he chuckled.

"You—you saved my life," he stuttered.

"Why, of course I did." Ramsay stepped slowly, waiting for his men to catch up. He wasn't fool enough to risk a wounded wolf by himself. He took in the entirety of the Bastard King's weakened, half-collapsed form. Ramsay saw no wildling king before him, not anymore. Only prey. Prey, bleeding into the snow. It was then that Ramsay allowed himself to smile, imprinting this moment into his most dearly beloved memories for all time. "I don't want to kill you, Bastard. I was really, really hoping we'd have this moment. And now, here you are, already prepared for me. Thank you."

"Harlow…" the Bastard's voice turned to a growl, staggering as he pulled himself to his feet.

"Oh, we haven't actually been properly introduced, Bastard," Ramsay mocked, lingering for that one last moment of satisfaction. "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."

Ramsay didn't need to draw out the moment, but he wanted to see the man's face. He loved savouring their expressions. He watched, and watched, and smiled, as the Bastard's features twisted, his skin paled, and the wind howled.

The moment passed. Ramsay drew his sword high, and the laughter broke his throat as he leapt forward, blade swinging in a downwards arc. The Bastard stumbled backwards, almost slipping on the ice.

There was laughter by his side. Two of his best Bastard's Boys were beside Ramsay, matching his pace, stalking forwards. Werwick and Lems were both sniggering, their hands on their weapons as they moved after the Bastard King.

They could see the battle in the camp in the distance. Northmen and wildlings, men and women, all running mad. Behind him, Ramsay heard the rumble of the ice dragon's great breaths - each one was laboured, hoarse and weak.

There were only fourteen Bastard's Boys with him on the ice - as many as Ramsay had been able to sneak through with him into the camp - but it was enough. Fourteen men were enough to hold position until the greater Bolton forces won the battle.

They were in the middle of it all - just a few men scattered over a black, frozen lake, sheltered by a sleeping dragon, as the battle waged on the shore all around them. Warhorns, drums and screams all echoed together in a dull roar in the distance, drowned out by the fury of the storm above them.

There were no torches, they didn't want to make themselves a target with the light. Instead, the Bastard King was naught but a shadow as they scrambled in the dark, illuminated only by the rippling light of distant fires through the snows.

Ramsay spared a thought for Furs, that great oaf. But that oaf and another nine or ten of the Dragonguard should be miles away by now, chasing some nonexistent cart of wine on 'Harlow's' word. The rest had all died easily enough, after the maester's poison. Milk of the poppy in the soup, in the drink. Genius.

"How…?" the Bastard gasped as he stumbled, hidden in the dark. "How could…?"

Ramsay only laughed, stalking forward and swiping with his blade. The Bastard had his own black sword drawn, fumbling in the dark. Ramsay had heard that the Bastard was a great swordsman, but all the skill in the world couldn't help if you couldn't even see your opponent.

Footsteps shuffled around him. Werwick and Lems went far, circling around to stop the Bastard from running. The Bastard snapped out in the dark, flailing at nothing, growling like a wolf surrounded by hounds.

The dead men's camp littered the snows, their blood already cold. The 'Dragonguard' died scattered around the ice. Ramsay heard the strained gasps and grunts as the Bastard stumbled over the half-buried body of his own men. Dark blots stained the snow with each of the Bastard's steps.

The blood of the leader he had squired for -Hatch- was already cold. He died face first in the snow, his throat slit, his body stiff, frozen and contorted. As for Furs, Ramsay had sent the fool long and far away from here.

"Your men died painlessly, I want you to know that." Ramsay shrugged. "Mostly painless, anyway."

"You..."

"It wasn't even hard," Mock him - Make him angry. Lure him into a mistake. "It only took a few lies, and just a bit of poison in their cups - they drank it all. They trusted me, the wildling idiots."

It had been a long day's march in the cold, and a colder evening. The Dragonguard's camp had been nothing but cold men huddled on a frozen lake, drinking and eating soup to stay warm as the sun set. None of them had even thought twice as 'Harlow' rushed around with skins of ale and pots of piping hot soup, as he had every night for months. They just hadn't known that this soup and these drinks had... extra ingredients.

"Furs and half the rest won't be back until long, long after it you're lost to them," Ramsay explained, grinning. "I figured it would be too much of a risk to try to kill all twenty and some, so I sent half those idiots after some supplies that don't even exist. As for Hatch and these idiots," Ramsay said contempuously, kicking the side of some upjumped wildling 'Dragonguard's' corpse, "they died hard. Some of them quicker than others, but him - Hatch tried to run." Ramsay's eyes twinkled, as he pointed towards a slightly, slightly more distant corpse. "I had to cut his throat myself."

Even after being poisoned, even being taken completely by surprise, three of his Bastard's Boys had still died killing these ten fools. Ramsay himself had taken a close swipe. Frustrating. But all in the past now.

"His squire..." the Bastard stammered. You were his..."

Ramsay's grin widened. "Oh, I wish you could have seen the look on his face, bastard."

"What did…" the Bastard looked around, seeing all the dead men around them. "Harlow, what did you…?"

Behind them, the bulk of Sonagon shifted slightly, a long reptilian moan breaking from the dragon's maw. "What did I do?" Ramsay laughed. "I beat you."

His voice was loud and clear. The Bastard focused on the sound, and he lunged. He was quick, and sword was sharp. He swung fast and darted over the snow with surprising speed, but Ramsay was ready for him. Ramsay ducked low, and hacked forward with his blade like a cleaver.

Metal chimed. The Bastard's beautiful Valyrian steel jarred against Ramsay's blade, taking a notch out of the iron, but the ferocity still knocked the Bastard backwards. He recovered swiftly, but Ramsay was already hacking again - screaming like a madman as he slashed and hacked There was no skill to it, no restraint - nothing but a bloodthirsty growl between crazed chuckles of laughter.

The first few strikes caught the Bastard off guard. He managed to recover, and that sharp black blade of his struck out like a snake. It sliced straight through Ramsay's shoulderguard, the leather splitting and the blade cutting deep through skin.

If not for Lems stepping in, Ramsay might well have lost his head. Instead, Jon Snow crumpled as the Bastard's Boy lunged his sword into Jon's back. Ramsay didn't stop laughing, even with the blood swelling from his shoulder. Ramsay couldn't even feel the pain, he was too high.

Lems' iron blade didn't pierce the armour, but the Bastard still staggered. He reacted admirably, twisting to meet the attacker behind him, and then Ramsay charged forward with a backhand strike with his other arm. His sword crashed into the Bastard's ribs, clattering against chainmail under hard leathers.

Blood splattered from the Bastard's mouth. Ramsay felt the warm droplets against his face. His smile widened.

Maybe one on one, Ramsay might have lost, but three-on-one? While the Bastard was dazed and wounded? Not a chance. The Bastard staggered, but Ramsay's boys surrounded him. Both Lems and Werwick were there, darting around from either side and forcing Jon to twist and parry.

"Sonagon!" the Bastard screamed at the top of his lungs. "Sonagon!"

The dragon stirred and groaned, but it could hardly even twitch. It was left too weak, too strained. Ramsay's laughter didn't stop.

"What did you do?" the Bastard bellowed. "What did you do?"

It was almost impressive, how the man was still fast enough to hold off two at once. Ramsay held back, nursing his wounded shoulder. Blood wept from the cut, stinging against the cold. In the dark, Ramsay could only see the blades flashing. The Bastard rippled and parried, while Werwick and Lems hacked closer. It was a dance of steel and snow - desperate, strained.

Ramsay heard the squelch of blood. The Bastard's blade lashed out, gutting Lems straight through the stomach.

Ramsay struck. Before the blade could even slide out from his Bastard Boy's stomach, Ramsay's fist slammed into the Bastard King's face. Both Jon and Lems fell to the snow at the same time. "Bastard!" Ramsay howled as he kicked the sword from the Bastard's writhing hand. It clattered away over into the snow. "Bastard!"

The Bastard was left unarmed, trying to flail, trying to find his feet, but Ramsay was all ferocity and strength. Ramsay was shorter, but stockier and heavier, and still strong enough. He kicked the Bastard's feet out from under him, and kicked again where he saw dark fluid staining the Bastard's furs. Jon retched and Ramsay fell on him, grabbing him. They writhed in the snow. The Bastard twisted and punched, splitting Ramsay's lips. Ramsay could taste the red, where his lips had been cut on his teeth.

His eyes glittered. His lips widened. Ramsay had felt harder blows from his mother before his eighth name-day. Weak. He's so weak now. Ramsay felt the world… widen. Come into clarity. Oh, I will so very enjoy this.

Ramsay smiled, twisting his form, and answered the bastard with his own punch, then another, and another. The Bastard weakened, his limbs shaking, and the dragon twitched. Ramsay hooked around the Bastard and dug the hilt of his blade under the Bastard's chin. Ramsay heaved in and dragged the Bastard him a few paces away, letting the iron crush into the Bastard's soft throat. Ramsay could feel him gurgle and thrash through the metal.

"Sonagon!" The word split the Bastard's throat. A desperate cry for his dragon's attention. "Sonag—!"

"Come on now, Reek," Ramsay growled. His grip tightened. "Do you really think your men were the only ones I poisoned?"

Ramsay yanked the Bastard's neck. The dragon didn't even squirm, even as its master was being strangled right under its nose. The Bastard gargled for breath, squirming beneath him.

"Do you know how long it took find a poison that would work on your dragon?" Ramsay whispered in his ear, and Jon convulsed. "Why, I spent months researching what it ate. I spent a long time taking care of it. Beautiful animal, even if it never did like me much. Shame. Had to wheedle the others into getting near it."

Discovering a means of disabling the beast had always been the hardest task Ramsay faced. Poisoning it had been... a difficult problem to overcome. The beast could eat metal and stone, even. The dragon wouldn't have even noticed normal poisons. Trial and error had been needed; every night for months Ramsay had been switching up what went into the dragon's meals, and then observing its behaviour afterwards. It had required months of study to develop a poison that would be crippling for a dragon.

