26 Battle of the Bastards
"You can't!" A frazzled, frustrated Tyrion Lannister ran his hand through his shaggy hair in supreme frustration. "The most important woman in the world can't run off into the unknown because of some daydream."
Clad in a white coat lashed tightly over her thick, woolen dress and Saracen clipped to her hip, Daenerys wasn't about to explain the innate bond of a dragonrider. Such only went over the heads of a non-Valyrian. "He is in danger, Tyrion." She silently called on her children, eyes searching for them above the fleet. "I am not going to let the father of my children die." Her voice was as firm as steel. "Not when I am so close to having him back."
"We're close to shore," exclaimed Catelyn Stark, pointing to the sandy beach and forests of the northern coast. Theon had charted them to be fifty miles north of White Harbor. "At least head there with the legion of Unsullied if you think Jon's life is in danger."
Through the clouds dived the massive beasts. Almost fully grown, they dwarfed even many of the Ironborn ships. "There is no time, Lady Stark. If there's any help to be gotten from me flying to him, then it is worth it."
"Will you rule if you're dead? Will you break the wheel if you're dead?" Tyrion beseeched the Queen to listen.
Dany wheeled around, anger and fear all over her face. "Then what would you have me do?"
Inhaling a deep breath, Tyrion hoped the Queen would see reason. "My nephew, he is determined to rule the world as a god. He'll lay waste to anything between him and that goal. You're the only one who can stop him."
"If you die," Catelyn pleaded. "Then all is lost. Everything, all of us, it'll be over before it even began."
A massive vessel, converted from shipping heavy grain milling tools and bulk goods from King's Landing to Meereen, the fo'castle was large enough to hold the massive bulk of Balerion. Running a hand along his snout, Dany began climbing onto his back. Edderon circled close above them. "If I let Jon die out there," she turned, looking them both in the eye. "Then there's no point in any of it. I'll be just as bad as Joffrey."
Mounting Balerion, he let out a piercing bellow and vaulted into the sky. The wind whipped through Dany's braided hair as her two children ascended ever heavenward.
'I'm coming, my love. I'm coming.'
Howling winds shrieking through the gorge-lined valley, Lord Petyr Baelish looked back at the Eyre. It grew ever smaller as the riding party inched along the mountain trail for the Kingsroad, their leader returning to the capitol. He would miss the place. Not for the inhabitants nor the luxuries, but the sense of having his own personal fiefdom in the realm. In King's Landing, he was but a manager for the mad, vicious god-king that all served. 'Not forever. Soon.'
"My Lord!" A courier rode up to him, the banner of Arryn gripped in his left hand. A dispatch was held in his right. "It bears the royal seal, mi'Lord."
Tipping his hand, Littlefinger broke the seal of the Chimera - no self respecting god-King would resort to a mere stag or lion for his sigil. Joffrey demanded something grander, and the part-lion, part-eagle, part-snake with antlers on its head was chosen. He unfurled the message.
Under orders of the almighty god-King Joffrey, you are to deploy the Knights of the Vale to crush the northern insurrection led by the bastard traitor Ramsay Bolton and the Targaryen usurper.
Qyburn, Master of Whisperers
Grinning, Littlefinger locked eyes with the courier. "Send a message back to the capitol that I have done as the almighty requested."
"At once, my Lord." And he galloped off.
Littlefinger chuckled quietly. "Why not?" he said to no one in particular. "It technically is true." None had to know the circumstances of why he sent the men north, or the now burned letter he had received that led him to do it. One way or another, Petyr Baelish always got ahead.
An eerie silence clouded the plains of Winterfell. In the distance loomed the grey battlements and towers, almost ghostlike to those that were prepared to die over who would dwell within. Surreal acceptance and thinly veiled fear gripped the wildlings, northmen, and riverdwellers within the ranks of Jon Snow's army, but in their commander the sight of who had been led on a rope before all left him with a different kind of fear.
"Seven hells," breathed Robb, feeling the same fear. Jon shouldn't go for it, but the similar move would have been his top choice. At least his brother had a dragon.
