"Nock!"
"Draw!"
"Loose!"
A volley of shafts buzzed skywards, falling into the throng of horses and soldiers below. Ramsay Bolton, Warden of the North, felt a smirk crawl across his face as he looked down from the hilltop his army occupied. This was even easier than he'd expected. Murdering the Stark whelp and prompting the bastard to charge forward unprotected, always so reliably honorable...
The battle was as good as won, both sides' cavalry locked in melee. Already the dead were piled high into makeshift walls. And then, the Wildling footsoldiers opposite (who were saving their arrows for fear of hitting their own brothers) rushed forwards to the bastard's rescue.
With his enemies ensuring their own deaths, Ramsay allowed himself to savor the moment before he ordered his own infantry forth, imagining how he would flay their pet giant alive, what he would do to Sansa and Jon (should he survive), forcing each to watch and participate in turn...
Amid the cacophony of screaming, hoofbeats and clashing metal, it was hard to hear the rending of air behind him. But when a warhorn suddenly blasted behind him and the screams became louder and from the wrong direction, Ramsay turned, his jaw dropping.
An enormous longship had somehow appeared from the middle of nowhere, plowing through his massed footsoldiers and discharging more than a score of warriors clad in furs and spiked armor, bearing circular wooden shields and yelling furiously. The Bolton archers could not fire on so close a target nor could they draw their blades in time, and many of the pikemen were lying crushed by the heavy timbers of the ship. And worse still, every barbarian warrior was enormous, each fighting five to one and butchering the Bolton soldiery regardless of shield or armor, wild-eyed and seemingly unaware of pain or injury. One of them, a giant in skull-adorned black plate carrying a steel tower shield as tall as a young tree, fell upon a pair of mounted knights and cleaved them in half as if they were made of straw.
The initial surprise faded, the Bolton army sprang into action, closing ranks and forming shield walls to resist the barbarians' furious assault, but still losing half a dozen men for each warrior they managed to put down. The huge one then roared out, and despite the surrouding noise the words carried straight into every man's head, causing a lull in the battle.
"Which of you gutless dogs leads this army?"
"Me."
An arrow nocked to his drawn bow, Ramsay was ready to send the arrow into the brute's eye, only waiting for his air of arrogant impatience to be replaced by fear. To his surprise, the stranger looked at his face as if the arrow was not there.
"Very funny. No, really, who leads this rabble?"
Ramsay's face grew dark.
"Your lord must have some very pressing matters to attend to, or be remarkably incompetent if he leaves his boytoy as commander. Admittedly, if my warriors were all of such laughable caliber I wouldn't want to stay around for any battle I threw them in. Is there someone I could speak to who's used to being stabbed with swords and not cocks?"
"I am Ramsay Bolton, and I will not be mocked by the likes of you!"
The shield, decorated with a snarling head, moved faster than anyone could see, and the loosed arrow merely plinked against it. The giant continued as though nothing had happened.
"Who?"
The sounds of battle could be heard downhill, seeming to grow closer. But at that moment they could have been taking place in Yi Ti for all Ramsay cared, his mind slowly consumed with the single drive to kill this oversized and irritating oaf.
"Ramsay Bolton? I'm looking for a Ramsay Snow. Whiny little bitch, said to chase girls as well as boys, does strange things to his dogs... "
Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, the stranger appeared to have hit on an idea.
"Or did your mother lie with both the elder Snow and Bolton at once, and was unsure of which one planted his seed inside her? To look upon you, I confess you make a compelling case for being spawned from a tighter, smellier hole."
The arrow flew, but merely bounced against the giant's breastplate. Ramsay cursed his hand, which had shaken at the moment of the stranger's insult.
"Well then, Snow, Bolton, whichever you are. I am known as the Wolf, and I am here to kill you. Do try and put up a good fight."
Without warning, the Wolf lunged forward, faster than any man that size had any right to be. Ramsay had barely loosed another arrow that grazed his foe's head before the giant was on him, his sword cleaving the bow in half. With the return stroke, the Wolf's sword plunged into the belly of Ramsay's horse, the impact shaking him from the saddle. As he fell, the Wolf's shield jerked forward, driving Ramsay's breath from his lungs, and the Wolf's drove the pommel of his sword into his head. Ramsay collapsed gasping, clutching at his bleeding head as stars danced in his eyes and his ears rang, fighting to bring air back into his lungs.
"Well that was disappointing. Are there none here who can actually put up a fight?"
Slowly turning his head from side to side, the Wolf sighed as he stepped heavily on Ramsay's foot, the squeal of pain masking the crack of bone. Then a Bolton man spoke up.
"I can."
Turning on his heel and ignoring the screech from below, the Wolf looked to the challenger, a thickly-bearded man far taller than his fellows, though still not as tall as the Wolf himself.
"Finally, a true man among these weaklings, willing to defend his lord to the death."
"Fuck you. And fuck him, he's a cunt, just like his father was a cunt. But you killed men of House Umber, now I'll kill you."
Chuckling, the Wolf looked the challenger up and down.
"First intelligent words I've heard all day, apart from Sven Swordeater asking if I wanted herrings or salt meat for breakfast."
Seeing as the man carried only a sword, the Wolf fiddled with the straps on his shield, dropping it to the ground. His challenger looked at it with contempt.
"Think you need a shield to kill the Bolton cunt, but not to kill me?"