He'd gone to the greatest lengths, never allowing himself to be discovered. Many ideas had been settled on, tried, and discarded. Flesh infused with the bloody flux, the pox, the greywater fever - even the flesh of rabid foxes. The dragon had shrugged it all off, not even noticing his efforts. The heavy metals had proven a little more promising - a mixture of natural waste-rock, lead and arsenic and sulphur from the Manderly silver mines could make the dragon a little sickly. It wasn't obvious at first; the dragon's constitution was just too great, and it had not been enough for a reliable poison. Honestly, Ramsay wasn't even sure if the heavy metals were poisoning the dragon, or just making it sleepy.

His deadline, the Bolton's deadline had loomed with little success. The easy solution that Ramsay desired proved difficult, and all other alternatives were rather more… messy. Ramsay had nearly thought the mission lost, his task failed, until they had found an ally - ready and willing, dancing to another's strings for the same end. A maester, with whose assistance he had finally made the true breakthroughs.

Greyscale. Greyscale-tainted flesh, mixed into the dragon's meals… now that had given a marvelous result.

The first sample had come from a plagued ship quarantined by the White Harbour port authority, but the Manderly's maester had access, and then House Bolton had allies that helped ferry it out through the city. Ramsay had been the one to bring the shipment into the wildling's army, and to the dragon's roost. The plagued flesh had required extraordinarily careful handling, and afterwards Ramsay had planted the contents into the dragon's meals, one small strip at a time.

His initial source had been too small to debilitate such a large beast, but greyscale was so infectious; Ramsay had found that it was easy enough to simply create more stock. All it took was a thick pair of gloves and a piece of raw, poisoned meat - for every barrel of raw fish that came to the dragon, Ramsay dropped an extra piece of meat in it, and then let the fish simmer for a day or two before serving. Sometimes Ramsay had taken aside barrels and let them linger in fermentation for weeks, scurried away in dark corners, to replenish his stocks. No one but Ramsay had noticed that the dragon was eating a few barrels less on some days, and a few more on others. If a few barrels happened to stink more than the others? If the dragon didn't care, why should they?

The 'Dragonguard' trusted him to watch over the dragon's food, and no one noticed. The Bastard King filled his guard with dumb warriors, not a drop of cunning between them. That Furs, the big one, the supposed leader, was the worst - just an empty-headed brute. Hatch? Hardly any better. All of them were fighters, so they were above such stewardly duties. Hardly any of them even knew how to read. Ramsay ran circles around them all.

An intelligent leader might have had a food-tester to protect the dragon. The Bastard King, though? Hah!

The dragon, in its infinite gluttony, had eaten every last scrap of plagued, poisonous meat.

Even from the first meal, the results were instant, but at the same time, not quite like what Greyscale did to humans. Whatever the disease did to the dragon, it seemed to drain the beast's strength rather than cause infection. It moved slower, slept longer. Ramsay actually had to scale back the magnitude of his poisoning, just to make sure he didn't upset the schedule. And so, ever since, he had been carefully, carefully increasing the dragon's intake of tainted food only in small increments, so as to avoid attention. Eventually, as the march to Winterfell began, he'd settled into a pattern, constantly weakening the dragon over many tainted meals, and eventually drawing it into a lull. The others had dismissed it as the dragon just being tired on the march, perhaps they had even been grateful for how complacent the beast had become, but Ramsay, only Ramsay had known the truth.

The Bastard's dragon had unknowingly consumed nearly all of Ramsay's tainted supplies earlier in the day, and now it could hardly seem to breathe. Ramsay honestly wasn't certain whether it would survive or not, or whether or not it would just turn to a block of stone like the legends said. He hoped it would survive; he didn't want the dragon dead, after all.

The disease drains their strength, makes them weak, Ramsay had decided, weeks before. The symptoms differ, from human to dragon, but the terminal result is the same. Petrification. Outwardly in man, inwardly in dragon. The maester and his book on diseases had been so very helpful. So helpful that Ramsay had started to wonder just how exactly the dragons had gone and went extinct the first time around.

Ramsay could feel the fear in the Bastard's body, in his desperate shudders and strained breaths. Ramsay squeezed, pulling backwards tighter and tighter, choking the life out of him. Ramsay only laughed.

It felt like the world was cheering for him. The sky was screaming, and the ground was rumbling.

Ramsay watched the Bastard's face turn red, his eyes bulging so much that they might pop…

The Bastard jerked, like the final spasm of a convulsing fish. "No…" Ramsay muttered. "I'm not going to kill you, Bastard. I don't want to kill you."

After a moment's pause, Ramsay relented. He had to force his hands to relent. His grip slackened, and the Bastard gasped for air. Ramsay still hugged him tightly, pinned to the ground.

"I'm going to destroy you," Ramsay whispered. "I'm going to break you, piece by piece. You are mine. You will be my new Reek."

Oh, you'll be the best Reek too. Theon is nothing compared to you. I will have the whole world coming to see my Reek, crawling and begging around on the floor. You will lick the stones under my feet.

They would look at the great and proud Bastard King, once a conqueror and a dragonrider, now something less than human and dancing for Ramsay's pleasure. He would be Ramsay's pet. No, pet was the wrong word, Ramsay quite liked his pets. Rather, puppet. Yes, Reek - Ramsay's little puppet.

Werwick was hunched over the wounded, dying Lems, wailing in shock as his friend's guts spilled outwards. Lems gut was oozing outwards, where the black blade of Valyrian steel had sliced his chest open. "Werwick!" Ramsay snapped, with no regard to his fallen man. "Gather up the others, as many that are still alive. We hold position on the lake, keep near to the dragon."

Werwick jumped to attention, shivering and trembling in the cold. Lems was still gasping with his stomach bleeding out. If Ramsay had his hands free, he would have cut the man's throat just to get it over with.

Instead, Ramsay hooked his arm around the Bastard's neck, and dragged him to his feet. The man tried to thrash, but the headlock was too tight. His feet kicked at the snow, slipping on the ice while Ramsay heaved him upwards.

"Your training begins now, Reek," Ramsay said, his voice bouncing with joy. Cold, bleeding and fatigued, but Ramsay had never felt happier. "We're going to watch, you and I. Let's watch everything you care about be destroyed."

The storm was deafening, but they could still see the flurry of battle. There would be warhorns, charging horses, arrows raining and boots stamping, but it all felt just strangely unreal watching from a distance. The Bastard might have tried to say something, but made nothing but a choking sound. "It's already over," Ramsay cackled. "I poisoned your dragon. I killed your men. Mine were set to raise havoc in your camp, and my father convinced yours to betray you. We beat you."

More of Ramsay's men were slipping out of the shadows. He only had only a dozen of his Boys with him on the ice, but that was enough. The Bastard squirmed, and Damon Dance-for-Me slammed his fist into the Bastard's stomach. Werwick, Lou and Merwyn all laughed. "I need him alive," Ramsay ordered to his men, "but I don't want him healthy. Wrap up his wound, and then beat him until he stops resisting."

Ramsay stepped backwards to tighten his cloak around his bloody neck, to stop the bleeding. All the while, Lems was left gurgling in the snow - dying slowly as his intestines spilled out. Ramsay ordered someone to shut him up, and, finally, Yellow Dick hacked open Lems' head to silence him, before stealing the sword that killed him.

The Bastard was left flailing on the ground. Ramsay's men were already thumping spears into the snow, ready to defend against any who might be coming to save him. They all knew the plan - the Bastard King would die before they would ever let him be recovered.

There was still a fire - a defiance - in the Bastard's grey eyes. Ramsay leant over him, pulling him close. That is good, Ramsay thought with a laugh, I will have fun beating that fire out of you.

"The only reason you made it so far was because we let you," Ramsay whispered into the man's ear. He made gasps that could have been pleas. "We wanted you here, your army gathered right now - so we could destroy all of our foes on a single night. What use is an ambush, if the prey isn't all gathered for it?

"But do you want to know the secret?" Ramsay's voice lowered slightly. "We didn't win. This isn't our victory, this is your loss. We wouldn't ever have beaten your army in a straight battle. If it was anyone else, any other commander, I don't think this trap would have worked. No one else would have so often hesitated, while wielding so much power. No one else would have let me get so close. An anonymous man, with no family and no past save that I spun out of whole cloth, and you let me so close to the most precious beast in the world. No one else… But it wasn't anybody else, it was you."

He moved so close his lips brushed against Jon's ear. "This is your loss, yours," Ramsay whispered. "Your failure, your fault - all yours."

The look on the Bastard's face - the pale, wide-eyed look of horror as he stared out and struggled futilely - it was just… it was beautiful. It sounded like the Bastard would have screamed, if only he could breathe.

The snowstorm was only getting stronger. Ramsay laughed and laughed and laughed. Even from over a mile away, they heard the tremble as camp's bulwarks collapsed, and heavy cavalry pierced through the host. The wildlings were all disorganised, their camp was in shambles, and Ramsay knew that his well-prepared assault would make short work of them.

If the fighting did break out to the ice, Ramsay would hold their king hostage until his father's army slaughtered them. Ramsay's men could hold position, or Ramsay would cut the Bastard King's throat and run.

Either way, as soon as soon as the battle was won, they'd have the manpower to secure the dragon. Ramsay reckoned he'd be able to tame it. The methods… starvation and chains, certainly. Whips wouldn't do, the hide was too thick to inflict pain by ordinary means, but what of needles in the eye? It was an ice dragon, could it be made to feel pain by fire? It was a beast, not so different from any other, and he hadn't met a beast yet that couldn't be broken. The thought made him smile. Maybe it won't even be so difficult, what with how weak it is now.

His grip around the Bastard's throat tightened. First, I will break the dragonrider, then I will break the dragon. With a dragon under their thumb, the Bolton regime would truly begin - and Ramsay would become invaluable to it. Indispensable to his father.

It was all about the dragon - that had been the only thing that the Boltons could not handle, and so instead they targeted the dragonrider. You came prepared for a battle, but we spent our time readying a trap, Ramsay thought with satisfaction. Several traps, in fact.

Sound gargled from the Bastard's throat as he thrashed against Ramsay's grip. They were short, sharp and hoarse cries, as if the man could overpower the storm, screaming for his army in the distance. The army that was being massacred.

"Look at it," Ramsay whispered into the Bastard's ear, smiling, as his Boys took him away and set to binding his injuries. "This is you. All you. You did this. Your army, your allies, your dragon, your loss."