Rhaegal chafed underneath Jon, picking up on his rider's emotions. When the boy - Rickon Stark, long missing - began to run with arrows following him, the dragon expected Jon's urging to follow. He spread his wings, laboring to keep even the slightest bit airborne.
Sheathing another arrow onto the bowstring, Ramsay felt his massive hard on straining against his pants. He let it fly, purposely missing the delightfully scared boy by nearly three yards.
"Come on. Hit him already!" Patience was not Viserys' strong suit. This was his moment, finally at the head of a powerful fighting force of elite men. With the Bolton hoplites, Karstark cavalry, Umber men-at-arms, and Frey irregulars, he would take the Seven Kingdoms. If his damn Hand would fight.
Suppressing an urge to bury his steel-tipped arrow in his King, Ramsay looked to his side. An amused glint shone in his eye. "Ready when you are, darling." Returning his smirk, Myranda signaled for the tarp to be removed, exposing the Scorpion to the open air. Wheeling it forward, she took careful aim…
'Down.' Wings flapping wildly, straining to keep in the air, Rhaegal obeyed his rider and went for a bumpy landing. Sweat poured down Jon's brow despite the cold. Seeing the small form of his brother and another arrow land only three feet to his right, he grabbed onto one of the green dragon's neck spines and leaned down. Jon stuck out his gloved hand. 'Come on Rickon. Run. RUN!'
Terror all over his face, Rickon reached out for salvation. Rhaegal roared as another arrow began its downward plunge. Jon strained as far as he could safely go. Fingertips came closer and closer… contact!. With all his strength Jon heaved his young brother onto the back of his dragon, feeling his clenching heart finally relax. 'Rhaegal, get us back to our forces.' The dragon gave a grunt of approval, beginning to power back into the low air.
"Fire!"
Winches cranked all the way back, the scorpion's torsion-based firing mechanism released. The steel-tipped dart shot out at a high velocity, speed and aerodynamic shape ensuring accuracy. Myranda's aim was true. Dead center for the shoulder joint between the torso and the left wing…
The bolt slammed into Rhaegal out of nowhere. It was as if a sledgehammer rocked the massive beast, a shriek of agony resonating across the battlefield. Jon, nearly jostled off his dragon, held Rickon tightly and gripped the spines as if his life depended on it. They all felt the jolt as Rhaegal slammed into the ground - it was on his feet, but a hard landing.
Myranda whooped, lasciviously gyrating her pelvis in celebration of her well-aimed shot. Noticing his King finally happy again, Ramsay did not rest on his laurels. "The dragon is still mobile. Hit him again!" Mechanists dashed forward to reload and reposition the scorpion.
Pushing up, resuming his upright stance, the dizziness clouded Jon's vision. He had no idea of what was afoot except that it would undoubtedly happen again. 'Run, Rhaegal. Run.' But just as the dragon turned to crawl back to the Stark lines, a second bolt slammed into his right leg, falling him again. There was now a persistent limp.
"The dragon is disabled!" Ramsay signaled to his signaller. "Full charge! I want Jon Snow's head!" With two sharp blows of the horn, the Bolton and Karstark cavalry erupted out of their positions.
None of this was ignored in the Stark lines. "Protect your commander!" screamed Robb, unsheathing his sword, he could see his signaller giving the orders. Podrick and Brienne by his side, deep bellows from Mag and Wun, the Stark line surged forward.
Sensing Rhaegal's pain through their connection, Jon immediately hopped off the dragon's neck to inspect the damage. Two bolts protruded spitefully out of the scaly skin. He quickly pulled them out - luckily, they weren't barbed and slid out easily. Rhaegal whined loudly but seemed better. The limp remained, however.
"Jon!" Looking up, Jon found Rickon frantically pointing behind him. At the sight before him, Jon could clearly see what spooked his brother. A wall of men and horses, banners of Bolton, Karstark, and Frey fluttering in the air as they surged forward. At the rate they were coming, Jon and Rhaegal would be enveloped in less than a minute.