"Him I hoped to prove a better battler, but he'll keep. You I will enjoy fighting. Your name, warrior, that I may recall your death when I take your skull in the name of the true gods of the North."
"That's Jon Umber, and I'll use your fucking skull as a drinking cup!"
The two men hurled themselves at each other, Umber ducking under the first strike, but his own blade only meeting armor.
Circling, they continued thrusting and cutting at each other, the Wolf parrying just by moving his armored hand in the way while his warriors bellowed coarsely but made no move to help. The surviving Bolton soldiers cheered encouragement, understanding that the truce would only last as long as their lord did.
"Go for the head!"
"Stick him like a pig!"
"Aye, finish the big bastard, Smalljon!"
The Wolf's face took on a curious expression.
"Smalljon? What, is there a Mediumjon and Greatjon I can kill after this?"
The Smalljon made no reply, instead striving to stab his sword at the Wolf's face, but found it batted aside, the Wolf's infuriating grin widening behind it.
"Or perhaps it's the nickname the first woman you ever bedded gave to your cock, and you kept it ever si-"
Umber's sword thrust forward, only the Wolf's reflexes preventing it from going through his mouth. A shallow cut started bleeding above the giant's cheek, a few strands of hair falling away. Yet far from angering him, this only seemed to loosen his tongue.
"Ah, a good hit! Would you like to forfeit and join the Seafang's crew as barber? You'd only need to work on feast days, even less if they all start taking after Stjön over there!"
A beardless outworlder gave a contorted grimace at being singled out for his perceived deformity. Both combatants readied themselves for another exchange of blows, when an arrow suddenly pierced through the Wolf's beard, embedding itself in his chin. The Wolf drew himself up to his full height like an enraged bear, his face radiating such fury that the Smalljon stepped back, though it was not directed at him.
Surging forward, the Wolf seemed to have forgotten about Umber completely, his full attention fixed on Ramsay Bolton, who had taken a longbow from a corpse and interrupted the duel. He tried to draw his sword, but in two furious strides the Wolf was on him and had backhanded him to the ground.
"You."
Dropping to one knee, the Wolf punched Ramsay with his gauntleted hand. Blood squirted and bone cracked as he punctuated every word with another blow.
"Worthless."
"Cowardly."
"Piss-drinking whoreson stain of liquid dogshit!"
Grabbing Ramsay's head in one hand, the Wolf rammed two fingers up his victims' nostrils, standing and slowly lifting him to eye level.
"You could not give me a fight worthy of a half-blind village idiot armed with a steaming turd. I will give you a death that will be remembered for centuries to come!"
Ripping the arrow from his chin, the Wolf rammed it into and through Ramsay's arm.
The Smalljon darted a glance back to the battle behind. The line seemed a great deal closer than before the Wolf had appeared, and the remaining barbarians were holding still (if making obscene gestures), evidently waiting for their chieftain's order to attack.
Torn between killing the traitor Jon Snow and his wildlings or staying to aid the powerless liege lord he'd only allied with out of necessity (and the possibility of dying against the monster busy brutalizing him), he quickly made his choice. Grabbing his sword, Umber motioned for the rest of the army to follow him. This battle could still be salvaged. Soon only the outworlders and Ramsay were left on the hilltop.
His anger vented, the Wolf cupped Ramsay's broken face in his hands, thumbs moving slowly until they covered his eyes. Ramsay somehow managed to scream louder, but fell silent when the threatening fingers left his head. The Warden's head twisted around to see what his tormentor was staring at.
One of the fallen soldiers had carried on his back a shield with the Bolton sigil of a man being flayed upside-down. It was on this gruesome emblem that the Wolf's gaze fell, and Ramsay let out a whimper as he realized what was in store for him.
"Einarr!"
The Wolf stood up, barking instructions to one of his men. The warrior returned, carrying a splintered pike, but the Wolf shook his head.
"það er of lítið!"
Einarr soon returned with two unbroken pikes which he thrust into the ground in an X shape. Then other barbarians grabbed Ramsay's weakly struggling body, stripped him naked and lashed him to the pikes, head dangling under his body.
The Wolf then stood before him, bending down to pick up a broken knife from a corpse and examining it.
"Rejoice, Snolton, for what you are about to experience will make you an honored guest in hir palace, and good training for once she tires of you."
"My blades are dull, so this might take a while."
Ramsay screamed as the knife cut into his feet, never going more than skin-deep. He screamed louder still as the knife descended to the top of his skull, skin peeling back to expose muscle and sinew. Reaching between Bolton's legs, the giant closed his fist and pulled hard, stuffing Ramsay's mouth and muffling his screeching.
Rolling mad eyes even as the skin was lifted from his face, blood foaming from every orifice, Ramsay's body tore itself apart in agonized spasms. Then the Wolf went to work. Stabbing the intestines with the same knife, he muttered a short prayer even as he reached his hand inside the ribcage to pull out Ramsay's palpitating heart. As the body shuddered one last time, the Wolf continued to mutter under his breath, stopping only after he had ripped Ramsay's skull from the corpse.
The outworlders collected their dead and boarded their longship, the ship lifting into the air on a command from its master and disappearing into the same wound between worlds it had used to enter. By the time the victorious Free Folk and knights of the Vale arrived, having routed the Bolton army, there was nothing left on the hilltop but a headless and flayed corpse. The Battle of the Bastards was won, but there was none left alive who could tell the fate of Ramsay Bolton.