Tonight will be a good night, Ramsay thought. Oh, tonight is a good night!

---

Val

The commanders bickered. Even as the arrows rained down from the sky, she was surrounded by the bickering of a score of different commanders and fifty and some lesser voices giving a hundred conflicting orders, even many orders coming from the mouths of men that had no business giving any. Amidst all this headless chaos, men were falling back on the simplest form of command of them all; yelling louder and standing taller than all the rest. It added up to such sheer overwhelming volume that she wanted no part of any of it. It was all such a blur that in the din she could only make out the loudest of the rabble.

She stood by the commander's tent, near the central stead of the fishing village, staring over the horizon where great army was being torn apart. She couldn't see the charge, she could only see the haze of a thousand torches writhing, and the shimmer of arrows raining downwards.

They were a good day's march away from Winterfell, maybe half a day if they really pushed. The Boltons must have left the gates even before the fighting in the camp began. It was coordinated.

Val could hear the horns echoing, the sounds of battle chiming in the pandemonium. The Boltons were at the perimeter, with absolutely no warning from the scouts or outriders. An organised defence could have routed the Boltons - fortified men on the earthen encampments could have resisted the ambush, sent them back bleeding - but there was no organisation to be had, not there. They had no discipline, no clear-minded orders. Their camp was large, dispersed and now fractured from within; even by the time the northern coalition gathered to resist them at the fortifications it would be too late.

The storm was growing like the wrath of gods. Val could only stare, feeling numb with fear and cold. There were no details, she could see nothing of the battle - it was too dark and too chaotic to see anything other than incoherent panic. The blizzard tore the weaker tents apart, sending the leathers flapping madly in the wind. The howling wind, the snow, the screaming - it all blended together, set the world to madness.

They're attacking from both the north and west, she realised. They're pushing with soldiers from the front, horses to the rear. A hammer from behind, to the anvil. She could see the arrows in the distance, the shafts scattering wildly in the winds. It was an ambush - a solid line of soldiers taking full advantage of superior discipline, bowmen and cavalry. They would be pressing forward slowly to keep their lines intact, but as unstoppable as a dagger through the heart. Rattleshirt's men had been holding the north perimeter, but they were lost. As soon as the Boltons broke through the bulwarks then was no easy way to stop them.

One collected force fighting through a disjointed one.

The snow fell from the sky in a fierce flurry, nearly horizontal with the winds. Tents were torn out of the ground, men running huddled under billowing cloaks. In weather like this, every man would be running blind.

"We got horns over the ridge! West and south!" the Weeper shrieked as he stomped forward. "Warriors on me, we break their charge! On me! On me!"

"Retreat! We must run!" some southron lord - Locke something or other - shouted. "Retreat!"

"Fuck that, where the hell is Snow?" Tormund Giantsbane exclaimed, barrelling past them all. "The king?"

"Archers! Archers! Bowmen!"

"Retreat! Retreat to the southern bulwarks!" a scared voice shrieked. "Cavalry! Cavalry breaking through!"

"Southron traitors!" a wildling's voice - a mad-eyed raider clutching two stone-headed axes, facing off against some Manderly soldiers. "You bloody fucking traitors!"

"Reinforcements to the west!" That was the Greatjon's voice, a heavy bellow as he pushed through, heading towards the Manderly boathouse. "Where are the bloody heavy horse?"

That was the problem, Val thought quietly. In moment of alarm, all rational thought stopped. Men would just follow the loudest voice.

Gods… the fear in the air. It was overwhelming. Every single second, somebody was dying. There were a hundred crises happening all through the camp, and Val just couldn't respond to it. How could you stop a tide of a thousand men?

Her hands were shivering. She could feel it too. A certain type of panic was infectious.

No, Val thought. Now is not the time. Not everybody can be helped, focus on what I can do.

She cast her gaze around the frenzied, burning camp, and her heart skipped. The thought of the battle at the Frostfangs fluttered through her mind. The Others hit Mance's host from multiple sides, scattering them, before bringing in the main assault. I've seen this type of chaos before. The Boltons are even using similar tactics to the white walkers.

Tormund and the Greatjon were arguing - one wanted to hold the line, the other insisted on reinforcing the perimeter. In the pandemonium, the men looked close to coming to blows against each other. Accusations still ran through the camp - shouts of 'craven' or 'traitors', and Val couldn't even pick out who or what. There's no calm, not here. Their blood is too hot.

Val saw the Weeper already pushing his way through, screaming. The man had no patience for arguing, his warband was already rallying to his roar. The Weeper already had his scythe in hand and he was on the hunt for his enemy's heads. In a pinch, any head would do.

I can't let this happen. Val made her decision quickly; she ignored the others and ran after the Weeper, shoving her way through the snows and the raiders.

"Weeper!" Val snapped, stepping towards him. "You fall back! Gather your men, send the signal to fall back."

The Weeper twitched, his bloody scythe snapping at her. Blood was dribblling down from his eyes, his face twisted into a feral snarl. "What the fuck—?"

No time to back down now. "Fall back, Weeper," she ordered. "With as many as you can gather, fall back to the shore and regroup."

"Are you fucking mad, bitch?" he snarled. "They're slaughtering us!"

"We got cavalry breaking the encampments," a scarred wildling growled. "The bulwarks—"

"—are already lost. The instinct is to counterattack. That's what they're expecting. Resist that instinct, Weeper." Val was already storming her way through. "Gather them all, fall back and rally!"

Too much of a rabble, her voice didn't gather enough attention among the warriors. "Orders from the king!" Val screamed at the top of her lungs, but it still felt barely loud enough. "Gather anyone you can! Fall back!"

The Weeper's arm grabbed her shoulder, his grip so tight it hurt. He left a bloody handprint on her furs. Manderly blood. "Bitch," the Weeper snapped. "You do not order my men."

His eyes bulged. No weakness. He'll kill me if I show weakness. "If you had your wits, then I wouldn't have to," Val challenged. "You fall back, Weeper, and the ranks rally around you. Let the men see their commanders, know who to follow. Run mad and you'll only get more killed. Again."

He didn't slacken his grip. They could hear the screams in the distance, howling with the wind.He could kill me. One word, one movement, one look in the eyes, and I'm dead. The thought of Ser Wylis' bloody head flickered before her gaze. Still, Val said, "Move your hand or lose it."

After a pause, the Weeper relented and lowered his hand, but his eyes didn't lose their ferocity. She caught the flicker of hesitation moving through the men, and Val turned around between the warriors and raised her voice, "King Snow has gone to rally the dragon! He'll be flying through any moment now!" I hope. "So bloody fall back already!"

Jon's name caused a few stirs, but there was just so much confusion and bustling bodies around her. Val was fighting against a tide - the whole camp was flooded with bedlam, and she had to fight and scream just to get a single message through.

The Weeper twitched, but Val was already turning and pushing away. A man with a bloody winged pig on his surcoat moved to stop her, but he froze at as the Weeper shook his head.

She could hear the sound of hooves rumbling closer. It felt like an earthquake - slow, steady, but unstoppable. How many men have died this minute alone, while we bickered like a herd of pigs?

"The men on the perimeter!" someone protested.

"Leave them!" Val snapped. She drew her blade and raised it high. "Fall back! Fall back and rally!"

Men were stirring all around. She had to shove and barge her way through. She glimpsed the Weeper's face twitch, curse, and turn after her.

"King Snow!" a red-faced man - a southerner - bellowed at her. "Where is he? Where is he?"

"He's fighting a battle! Like you should be!" Val snapped, turning and screaming. "Now are you going to stand around with your cocks in the air, or are you going to get moving?"

There was no time to look for Jon. They had minutesto spare, and Val had to make the hard choice. Either Jon was dead and they wouldn't find his corpse until morning, or he was moving but lost. Either way, Val couldn't distract herself with him right now.

"Ser Wylis!" a man, a knight, was screaming. "Where is Ser Wylis? The wildlings—"

"Your commander was a fucking traitor!" that was one of the Weeper's men, an ugly man with a bloody winged pig on surcoat, heaving a greatsword. "House Manderly betrayed us!"

The knight moved his hand to his sword. "Ser Wylis! What did—"

"Enough!" Val shrieked, so loud her throat hurt. "Enough! Fall back! Rally! Fall back!"

Some were trying to keep the fights going, but the call was starting to spread around her. "Fall back!" they were screaming. "Fall back!"

How many thousands would die in the retreat? Val wondered. How many are the Boltons cutting down right now, and how long would it buy us? Still, their sacrifice was the only chance the rest had.

There was a certain flow to battle. The tides of men would wax and wane, and churn like turbulent waters. When one side started to gain ground, they would build momentum. It became more and more difficult for the other side to recover against a moving charge. The Boltons had already had a strong ambush against a disorientated host, there would be severe casualties.

Val turned to the north; she couldn't see anything through the crowds, she couldn't even make sense of all the noises - but she couldfeelthe enemies pushing closer and closer.

We need the kneelers. The free folk have the strength, we need the discipline.

In the camp beyond, Manderly men were rushed to arms, but their ranks had already fallen apart. Even with proper leadership, the northerners and the free folk wouldn't fight together easily. Now...

There were skirmishes all around them, and Val couldn't tell who; nobody who the betrayers were, but the fighting still seemed to be spreading. Val pushed her way through a dozen raiders howling against the Manderly knights, their words lost in the storm. We can't win like this.

She heard bellows. Tormund. The Greatjon. Val saw their shadows, sizing off against each other, clashing. The Greatjon wanted to move men south, Tormund wanted to stop him. They were spitting with each other, each one flanked by a dozen other lords and chieftains.

There are too many commanders in this army. No general.

"You fucking chickenshits!" Tormund was roaring, maul in hand. "You fucking cunts!"

"Out of my way, fat man!" The Greatjon was so much bigger, his ugly greatsword lifted high. "Out of my fucking way!"

"Enough!" Val screamed, lurching into a run. "Gather your men! Rally at the lake!"

The Greatjon twitched. Men shouting all around her, but the Lord Umber was louder. "Girl! Where's Snow? Where the fuck is he?"

"These bastards have traitors in their ranks!" Tormund hollered. "Get your fucking men under control!"