"Rickon, get to our lines! Do not stop running!" His brother did as he was told, scrambling off the green dragon's back and racing away. "Do not stop!"
Meeting Rhaegal's eyes, Jon placed a gloved hand on his snout. "I'm sorry, my friend," he offered. The green beast purred low and soft, as if absolving him of blame. Turning back to the enemy forces, Jon unbuckled his scabbard. Longclaw emerged in a fluid motion, scabbard falling to the the muddy ground. The Valyrian steel shone in the overcasted light. Time seemed to slow to a crawl for Jon, noticing the smallest things in a surreal yet vivid picture. A blade of grass whipping in the wind, a beetle's wings beating as it flew, a squirrel sensing danger and fleeing. He could make out the individual faces of the charging enemy, raising his sword to go down like a warrior...
Only for his own cavalry to shoot past him and slam into the enemy line. A colliding of flesh, steel, and wood all together. Lances ran through men, spurting blood and guts over the trodden ground. Bodies were thrown back off their horses in twisted, mangled heaps. It was as if all order and control around Jon descended into a charnelhouse of slaughter and chaos. Crimson liquid spattered his face, the coppery smell hitting his nose. It didn't take long for the stench of death to descend over the field, the cold helping somewhat. A flash of steel shook him from his reverie, Jon raising Longclaw to block the blow heading his way.
"Nock!" Davos shouted, watching the archers draw their bowstrings. In the maze, he couldn't make out the difference between friend and foe. "Damn!" 'Can't take down our own men.'
On the opposite side, Ramsay had no such compunctions. "Nock! Loose!" The arrows sailed through the air, impacting both the Stark forces and his own without mercy.
"The only dead of our own will be peasants," scoffed Viserys Targaryen, laughing.
Gaze shifting to the side, Davos spotted a target. "Shift right! Shift right! Loose!" Over a hundred arrows arced up and then down, impacting into the Frey lines. More an unarmored mob with weapons and ferocity, the sheer weight staggered from the volley mere moments before they smashed into the better armed but outnumbered Tully dismounted men-at-arms - the desperate flanking maneuver ended as quickly as it began, but the Blackfish held his men against their sworn enemies with a righteous fury. The Tyrell pikemen formed the center as they hacked their way through the numerous cutthroats. They may have been blocked from reaching the others by the Frey host, but they'd take down as many as they could. If the Frey soldiers were good for one thing it was plentiful sword fodder.
The blow was easily dispatched, and Jon slammed his sword across the small shield. Wood gave way to the Valyrian steel, followed by a jab for the throat. Arteries and windpipe severed leaving a gurgling sound around the tip as the soldier fell. Recovering his bearings, Jon raised Longclaw and sliced it across the front of a Bolton cavalryman. Crimson blood spurted over his uniform as he collapsed to the ground, his horse continuing its panicked gallop. Men mounted and men dismounted engaging in brutal hand to hand combat, Jon swerved out of the way before a Karstark knight ran him over with a lance - only for the knight to have his head removed by a Hornwood sword. He jinked again, Longclaw slicing an arm clean off a dismounted Bolton knight. Whooshes reaching his ears, Jon crouched while arrows pockmarked the dirt around him. Threat over, he managed to reach a Mazin soldier and save him from an enraged Bolton. Blood dotted his leather vest as Jon removed Longclaw from the man's gut. "Get to Tormund…" he barked until an arrow slammed into the man's eye. "Fuck!"
"WILDLING LOVER!" Out of nowhere charged a Bolton trooper with his axe raised high. Jon readied Longclaw to taste blood once more. He could see the color in the trooper's eyes when a riderless horse, tongue out in pure panic, slammed into the trooper in its frenzied flight. What was left was a screaming heap, white bone protruding out of torn flesh. "MAMA! MAMA!" Snarling, Jon drove his blade into the trooper's gut.