"Enough!" Val barked. "Enough! Enough! Get fucking moving!"

She wasn't the only one screaming. Their voices blurred together, fighting against the wind. "Where's the king?" another man bellowed at the same time.

"Ser Wylis!" a northern lord demanded. "What happened to Ser Wylis!"

"The dragon! Where is the dragon?"

"Retreat!" Val recognised the scrawny man - Jeremy of House Locke, heir and commander in Lord Locke's place. "We must retreat!"

The cries of retreat gave Val the most concern. If their ranks fell apart, in this weather, then they would all die fleeing in the snow. Val had seen it happen before.

As the tide kept on crushing them, morale would completely shatter and they would lose as many to desertion to death. After that, there was no chance.

Lord Umber raised his greatsword, ready to swing at Tormund. "You get out my bloody way or I'll kill you all!"

The loudest voice. The loudest voice is the most important. Val focused on the Greatjon, pushing up against the hulk of a man. "Enough!" Val screamed, pushing so hard even Lord Umber was knocked back. "Fuck you and fuck your cock measuring! Get to the fucking centre and rally your fucking army!"

For half a second, Lord Umber looked speechless. A few men made to grab her, but Val twisted away and shoved the Greatjon again. "Move! Rally! Now!"

"They got traitors!" Tormund warned. "Bloody kneelers—"

Val spun her head so fast her hair whipped. "Who gives a fuck!" she snapped at Tormund. "Fuck traitors - there's your enemy!" She pointed to the west, where Bolton cavalry was pushing through their ranks. "If they stab you, kill them - and do what I say if you want to fucking live!"

She sounded crazy. She felt crazy. Good. Crazy is good, so long as they don't try to argue. We can't beat the tide swimming in different directions.

The Greatjon's eyes bulged. He was a hulk of man in leather and steel byrnie, and Val was a slender young woman banging against his chest. "Little girl…" he growled.

"Fuck off," Val snapped, already turning around. "Get moving."

Thousands of bodies frenzied all around her, shoving and bellowing. Horses were galloping. She heard a hundred screams echoing on the wind. Val glimpsed a spear-ridden corpse of a mammoth, littering the ground nearby.

"Retreat!" Jeremy Locke was still shouting. "Retr—"

At once, before anyone could stop her, Val drew her sword and stormed towards the heir of House Locke, pressing the blade against his chest.

"Say that word one more time," Val promised, "and I'll kill you right here, right now."

Jeremy only gaped at her. With Ser Wylis dead, Jeremy Locke was now in command of the White Harbour men. All of the knights had steel in their grip. If I do kill him, then his soldiers will kill me a second later and everyone will dissolve into fighting, Val thought. She couldn't even feel her fingers, that rush of fear was just so… One twitch of a sword and she'd be dead. But there's no choice - if he keeps on screaming to retreat, then too many will follow it.

Val could only hope that this Jeremy idiot was not as stupid as he seemed.

With her sword at his chest, the heir to Oldcastle could only stutter. The White Harbour knights seemed speechless too. Good enough, Val thought with a tut. "If anybody calls to retreat," she shouted to whoever was listening. "Kill them!"

It probably wouldn't make a difference, but it made her feel better. Gods, her heartbeat was so fast it was fluttering - fear and adrenaline made everything fuzzy.

"Why the fuck should we listen to Snow's lay, you cunt?" an angry voice snapped. Val turned to see a bald and scarred man in an iron byrnie glaring at her. It took a few seconds for Val to recognise him; the Middle Liddle, of the mountain clans.

Val raised her hands open. "You see anyone else keeping their wits?" The Middle Liddle looked ready to strike her. "No? Then bugger off."

She heard a few grunts that could have been guffaws. Maybe they were laughing at her; the little girl who thought she could boss them around. That was fine. Even mockery was better than panic. Before the Middle Liddle had a chance to respond, Val turned to the men, and it was the soldiers that were really important, not the commanders. "Whatever grievances you have - whatever problems with King Snow or with each other!" Val screamed. "Then sort them out in the morning!" She raised her arm, and pointed her sword towards the Boltons. "Tonight, you bloody fight them!"

The Middle Liddle spat a word that sounded like 'cunt', but Val was already pushing away. Don't focus on anyone, don't get drawn into an argument. Just keep on pushing through and keep the cry spreading. Everybody had to know the same thing.

"Rally! Rally! Rally at the village - free folk and northerners gather together!"

The village by the lake is defensible, at least. The lake at our back will stop them from surrounding us, and the buildings give us a place to command from. Roofs for archers to climb, for men to see from. If the Boltons pushed forward too fast after the perimeter broke, then they'd overreach themselves and hit against a hard defence. If enough of the commanders pulled together, then there would be a chance. If they stayed fractured, there'd be none.

She could feel the rumble of battle pushing closer, the pitch turning so loud it overpowered the storm. They must be through the bulwarks now - there would be horses storming through the camp and raising havoc. Only a solid line of infantry stood a chance at stopping cavalry.

How many men have already died, in the time it took for the commanders to get their shit together?

She hadn't even realised how much they were relying on the dragon until it was missing. Nobody, not even her, had been expecting a proper fight because they had a dragon. Their armies were a smouldering mess without it.

Val stopped. Her eyes flashed around the crowd, trying to find free folk she recognised. She saw a tall and lean raider she recognised from beyond the Wall. "You! Bjarl! Follow me!" Val ordered. There was another young man she vaguely recognised. Lars, Leif, Lothar, maybe?"And you! Lars! Both of you, on me."

Bjarl looked surprised. Maybe-Lars didn't react in time, so Val had to grab his hand and yank the man away. The wreckage of Jon's cabin wasn't far; half the building had been pulverised by the mammoth's stampede through, but there was another half that was still upright. Val had to scramble over the splintered debris, noting the bodies littering the ground. In these snows, it was already a foot deep surrounding everything.

It had only been the other day, when Val had taken solace in this boathouse with Jon, wrapped around him and underneath the sheets. The thought made her curse. Gods, how did I let myself become so complacent?

Maybe-Lars gulped. "What are we doing here?"

Val didn't hesitate. She saw a shadowcat fur cloak littered over the broken planks, Val picked it up and threw it at the wildling. "Get dressed," she ordered. "Into whatever you can find. Both of you. Dress yourselves like a king, and there's chalk over there. Break it and smear it into your hair."

"Wait, what—"

"We need the king. Any kind of king. You two, both dress like him, and make your hair white." She found a steel hauberk, right where Jon had left it, and pushed it into Liam's arms. The king had more armour than he could wear. "Now. You go south, and you go east. Shout as loud as you can, and people will rally around you. So give them a king, get them to the centre."

Bjarl's jaw dropped as he realised what she wanted of them. "You can't… we're not…"

Both men were roughly the right height and build. Neither of them looked remotely like Jon, but that wouldn't matter much in the dark and snow. So long as they could make their hair appear white, then they'd pass. Perhaps any other time, Val would have explained the need to them, but right now she really didn't have the time or patience. "What makes you think you have a choice here?" Val raised her swords, pointing one blade at each man. "Get your clothes off. Now."

If they had had their wits, they could have maybe protested. The trick was to not give them an opportunity to protest. Men scared witless tend to become compliant.

Val shoved them into Jon's spare armour and cloak, pointing them into the right direction. "If you can't think what to say," she ordered, "then just shout the same word over again - 'Rally'. The words don't really matter, the men just need to think that you're in control. Do you understand me? Even if you're about to shit yourself, even if you don't clue what to do, you must sound like you're in command."

Bjarl gave something like a nod, his mouth agape and a chunk of chalk in his hair. There was no time for anymore instruction than that. As soon as Val stepped out of the cabin, the fighting was coming towards them.

It moved like a wave - like a swell bursting over rocks, sweeping the camp. It surged through the encampments and it wasn't stopping.

She could see the Bolton cavalry was upon them; a tide of horses trampling through tents, each man with a lance in one hand and a torch in their other. It was a storm, crushing men beneath an avalanche of hooves and iron. Their formation was a wall of mounted, armoured horses that scattered free folk. Val heard their chants, a war cry that sounded wordless as it echoed through the winds.

In the fluttering torchlight, she caught a glimpse of the banner flapping at the front - two grey keeps castles on blue, with a red band crossing through them.

Val was already running. She ran as fast as her legs could manage, stumbling through the snows. She heard the Greatjon bellow, and a tide of soldiers was rushing out to meet the charge. "Shields! Shields front!" the cry came. "Shields and lances!"

A few flimsy arrows shot through the air, but they were scattered by the wind. She saw some of the riders fall, but the charge was already shifting direction. The cavalry turned, notching to the side. The horses won't charge against a solid mass of men, Val realised. The cavalry will carve their way south instead and try to flank us.

In the distance, Val saw the Bolton's infantry pouring over the bulwarks, pushing forward with armoured lances. The free folk were falling back; whatever men Rattleshirt had left to hold the perimeter had already crumpled.

They are keeping rank, Val thought with a grimace as she eyed the Bolton infantry. She could see their enemy's tactics, playing out before her eyes. The Boltons ambushed the coalition army's west and north simultaneously, and activated traitors in the command tents to confuse any attempt at retaliation - and then their heavy cavalry charged through to clear a path through the outskirts of camp and divide the enemy. While the Bolton's flanks of infantry held off any attempt to rally using bowmen, their cavalry van was free to push all the way through to the centre of the camp. And if the cavalry truly reached the center of their army's camp, the men would flee and scatter, winning the battle for them in a stroke.

It's organised. Firm regiments and a coordinated plan of attack. This was rehearsed.

The only thing that stood in the way of the Bolton's cavalry van was a slowly organising line of infantry, men with not enough spears and not enough time.

A gale cut through the camp so fiercely that she saw tents dragged straight out of the ground. It was so, so cold - and yet Val could hardly even feel it. If a man fell here, into this snowpack - they would be buried under snow in minutes, or more likely, they'd be stomped by an endless tide of boots. To even trip amidst this dark mob of soldiers could well mean death by trampling.

"Hold the line!" The Greatjon boomed. "Hold the bloody line!"

"To me!" Tormund bellowed. "Rally to the Giantsbane! Form up and make more lines behind now!"