When Rhaegal roared, the whole battlefield heard him. His claws and teeth were stained with blood and flesh. Bolton and Karstark men gave him a wide berth, but that didn't stop the green dragon from toppling horsemen with his thick tail, using his heavy head to smash unlucky men into the ground like pulp. One was plucked from his horse, screaming in primal terror as Rhaegal tossed him into the air and chomped, lower half disappearing down his gullet.
So consumed was he in his contribution to the orgy of blood around him, the two knights charging him didn't register until two horses - one snow white and the other a dark chestnut - raced past him. The enemy knights were no longer a threat. "Just like always," Robb spat, leaping from his horse and tossing away the bloody, broken lance. "I have to clean up your messes."
Ice and Longclaw dispatched two more troopers, the former slicing the head clean off while the latter batted aside a wild swing before cutting open the gut. The brothers fought back to back, glinting Valyrian steel soiled with red. Another Karstark trooper found his head caved in by Brienne, joining the trio by smashing her mailed fist into an attacker meant for Jon. Her normally coiffed hair was wild and stained, sweat and blood from a cut to the forehead matting much of it to her skin. Still holding her shield, it came in handy as more Bolton arrows joined the party.
Davos cursed mentally. "We're just sitting with our dicks in our hands." He drew his sword. "Charge!" The archers surged forward, ready to join their brothers.
Eyes focused like sunlight on the dragon, Viserys chafed in the saddle - the pain in his hand was ignored with his blood up. "Send them in! Now Hand! I will not lose my dragon."
Ramsay nodded to Myranda. "Go with Smalljon, and keep the beast away from the main mass." He turned to the burly nobleman. "Smalljon, you're up!"
A grin crossed the bearded face. "Who holds the north?!" A whoop left the throats of the Bolton hoplites. "WHO HOLDS THE NORTH?!" The whoop was louder. "Forward! Keep formation! Umbers with me!" The second line surged forward, organized as opposed to the cavalry charge.
Watching a man hurled screaming through the air - inwardly grinning at Rhaegal's fighting spirit - Jon ran another through with Longclaw. "Where are the fucking Tullys!" he yelled, Robb slashing an axe-wielder right through the middle.
Brienne was giving back as good as any man could have. Even yet, her clothes were soaked with blood and her armor was dented and pierced all over with shallow punctures. A broken off arrow was embedded just above her breast, but she didn't feel a thing. "The Freys are blocking them off!" She removed a lance embedded in the ground and hurled it into one of the few remaining mounted knights.
Suddenly Jon was knocked on his belly, something heavy on his back. Try as he might he couldn't shake it off at first. 'This is it.' But then, wet liquid began to pool and he shrugged the weight off - a corpse with an axe buried in his skull. There was no doubt who did it. "You're not leaving us behind, King Crow," grumbled Tormund, pulling Jon up.
"No! No, please!" The wounded Bolton trooper's pleas were ignored as Tun smashed him with his massive foot, at the van of Marg and the entire Wildling host. They had arrived for the battle.
"Bloody hell?" Awe and fear paralyzed the entire Stark army as the Bolton phalanx arrived, marching quickly and ahead of the ragged line of Umber warriors. They split into a fork, moving to surround the Wildlings. "Attack outward!" Jon screamed, but the intimidating sight of the flayed man shields only forced the Free Folk inward, bunched together. Disaster.
Grinning, Ramsay nudged his King on the arm. "Magnificent, isn't it?"
Viserys was not at all disappointed. "With this army, I'll be dining in Casterly Rock by month's end."
The Bolton Phalanx locked their shields, forming an impenetrable wall on three sides. With the Tully's and Tyrells blocked by the Frey host, and Rhaegal blocked off by a separate hoplite detachment, there was no denying it. The Starks were surrounded.
"Is there any reason why Lord Baelish isn't here?" Sansa could barely hear her own yell over the fast galloping horses. Scouts had reported the battle had been joined, and so the relief force picked up the pace. If they got to the battlefield too late…
Yelling at his men to keep the advance steady and stick to formation, 'Bronze Yohn' Royce shrugged on the saddle. "Said King Joffrey demanded he return to the Capitol." He cracked the reins and forced his way to the front, managing the formation.