Val had never seen a battlefields so tight, so close quarters and cramped. And then, before her mind could even catch up to what her body was doing, she was in and among them, holding a sword and shield as a part of the infantry's front line. She had never been in such a mash of soldiers slamming together. There were so many men, all ramming into each other like livestock crammed in cages. If she fell, she could well be trampled to death and nobody here would even notice, not until morning.

This is a southerner's battlefield - the free folk like to fight spread out in raiding parties, not penned up in rank and file.

It felt like being livestock, rambling together in a herd - a stampede - towards the slaughter.

A chant filled the air, beating with the footsteps of men. "For the north!" they boomed. "For the north! For the north!"

That's not our side, Val realised.

All around her, she heard screaming. Crying. Howling.

It was almost overwhelming. Get to the front. They'll need me on the front.

The Bolton cavalry was coming around again, twisting around to the south, trying to flank them. "The south!" someone called. "The horses! The south!"

"On me!" That was the Weeper's voice, a roar distinctive even amidst it all. He was pulling men to meet the cavalry charge. "Raiders on me!"

She saw the shadows pushing through. A few men were still fumbling with bows and arrows, but archers were left nearly useless in winds like these. There was no way to count numbers, there was no way to make sense of it. Val was trapped in the bedlam, every man crashing together like stones in a great wave.

The two battle lines were about to collide. Two tides of men crashing forward to meet each other, the battle churning like a storm.

In the moment… her mind blanked out with the raw frenzy of it all. The night was too wild, too raw.

There will be no surrender here, she knew. She could feel it her bones. There would be no peace, no quarter given. It was all too wild; there was too much bad blood between the armies. This war has been simmering, festering, for too long, their forces turned too bitter.

The snows and the wind felt like all of that hatred given form.

Val had to claw her way to the front. Behind her, she heard the cries as her two decoy kings left in opposite direction to rally men from around the lake.

She heard the war cries, the stomps as the Weeper's warband gave chase after the cavalry, meeting lances with axes and shields. Val would have called the Weeper a fool for breaking rank like that, but there was no doubting the man's bravery.

They were coming closer. She felt their footsteps as they broke into a charge, she heard the deafening screams. The earth rumbled with the pounding of boots.

When the two ranks collided, it felt like absolutely everything went black.

It was like no 'fight' she had ever seen. It felt more like a single, unending, riot.

"Hold steady!" the Greatjon roared, ahead of her. "Hold steady!"

The infantry lines crashed into eachother with an impact that she felt down to the pit of her bones and soul.

Screaming from every direction, sounds of steel on steel coming from two or three lines ahead of her that might have even been fighting. The man before her fell, but then another from the line filled in to replace the gap—

The clash eased off, and she could feel—from her backsteps, at least—that the wildling's lines had lost ground. She could hardly see anything through all the press of bodies, but she felt the battle as the two forces collided again and again, pressing forward until one side or the other fell back. It was like two oceans breaking against one another - crashing together all around her, and then easing off. It was waxing and waning, churning and crashing. Two forces tearing against at each other until something broke. The men would pull back only to charge again.

Bodies surged and fell around her. Val somehow still had her sword in her hand with her shield, but she didn't even have the space to swing it. She could only lunge and hack whenever she saw anything that even looked like an enemy, all the while she was being battered from all sides. She was hit more by the men around her than she was by the foes in front.

She wasn't even sure if the ones they were fighting were foes at all; she could see only formless black shapes, hardly distinguishable at all from those of her own side.

Several times, she nearly stumbled over bodies littered in the snow. She desperately avoided that fate, struggling against the heavier weight of the bodies of men penning her in from every side. She could barely even breathe. If she fell here, she would be trampled to death in moments, and if she stopped to help anyone she'd be trampled just the same. Val had no idea whether the men underfoot were enemies or allies; there was little distinction between the two, not here, not in this endless thrashing of countless grey and black, armored bodies.

"For the north! For the north! For the north!"

That chant didn't stop, it only reached a fever pitch. A voice at the back of her mind wondered how queer it was that both sides could have chanted the exact same thing.

She couldn't make out any details of her enemies; she couldn't see their faces, not even the whites of their eyes. Only black and grey bodies, all blurred together. She had to revert to a more primal sort of instinct; any figure coming towards her was an enemy. Any figure behind her or by her side was a friend.

"Press!" That was Tormund's voice. Was she near Tormund? Val wasn't sure; amidst the surge of bodies she had no control of her movement. "Press forward!"

By the time the ranks finally broke, Val had no idea where she was, but it felt like they had fallen back a hundred feet or so. The Boltons were dropping back to retreat, and as they flowed away Val saw a sea of buried corpses scattered like stones.

Val was panting for breath. Her entire body felt battered. She could already feel the first aches of what would surely be a sea of bruises all across her body in the morn. This was a bad decision, she thought with a gasp, the thick of the rabble is a bad place to be. This was such a bad decision.

"Regroup!" Tormund's voice bellowed again. "If you can fight, stand up!"

But we won.

All across the camp, there were more battles. Skirmishes, really, and the shouts echoed in the storm. If I collapse here, I die. "Tormund!" Val called, her voice escaping her throat as nothing but a croak. How hurt am I? "Tormund!"

"Val?" she saw the great white-haired man turn towards her, eyes wide with surprise. Tormund was bleeding from a gash across his forehead, but he barely seemed to notice her. "Val, get out of here! Go support the rear!"

"Fuck that," Val gasped. There was blood on her sword. Where from, she couldn't say. She honestly couldn't remember stabbing anyone. It was all hazy. "How many are there?"

"Buggered if I can tell," Tormund grumbled, casting a wary eye to the west. "But those bloody horses are going to slaughter us like this."

Val understood - their men were on foot, and mostly lightly armoured. The free folk favoured axes and arrows over than lances and shields. Without a solid rank to support them, a mounted force could tear straight through them.

The cavalry charge would be turning around. Their forces were already scattering faster than they could rally them. If the Weeper couldn't stop the charge… "We need the giants, Tormund," Val said suddenly. "The giant camp. We need to get them with us, into the fight."

Tormund caught her gaze, and shook his head. "You want me to go?"

"You know the chieftains better than I do," she argued. "The giants know you, they'll rally with you. Hells, you speak their tongue better than me."

"Bugger that," Tormund growled. "I ain't leaving here."

"Toregg was over there," Val pressed. "Your son was fighting that way."

She caught the flicker of doubt pass over his face, and Tormund swore in the Old Tongue. Once, before joining with Mance, Tormund had many sons, but he had already lost three sons and one daughter in this war. He couldn't lose any more. "Dammit. Fine, aye, I'll go," he cursed, before turning to the men and shouted, "Twenty raiders! On me! The rest to the centre!"

Tormund was already pushing off, moving as fast he cut over the thick snows and scattered corpses. There wasn't a minute to spare, the wildlings were running haggard as it was. "Gather to the centre!" Val shouted to the remaining men, as she pushed through to the opposite direction. "Move! Regroup!"

There were skirmishes all around them - men wrestling in the snows - but there was no time to intervene. The Boltons would be regathering, and the free folk clans were already drifting apart, fracturing away from the northerners. She needed to form a defence, to gather around a single commander and turn the tide.

But it won't be me. Val saw the towering figure of the Greatjon, standing head and shoulders above the rest, as large and bulky as a bear. The loudest voice.

"All free folk!" Val shouted as she approached, raising both her swords to gain attention. "Lord Greatjon Umber has command of the battle! Follow him! The Weeper commands the vanguard and Tormund Giantsbane the reserves - spread the word, all raiders must flock around the Greatjon!"

Val saw the Greatjon turn to stare at her, caught off-guard. A few free folk chieftains shouted objections, but she didn't even hear them. "Orders from King Snow!" Val snapped. She could only hope she had enough of a reputation that the free folk would listen to her. "The Greatjon has command!"

Lord Umber glared at her, and for a second it seemed like he was going to say something to her. Then, a horn blasted in the distance, and the march of men demanded his attention. "Form up, you bastards!" the Greatjon bellowed, so loud even the storm couldn't match. "Form up! Form up!"

Val was gasping for air, trying to make sense of the rumbling chaos all around her. She would have stolen a shield or lance from one of the men, except she didn't have the upper body strength to wield either properly, and her swords were more comfortable in her grip.

She was a good enough fighter, but she knew she couldn't last on the front lines like this - not in ranks so tight there was no place to dodge or swing properly. That was where big men like the Greatjon excelled, but not her. Val hesitated momentarily, searching through the snows at where she would be most useful.

The rear, Val decided. Let the Greatjon hold the line, I need to keep the host together from the back. She was already running - stumbling, rather - through the snows to the edge of the lake.

Across the fields, she heard the cries as the Weeper kept the push the charge against the cavalry - his warband fearlessly pushing against mounted men. For any other man, Val would have called it suicide, but the Weeper was holding on.

If Tormund could rally the eastern camp as well, then there could be a chance to change the tide. The Boltons had already broken through half of the camp, but there was a proper line starting to take form around the Greatjon. They were pushing back.

Val didn't stop shouting. Even when wheezing for breath, even when she was barely audible over the wind, she still shouted. "Form up! Form up and push!" she called. "They're falling backwards, push!"

It hardly mattered the words she said, Val just knew that she had to keep on shouting anything she could to stop them from breaking down and fleeing.

Crash. Val felt the lines collide again against Bolton forces. It felt different this time, the battle lines were crumbling, scattering outwards in the snow. Discipline was being shredded, turning into more a skirmish than a charge. Val couldn't tell if that was good or bad.

The fighting felt strained, desperate - there were no great battles, there was nothing but men staggering through the snow and trying to thrust spears at each other. The enemies weren't to the front anymore, they were all around her. Either the free folk were pushing back or they were falling apart, Val couldn't tell.

"Fight! Northerners! Free folk! Fight!" Val shrieked, so loud it hurt her lungs. "Whatever you care about, whatever your reason, just fight for it! For freedom! For honour! For justice!" For Jon.

It was impossible to tell who was 'winning', not from the middle of it all. Not through the snows and screams. Too many men were fleeing, or too many were going wild in the chaos. She couldn't count the enemy, she couldn't count anybody. The winner would only be whoever was standing upright by the end of it all.

In the moment, it felt like a slaughter.

She glimpsed a wild-eyed figure, stumbling mad around the frenzy. Jeremy Locke looked like a man crazed, staggering through the snow. The young heir seemed like he had lost his wits somewhere along with his courage. "Wylis… !" Jeremy called, lost. "Ser Wylis, where are you?"

Even between the dozens of rushing men, they caught sight of each other. Val's golden hair fluttered madly in the wind, marking her clearly on the battlefield. She would have covered her hair, except it was a distinctive enough rallying point. "Get a sword in your hand and get to the fight!" Val ordered. "If you can't fight, see to the wounded, or search for survivors. Collect arrows, secure supplies, or even just stand steady. Whatever you can do, just do something!"

He didn't seem to hear her. Jeremy blinked, mouth agape. Gods, for all he was a man grown, the heir to House Locke just seemed lost. "You…" he stepped towards her. "It's you… The battle is lost. The battle is lost!"

His voice was too loud. Val grimaced. She couldn't allow anyone to be screaming things like that. Think it, fine, but don't scream it. Morale was fragile enough already. "Ser Jeremy—"

"The battle is lost!" the man wailed, crying as he stepped towards her. "I have family, I have a son, we must retrea—"

Val's sword was already swinging. Jeremy Locke was caught completely off-guard as her blade bit into him. Her wrist jarred as it hacked through mail, and then jammed into bone. "I warned you," Val cursed. "Nobody is allowed to say that word."

Jeremy dropped quickly, but he was still wheezing for breath as she stepped over him. Val left her blade where it jammed in bone, embedded through his shoulder and neck. She let him fall with her sword. Just another corpse for the snows. She'd find a sword from some other corpse. There were plenty lying around, that if nothing else was certain.

Her arms were trembling. No weakness, not here, Val ordered. "To the fight!" she screamed. She saw men holding spears, rushing at her. Maybe they were Boltons, maybe deserters, but they were moving in the wrong direction regardless. "To the fight! Push them back! Push them back!"

The Greatjon was leading the surge forward, a tide of men coming together and pressing outwards. All around her, the screaming, the madness… it was all just so much she couldn't even make sense of it. She might have soiled herself, except she honestly wasn't sure that she would notice if she did.

And all the while, the storm roared above her. The camp was in shambles - so much snow flurrying from the sky that a man could be buried just standing still. She could see snow dunes rolling over the ground, being pushed across the camp by the wind.

The armies were left fighting the wind and snow, shambling in the dark and wrestling blindly. So much fear, panic and rage in the air that it could have made her sick - physically nauseous. As if there all this death made her sick just by standing here.

The world is trembling, Val thought.

The wind howled over the lake like a banshee's wail. Val stood, staring out, just trying to make sense of the world again—

Then, she heard a voice echoing through the world. A voice so faint she could hardly make it out.

Help him, the ghostly sound cried. Save Jon!

It sounded like a child's voice. A young boy's. Even amidst everything else, the sound made her freeze.

Val turned to stare out over the lake, watching the snow fall, and the winds howl across the shadows of night.

The fires, Val realised. Where are the fires? Why aren't the Dragonguard's fires burning?

Even through this dark, she should be able to see the fires.

Val moved.

---

Jon

Sonagon! Jon shouted through the warg-sense, just trying to rouse the dragon, trying to achieve anything at all. Sonagon! I need you!

He had been trying to break through to his dragon for hours, pushing with all the strength he had. But it was so hard. The dragon's mind felt like an ocean of sickness. Sonagon could recover. Sonagon could turn the battle, could save the camp.

The dragon stirred slightly, cracking the ice with every movement, but it didn't wake. Jon could feel Sonagon's pain - the dragon's lungs were in agony, struggling to even breathe. Even its heartbeat felt sluggish, straining against the poison in its blood, as if its flesh was turning to stone. Jon felt sick and ill. He felt faint. He had lost so much blood.

Jon was left trying to fight on the ice, with Ramsay Bolton's - no, Ramsay Snow's - arm wrapped under his neck. The Bastard of Bolton's grip was solid, keeping Jon trapped with the blade poised at his throat.

Around him, he heard the cries as the Ramsay's men dug themselves in, but Jon couldn't make out the words over the roar of the wind.

On the center of the lake, the storm felt earth-shattering. The winds were sweeping across the frozen water so sharp they could cut down to the bone. Whatever hope Jon had that someone would come for him dwindled as the storm grew in pitch.

Even Ramsay's men had to take shelter beneath the Sonagon's mass, all the while the wind swept through snow so furiously it looked like the ground was flowing.

And in the distance, Jon watched as the burning fires were extinguished, one by one. All over the lake's coast, the light fizzled out into shapeless blackness. Swallowed by the snows. He could hear the screams on the wind, the horns so faint they sounded like dying gasps.

Sonagon! Jon screamed. Sonagon!

There was a low groan as the dragon shifted a wing.

Jon's body jerked. Something heavy collided against his skull, and Jon gagged. "Oh no," Ramsay growled in his ear. "You're doing that thing, aren't you? Oh no, bad Reek. None of that. Not until you teach me how to do it too."

The man is mad. Still, Ramsay dragged him backwards, but held off from hitting him again. One of Ramsay's men had even wrapped up Jon's wounded side, and they wrapped him in a cloak tightly to keep him out of the snow. Ramsay even seemed restrained, hesitant.

They can't risk me dying, Jon realised. If they're confronted, their only chance is to hold me hostage. They were only fourteen men, relying on the cover of darkness and confusion to keep them safe.

"That's some trick you do, Reek," Ramsay continued, hissing. "It made a lot of my men really nervous too - the Bastard King that could control animals. But they didn't see you like I did; they didn't see the little boy who didn't have a clue. You're out of your element, Reek, nothing but a failure."

Ramsay had taken Dark Sister for himself, and wore the Valyrian blade on his hip. He didn't wield it, though; Ramsay seemed to prefer his brute of a butcher's blade rather than the slender sword. Jon was left defenseless. Jon could have struggled, would have tried to wrestle, but the sword was poised to slice open his throat as soon as he twitched.

The Bastard of Bolton was being paranoid, paranoid or careful - he had never once lowered his blade.

Sonagon, Jon pressed so much it hurt, forcing open what felt like an ocean of sickness. Sonagon, I need you. Now.

Sonagon felt so weak, but Jon was close enough to warg as strongly as he ever could. Just raise your head, Jon begged. Just raise your head and crush them.

The dragon could barely even breathe, but he was slowly beginning to stir. Trying to twitch with muscles that felt like lead…

They all heard the dragon tremble. This close, the dragon was a mountain of flesh. Jon glimpsed Sonagon's snout twitch, and then his serpentine body rumbling as the dragon raised its head upwards. Jon's heart was pounding so fast, watching the dragon uncurl laboriously.

Ramsay reacted smoothly. "Move away!" he shouted to his men, as he yanked Jon back quickly. "Move away, take positions!"

The Bastard's Boys scattered around him, fleeing as the dragon groaned. A single wing struggled to unfurl, shuddering as claws scraped against the ice.

Ramsay's arm was under Jon's neck, dragging him backwards. Couldn't breathe. Jon tried to struggle, but he didn't have the strength. His arms thrashed, he tried to get a grip, and then agony shot through his side as Ramsay slammed a fist into Jon's open wound, under the cloaks and bandages. He retched as Ramsay scrambled to his feet, dragging him up with.

"Get back, dragon!" Ramsay was screaming, barely audible over the wind. He was facing up against Sonagon's immense snout, holding Jon before him like a shield. "Get back!"

The dragon was above them. Its neck unraveled, and then they were both staring at an immense jaw of white scales lined with red.

Sonagon's black eyes… even in the darkness they seemed to gleam murderously.

Cold mist billowed from Sonagon's nostrils. The dragon was struggling to breath, but Jon saw dark eyes flickering as they tried to focus. Sonagon's body protested, but the dragon was staggering upwards, its great jaws opening. Sharp teeth as long as swords glinted in the dark, a cold luminescence shining deep in the dragon's maw. Hoarfrost billowed from Sonagon's jaws in faint sheets.

And even when facing down a beast as large as castle, Ramsay didn't back down for a second. "That's right!" Ramsay screamed, and manic laughter broke from his throat. "I'm right here! Now what you are going to do?"

Sonagon could have swallowed him whole without chewing. The man is mad.

His men scattered, running around Sonagon's body as the dragon lumbered. Sonagon body shuddered, trying to unfurl. Immense claws scraped against ice, uselessly clattering. Sonagon can't pull himself up, Jon realised. The dragon couldn't even find its feet. He was reminded of a wounded man, or a drunkard, fumbling in disorientated anger and pain.

Ramsay's grip around Jon's neck tightened even further, strangling. "One breath of dragonfire," Ramsay warned, snarled into Jon's ear. "We'll die together, bastard. I don't think your beast is that good at aiming."

For a second, Jon could have almost willed Sonagon to do it anyways. The dragon could smell the blood in the air. He didn't know what was happening.

There was raw hatred in Sonagon's eyes as they slowly focused on Ramsay, but the dragon was so weak he couldn't even stand properly. Jon heard shouting, and in the darkness he glimpsed Ramsay's men picking up spears and lances.

"I didn't want to hurt your dragon, bastard," Ramsay warned, his grip not slackening. "But I will. I can't kill it, but I can gouge out its eyes. I can cut out its nostrils. I can hurt it, I can maim it. Lets see what a blinded dragon is worth, shall we?"

Ramsay's men were prepared. A dozen men against a dragon. Normally Jon wouldn't have been concerned about such numbers, but now? A dozen men while the Sonagon was addled and weak, drunk with pain?

Don't, Jon gasped. Can't. Stop him.

Jon's body spasmed with all the strength he had left, his elbow snapping backwards. Ramsay took the blow on the chin, but hardly staggered. Somehow, Jon managed to slip out of the man's grip, but he didn't even make it a single step before Ramsay gripped his furs and dragged him face first into the snow.

A cry broke through Jon's lips. Sonagon growled, but the noise was strangled, strained.

They both toppled. Arms flailed, their bodies grappled against each other in the snow. Jon could feel the hard ice beneath him, could feel Ramsay's grip against his neck.