Turning to Margaery, riding expertly beside her, Sansa raised an eyebrow. "I hope Joffrey doesn't cut out his tongue, or worse." She wouldn't put anything past him at this point. Even Ramsay - damn him - had limits to his cruelty. "The Lannister's couldn't have known what transpired." Littlefinger had used every bit of his skill and cunning to meet with Sansa without anyone being abreast of it, especially not Joffrey's agents. It was through that meeting that the redhead was given the ability to arrange today's relief force.
"Be careful. I've met Baelish once and heard his reputation." Margaery did not want to see her friend hurt - nor her friend's family, especially her handsome older brother. "If he's not playing all the sides against the other, I would be shocked."
"Perhaps." Around them, shouts and scuffling from the knights drew Sansa's attention. A black shape passed overhead. One she was familiar with thanks to her brother.
"Gods in heaven," the Tyrell Rose breathed.
Regardless of her new view of Jon, a small part being old Sansa persisted in doubting Jon about having met the Dragon Queen - one all in King's Landing had feared. There was no doubting it now.
"Ramsay is fucked," Margaery said matter of factly.
Sansa couldn't help the smile that crossed her face.
"Fire again!" Whooshing filled the air as the thick rope shot out from the Scorpion. A group of men, built like oxen and insanely brave, grabbed at the loose line while the attached grappling hook dug into scaly flesh. "Keep him down! Keep him down!" Myranda shouted at her command, clusters of pikemen surrounding the green beast. Even wounded and isolated from any assistance, the massive dragon was no easy conquest.
Crushing yet another Bolton bannerman with his powerful jaws and sharp teeth, Rhaegal hooted in pain as the fifth mooring line brought him ever closer to being subdued. Restricting his range of motion even the slightest bit. Piles of bloody corpses and torn up body parts ringed him. He called out in terror, begging for his rider to save him.
Marching inward two steps, the hoplites of the Bolton phalanx impaled dozens of wildling warriors among the thousands they had trapped. With shields sparse, the fur clad fighters were sitting ducks. As the echoing shouts from the top of the mountain of dead signaled the arrival of House Umber, Jon grabbed Robb. "You and Brienne smash the phalanx. I'll deal with Umber. Go!"
"Run at the phalanx!" Robb shouted, wading through to charge between the spears. A thrust of Ice drew blood, while Brienne swung her blade with such ferocity that it split both the flayed man shield and the skull of its holder in half. Tormund and the other Widlings followed the crazed northerner, their nimble, unarmored forms perfect to weave through the pikes. Tormund pulled down a shield and drove his axe through the hoplite's shoulder. On the other side, Wun batted the pikes aside and began pulling men to their deaths. Mag grasped a bundle of at least five pikes, ripping them from their owners and using them as a single club against the phalanx. But despite it all - including watching Wun rip a screaming hoplite in half - the hoplites refused to bend. Sheer mass of the men behind kept it from buckling. Well-trained and drilled, hardened vets of the War of the Four Kings, a new man quickly replaced every one killed. Onward marched the phalanx.
Still outnumbered over three to one, the beleaguered Tullys formed an inverted V with the Tyrell pikemen at the head. "Push through!" yelled the Blackfish, hoping by sheer momentum that he could hack his way through the Freys and hit the phalanx from the rear. However, the Frey horde was too large and too concentrated in the center, the wedge tapering out in the sheer mass of bodies. Running through a brute with only five teeth to his name, the Blackfish met the eyes of Black Walder. If he couldn't get the patriarch himself, then his bastard would do. "Black Walder!" Nearly twice his senior, the old man bulldozed through three men as his blade clashed with the opposing commanders.
Atop the hill, Viserys grew impatient once more. "Damn fools. Tell them to finish the bastards off."
"Calm yourself my King," soothed Ramsay, his cock straining his breeches at all the death and carnage. He'd fuck Myranda hard, tonight. "It will be done. Pay attention to your dragon."