Ramsay's other hand found Jon's wound, and Jon felt him squeeze. Flesh ripped. The pain… Jon couldn't even…

Amidst all the chaos, just two bastards wrestling in the snow.

"Bastard!" Ramsay's fist collided against his chin. He was on top of Jon, pinning him down. "Bastard!"

Sonagon growled, retching and wheezing before clambering to its feet. Sonagon staggered towards them. Ramsay dragged Jon up. "Come on!" the Bastard of Bolton howled at the dragon. He was almost laughing." Come on!"

The man's mad, Jon realised.

The dragon could have crushed Ramsay in his jaws, would have, if not for Jon lying so close. Instead, the dragon hesitated. There was no way a thing of Sonagon's size could intervene without crushing Jon too. Because of me, Jon thought, struggling to breathe. My weakness.

The Bastard's Boys shouted something. Jon saw a flash of a spear through the air.

Jon felt the jab, felt a spark of Sonagon's pain, only a foot away from his eyeball. Ramsay's men were all around the dragon, and they had spears. In the dark, weak and poisoned, with enemies all around him, Sonagon could hardly resist. Jon saw a man pull back the string on a longbow, his arms hoisting the weapon upwards.

Straight towards Sonagon's soft, fleshy eyeball. The dragon's scales were hard enough to stop metal, but his eyes were not. Jon felt the ice beneath quiver as Sonagon shuddered, flinching in pain.

The other Bastard's Boys were throwing spears, from all sides. One man was crushed as Sonagon's neck whipped out, but the rest were still pushing. One man was gouged by the horns on Sonagon's crests, but then the dragon fumbled, and two others had a clear shot at its right eye.

Jon heard their cries of victory, and white blood plumed from Sonagon's eye. The dragon cried out - a bone-curdling shriek of pain.

Sonagon was trembling, bleeding heavily from his right eye as he flailed. Jon felt the panic, fear and anger pulsing from the dragon. Sonagon didn't understand what was happening - the memories were vague, sick with pain. He'd fallen asleep after a great meal, and when he woke his body was screaming and there were men attacking him. The pain left the dragon disoriented. Weak and confused. The storm. The wind was so loud it overwhelmed the senses, the poison in his blood paining his muscles.

Sonagon was too weak, too dazed. The men were like fleas, gnashing at the dragon while the animal was wounded.

"Get your dragon to back down," Ramsay snarled into Jon's ear. "Or they will blind it. I will blind it and shred its wings - I will turn your beast into ruin."

Another spear jabbed. Sonagon was so disorientated, so pained and fatigued. The rage was the only thing overcoming the poison. If Sonagon's eyes were pierced, he would go berserk with blind rage…

Through at all, Ramsay just laughed. The world was mad and thick with panic, but it was as though the Bastard of Bolton… loved it. The man holding him was laughing, laughing and howling even as the frostfire welling in Sonagon's throat threatened to freeze them all. Even in the middle of the chaos, Ramsay Bolton laughed. Sonagon could roll at any moment, and smear them all like ants…

"Last chance to calm your fucking dragon down!" Ramsay cackled, voice howling over the storm. "Calm it down like a good little Reek. It doesn't matter if you live or die here, bastard. It doesn't matter if your dragon kills me here. My father's army is killing yours right over there, our allies are taking your city right out from under you. You've lost! Bastard!"

Those words haunted Jon, trembling in the cold, in the pain. He just didn't have the strength anymore…This is me. My fault.

Sonagon's gasp of strength waned, and the dragon sank into the snow.

"Company!" someone cried suddenly. "Over the shore! Someone! Someone's incoming!"

"No, more!" Another of Ramsay's men bellowed. "Too many!"

At once, the words caused everything to change. "Fuck it!" Ramsay cursed, and then turned to order. "Leave the beast, get ready! Hold position! Hold steady!"

Is it help? Jon tried to focus, tried to see what it was the others could. And then he saw it, the pinprick of a torch fighting against the flurry of snow. Sprinting over from the shore, from the direction of the camp. Jon's heart skipped. A single person, against Ramsay, against a dozen of his men?

No. There was more movement. A single person, leading a column of at least twenty raiders in thick furs. They tore over the ice, bellowing war-cries.

"Hold them back!" Ramsay screamed. Jon's body lurched, the bastard yanking him back. "Hold them back!"

Everything was blurry. Jon couldn't make sense of it, not through the pain, the blood loss and the cold.

Spears and arrows flashed through the snows. There was a strangled cry of pain, followed by the thud of an axe embedding itself into a chest. Jon saw two men crashing against the Bastard's Boys, only for both of them to fall under a shriek of arrows. He caught brief glimpses of armored bodies wrestling in the dark, and then a flicker of golden hair between the snows.

Jon was being dragged backwards. Ramsay was running away as his men fought, but the blade never left Jon's throat.

The cries of pain and fury could barely even break over the din of the wind. Another two bodies fell into the snow, but Jon couldn't even tell if they were Ramsay's men or his own.

The dragon screeched, trembling with pain. A flurry of arrows wafted overhead, splattering down onto the bodies wrestling in the dark.

Jon was left so weak he could barely even gasp. He heard Sonagon growling - a low moan like a whine - as the dragon thrashed madly with pain. All around them, bodies fumbled and thrashed.

He heard another clash of steel, followed by a strangled scream. Sounds of battle were getting further away. Ramsay still dragged him backwards, still keeping the blade at Jon's throat. Away from Sonagon.

The dragon's tail thrashed again. Jon felt the ice crack with a tremendous crash. Ramsay stumbled, but he didn't fall. Even here, dozens of paces away, it felt like the ice beneath them was groaning, ready to break.

Jon was gasping, but Ramsay's grip felt strong. Relentless. "Come on, bastard," Ramsay growled. "I'm not done with you yet."

Ramsay was fleeing. There was no visibility in this storm. All Ramsay had to do was take a dozen steps and he as good as vanished into the pitch black. Men were running around blind.

Jon heard someone cry out - he couldn't make the words, but he recognised the voice, high and sharp. Val? Everything was spinning so madly he felt delirious.

Jon felt another jab of Sonagon's pain. A spear. In the chaos, the pain, the confusion, Sonagon collapsed. The dragon dropped and thrashed, his claws, his wings, his tail toppling into the ice like the calving of a glacier. Like the falling of a mountain. The ice tore asunder with an unholy roar, the entire lake rippling beneath the ice, swelling and cracking as far as the eye could see.

Shouts all around him. Screams. Men scattered. Men died. Great geysers of slush, blocks of ice the size of horses scattered through the air as the dragon's churning tail tore the frozen lake apart. Jon watched men fall, consumed by the black water.

For a moment, he was alone. Ramsay's grip from his throat had vanished, and Jon gasped, breathing the pure cold air. He looked up imploringly into the darkness. Jon couldn't see anybody coming for him, but he was so dazed he could barely make sense of anything. It was dark, so dark - the wind and snow… and then Ramsay yanked him up, too quickly to see.

The bastard was spitting and cursing a flurry of winds Jon couldn't even make out. Ramsay's footsteps were heavy, desperate, wheezing as he still dragged away Jon's flailing body.

He isn't even trying to fight them, Jon realised. Ramsay had ordered his men to hold position, and then he just ran. All Ramsay intends is to run with me and find somewhere to hide in the dark until morning. The Bastard of the Dreadfort expected Roose Bolton to win the night, after which Ramsay could deliver Jon to his father.

Even in the worst case for him, Jon thought numbly, Ramsay will cut my throat before he lets anybody recover me.

Either way, the Boltons would win.

The sword's edge was on his neck, pressing into his skin as Ramsay jerked. Jon felt his blood oozing out into the cold.

Behind him, Jon felt Sonagon split the ice further. The frozen lake burst with a crack like thunder, and more bodies toppling into the water. The dragon staggered, half-collapsing into the lake and too weak to drag himself out. The dragon was groaning, breathing with a bellows and shuddering in agony, trying to hold on…

Ramsay was gasping for breath, but he didn't stop running. A man could die from frostbite in this weather, but Ramsay didn't seem to care. His eyes were crazed, still holding his cleaver to Jon's throat.

There was nothing but darkness. No torches, no light, only snow and wind. He's going to do it, Jon thought. He's going to kill me. Maybe we will both die, trapped in the storm…

"JON!" He heard the cry split through the wind. Coming towards them. Ramsay stopped. Jon's heart pounded, his hands flailing uselessly.

That voice. Even in the black, he recognised Val's hair, streaming in the blizzard like a golden banner as she pushed her way through the snow, staggering with every step. How did she find me? How could she…?

Even in the dark and the storm, despite Ramsay running randomly, Val came straight for him. Jon had no idea how she had found him, but she had.

"Jon!" she called again. It sounded like her voice could have cracked. She was panting for breath.

Ramsay's hands tightened, and Jon glimpsed bloody teeth. It wasn't a smile, not really. "You…" Ramsay growled, raising his blade closer to Jon's neck.

"Harlow?" Val stopped, and then Jon noticed she had a sword too. A single short steel blade she gripped with both hands, the edge slick with frozen blood. Then she started trudging through the snow again. Straight for them. "Harlow. You fucking bloody bastard…" Val snarled. With every step, she had to push her way through two entire feet of snowpack, struggling to balance in the wind.

"Stay back," Ramsay shouted. "You step closer, I'll slit your little boy's throat! You hear me? Don't you take another fucking step!"

Val didn't even hesitate. She took another step. "No."

Ramsay's face twisted. "You fucking bitch. I'll kill him, you hear me? I'll kill him."

"Fuck you," Val replied simply, shambling another step forwards, her sword still raised. "Bastard."

Ramsay went still. "Don't call me that," he said darkly. "Never call me that."

Val grinned. "Bastard."

In that moment, Jon's heart was beating and his head was spinning so fast he could barely even think. Ramsay's blade hovered less than inches away from carving out Jon's jugular - but then the blade stopped. Ramsay's eyes roamed across the snows, glaring around suspiciously.

Jon struggled for breath. His throat felt...

Ramsay was looking back to front, squinting for any more shapes, any movement between the snows. Jon could only beg quietly of the darkness, willing for there to be more figures materialising behind Val, but there was nothing. There was nobody but her, shuffling forward through the snows.

"You're alone," Ramsay said slowly, his eyes roaming across the snows.

Val didn't reply, she just kept on pushing forward, sword drawn. They stared at each other, both squinting as the snows roared. Then, Ramsay started to laugh.

"Oh!" Ramsay's voice turned into a howl. "You're alone! Oh, this is my lucky day. This is going to be good."

Without even another word, Ramsay's grip slackened, and Jon collapsed weakly into the snow. Move, Jon tried to force himself, but his limbs weren't replying. His throat felt half-crushed, he could barely even breath, he was still bleeding from too many wounds.

Even an hour ago, Jon might have still had the strength to fight, but now he could barely even move.

Jon could barely even pull himself up, but Ramsay was still moving strong. The man was uninjured, and with his bigger height and build, he moved more easily through the snows - he stalked towards Val, relentless as a hound. Ramsay held his blade tightly, and stepped forward to meet her. "Are you watching, bastard?" Ramsay called happily without turning. "I want you to watch. I told you I'd make you watch!"

If Jon was strong enough, he would have screamed for Val to run. He couldn't, he could barely even gasp. Too much blood loss, too much pain. His wound was seeping blood, frozen solid against his furs. Run, Jon begged Val silently. Just run.

Val didn't make a sound. She just gripped her sword, her cold eyes flickering between 'Harlow', Jon, and back again. Ramsay, for his part, just laughed softly, his chuckles like a rabid dog's growls.

"And you. Bitch," Ramsay looked at Val, his eyes glinting as if she were nothing but prey. "I've been wanting this for a long time. I'm not going to kill you," Ramsay promised. "Not straight away. I want my Reek to watch."

"You bastard," Val replied darkly. "You bastard. Bastard. Bastard."

Ramsay lunged. A joyous cry broke forth from his throat as he brought his cleaver downwards, hacking like a butcher. Jon heard the ringing of steel as Val parried and fell backwards under the assault. Ramsay was relentless. Like an animal, not a swordsman. Val was a good fighter, but…

Move, Jon cursed himself. He tried to pull himself to his feet, but the wind took him down again. His body was trembling, his knees failed him. Have to move. Have to…

Jon didn't have a sword. He didn't even have any strength left. He couldn't walk, he could barely even crawl.

Val met Ramsay's blade with a ring of steel on steel. Then they slashed and cut out at one another, circling around one another like hounds, biting out time and time again with their blades. Val might have been faster than Ramsay in the snows, but not by much; the snowpack was too thick for the true mobility of a swordswoman. Ramsay held the advantage here; he had more weight behind him, more muscle, and he had the heavier weapon. He was no stranger to fighting in the snow - there was a certain snap to his limbs, a practiced steadiness to his movements, and he wasted no effort despite the environment. He moved almost as easily as Val, almost as easily as a wildling in winter.

The odds were against her from the beginning, and yet she didn't retreat.

"Bastard!" Val screamed.

"Don't!" clash. "Call." clash. "Me." clash. "That!"

The sound of steel rang out, the blades chiming like bells in the storm. Ramsay attacked with a fury, and it was all Val could do to keep up, to not collapse. She had skill, she had speed, but in physical bulk - amidst these snows where strength mattered so much - she might as well have been a stripling squire facing a knight.

With each exchange Val grew weaker. Her face, as far as Jon could tell through the blood - pouring from a cut she'd taken to the side of her scalp - was a mask of bitter determination. Ramsay's smile, by terrible contrast, split wider with every cut taken or given. He held nothing on his face now but a demented, jagged leer, a thing of wormy lips and bared teeth and merciless blue eyes, an expression so monstrous that Jon couldn't see a single scrap left of 'Harlow,' for all that he still wore the same clothes he always had. Jon had trusted the man for so long, and yet, all he could see now was a true monster.

He could only watch as Val somehow held on, as she somehow cut Ramsay a few times and took deeper cuts in turn. He saw Val fall onto the back foot, stumbling in the snow as she slid around an overhanded chop. Ramsay was bleeding from his cheek and through the glove of his left hand, but the man was a monster. Val couldn't keep up. She was bleeding from her side, from her left leg. She stumbled, and…

It should have been me. That was the last rational thought before raw emotion consumed everything. Jon staggered upwards, just trying to reach her. He was so weak. He'd lost so much blood, taken too many wounds. I should have been the one to FIGHT—

They were a dozen yards away. It might as well have been a dozen miles.

Ramsay saw the advantage and he took it, laughing like a madman. Val stumbled, and Ramsay lunged. In that moment, it seemed like time froze, and Jon could count every frenzied stroke of his cleaver. One, two, three, four…

And on the fifth stroke, Val's strength failed her. Ramsay's overhanded slash caught from above, sending her guard crashing back down into her own shoulder.

And Ramsay's blade kept descending.

And cut Val deep in the collar of the shoulder.

Jon screamed. But Val wasn't done. With a cry, she lashed out and punched Ramsay in the face.

He barely even noticed. Val stumbled back from him, ducking under another bite of Ramsay's blade. Ramsay visibly licked his lips, where Val's fist had split his lip.

"Bitch!"

Val grinned through bloody teeth, clutching at her shoulder as blood welled from between her gloved fingers. "Bastard. You'll always be. Nothing. But a. Bastard."

"I told you not to call me—!"

Ramsay's rictus smile stopped.

Ramsay and Val both paused, stunned as they saw a bloody, metal glint in the air between them.

The tip of an arrow, protruding from Ramsay's chest.

"Oh." Ramsay muttered blankly.

Jon's eyes whirled. Who—?

But the fight didn't cease. It only became more frenzied, more desperate, more intense. Ramsay fell back as he and Val continued to trade blows, stumbling as he coughed blood, as the strength visibly left both him and Val. Another arrow flew past him, but Jon couldn't say from where, or if the shooter was even friend or foe. He could only watch as Val stumbled through the snow, chasing after Ramsay, dripping a trail of blood with her every step.

"Don't—!" Ramsay shrieked at the last.

With a final sobbing scream of effort, Val brought down her blade in a final hacking chop straight down through Ramsay's sloppy guard. Her blade clove though his hand and half his ribs before jamming somewhere in bone. And then, with a final vicious scream, Val tugged out the sword and stumbled into one final great cut across Ramsay's stomach.

Ramsay Bolton fell, and Val fell with him.

Perhaps it was just a trick of the dark, but Jon could have sworn that she spat at Ramsay, just before the fall.

Time reasserted itself.

Val! Val!

There was shouting from further off, but Jon couldn't make out the words. His throat jammed, half-crushed and in agony. He couldn't even scream. He could barely breathe.

In that eternal moment of time, Jon just watched, numb to the world as he watched Val lay there atop the corpse of her foe, unmoving to his eyes, red pluming against the white of snow.

Time resumed. Jon couldn't even say from where he found the strength. But he pushed past the agony of his throat and finally let out a scream. "Val!" he screamed, and his voice broke. And then he was scrambling through the snow, ignoring the screaming pain and whooziness of his body, somehow already by her side. "VAL!"

There was shouting coming from somewhere off to the side, but Jon ignored it as he rolled her over onto her back.

She lay on her back in the snow, trembling, bleeding. Jon could see the life pouring out of her, blood swelling from Ramsay's final cut, her warmth steaming against the stone. She was trembling, writhing in pain as Jon collapsed over her.

A distant part of Jon noted that Ramsay was still alive—if not for long. The madman was dying - gargling in agony, his life's blood pouring from many wounds. His fall had pushed the arrow even deeper through his chest, he was pouring blood out of Val's cut with every heartbeat—the man's eyes were crazed, his hands clutching at his stomach, trying to hold in glistening loops of intestine. But Jon spared no attention for him at all.

Jon's numb fingers went to Val's wound, as if he could hold her body together himself, or squeeze the blood back into her veins. Ramsay's final cut... it was so bad, so deep, it had gotten halfway through her collarbone. She was bleeding. So much. Why was there so much blood?

He couldn't even see her properly in the dark. There was nothing but snow, darkness and blood.

"Val!" Jon's voice was a strained cry. "Somebody! Somebody help!"

The shriek of the wind was his only reply—

"The King! Get to the King, damn you!"

Voices, somewhere in the dark. Was that—?

Val was making sounds that could have been words. Jon scrambled. What was she trying to say? He couldn't hear her. He couldn't hear her words. A gurgling noise came from her throat, coughing up blood. He could hardly even see her in the dark, instead his fingers were left groping helplessly. He had to tear his gloves off with his teeth, so he could press her wound closed with his fumbling hands.

"Did I... that bas... tard?" Each of Val's words came brokenly, as if dug forth from an entire pit of blood and pain. But she still spoke. Why?

Jon's eyes flickered over to Ramsay Snow's fallen form.

The man was dead as could be, eyes and mouth open in horror at the last.

He had died afraid.

Good.

Speaking was agony. Too much agony. But Jon nodded.

Val smiled, and then she closed her eyes. Stillness came to her form.

Val?

She was still smiling.

"King!" A huge form fell down beside him. Furs. "King, are you—"

Jon had no attention to spare for Furs or his remaining Dragonguard as they fell in all around him, screaming, demanding answers, forming a perimeter. He could only kneel in the snow, clutching Val's body, his tears freezing against his cheeks as the cold winds howled around them.

---

A/N: In response to certain reviews.

Changes in this edited version of the story will start off small, in the form of butterfly effects that cascade over time. I actually agree with about 95% of Serpentguy's original overall vision for Dragons of Ice and Fire, but that percentage narrows down to maybe 80% as we get through this Battle of the Snows arc and the arcs that come after. It's all well and good to set challenges before our heroes, but at a certain point Serpentguy was clearly tipping the scales in a way that smacked of authorial interference, and could not be interpreted as an organic flow of events. His original plans prior to my original edits in 2018 were far, far more extreme in this regard than any of you public readers would have ever seen. Hopefully things flow better now, in this new version of the story.

The changes in this chapter are for keen-eyed readers to notice, and they will matter a great deal for the arcs that come next. But the events surrounding the Battle of Winterfell were Jon's great tribulation to overcome in this story, and I will not greatly change them, being that they are perfect for his longer term growth.

Thank you for reading, and for continuing to care about this story.