Calming his innate panic, Viserys was indeed mollified. Another grappling hook dug into Rhaegal's wing. Upon pulling by the roustabouts, Myranda grinning in triumph, the dragon's wing fingers gave way and he collapsed to the ground, screeching and thrashing with his jaws to kill any Bolton that got near.
Parrying an Umber thrust, Jon slashed a diagonal cut across the attacker's chest. What remained of the exhausted northern men-at-arms clashed with the rested soldiers of House Umber, the northern brethren abandoning all brotherly amity in a fury of petty feuds and betrayed rage. Davos' archers fired their arrows over open sights, felling a dozen Umbers at point blank range. Smaljon dueled with Podrick and wounded him, but a mass of frenzied Wildlings separated them before he could finish the job. He soon came face to face with Tormund.
The fleeing was a flood, shoving Jon to the ground. Panicked feet trampled all over him. Robb and Brienne had to have failed, the demoralizing whoops of the hoplites everpresent. Even Wun, Mag, and Rhaegal's bellows were beginning to slacken. Straining, dirt and blood splattered all over his fatigued and battered body, Jon struggled to breathe among the packed mass of four thousand writhing bodies.
Piercing through the unusual quiet, a dark shape shot by high above. Time stood still, hundreds of individual clashes pausing as every man so engaged watched the bat-like specter hug the bottom of the clouds sheathing the landscape. Jon knew exactly what it was. As a dragonrider he couldn't mistake the massive dragon for anything else. It's black body banked over the battlefield, and Jon's eyes zeroed wide to the silver-haired rider. "Dany?"
From the packed mass of the soldiers below, with trumpets blaring Dany knew she had arrived just in time. Tears of finding Jon in the heat of battle - through their connection, she found him instantly - were blinked back. Now was not the time. 'I'm here, my love.'
While the horns blared louder and louder, Tormund drew back his head and smashed Smalljon Umber with it, using the distraction to rip off the Lord's ear with his teeth. A piercing scream left Smalljon before Robb decapitated the disfigured head with Ice. "FORWARD!"
"CHARGE!" There was no mistaking it. Two dragons circling above, columns of knights bearing the banners of the Vale surged as one unit, bloodlust up to strike a blow for their land and their honor. Atop the hill, Lord Yohn Royce at her side, Sansa couldn't believe her luck. She shared a glance with Margaery, who smiled. Both then looked up at the dragons in the air - the one uncertainty as the tide most definitely turned.
Drawn by sight, scent, and innate connection to his long lost brother, Balerion's roar was unlike anything Daenerys had ever heard. Triumphant, relieved. Her gaze found her child as well. She lit up. "Rhaegal!" Only she could hear the word over the roar of the wind and dragon - but Rhaegal heard it loud and clear.
Roaring of his own accord, strength seeped back into Rhaegal's body. A stoking heat not felt since the jagged spear of the Night King first made contact with the green dragon's flesh filled him. Watching the men strain to keep the beast down after the vigorous thrashing returned, Myranda could see the first speck of orange-red ignite within his mouth. "Men! Load a bolt…" Her sentence cut off as a tongue of flame shot out from Rhaegal's maw and engulfed her completely, spreading to the roustabouts that held him down. He burned all that tormented him with an enraged fury.
The rally of her child filling Daenerys with determination, she angled Balerion down for where Wun and Mag marshaled their tired, wounded bodies with a new vigor at the phalanx. Out of the corner of her eye she could just make out Jon leading his men over the pile of dead. "Dracarys!" The gout of flame singed the tips of the two giants' hair as the hoplites in front disappeared into the inferno. Warmth banished the unnatural chill away, Dany basking in the feeling.
"URRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGHHHHH!" The bellowing cry that left their throats was joined by the entire Stark army.
Horse stepping back involuntarily, Viserys blinked. "Wha… what?" One moment, he had been on the verge of complete glory… and now it was falling apart completely. "Daenerys?" It still hadn't cliqued.
Watching his lover immolated, while still outwardly cool Ramsay was entering damage control mode inside. "Archers! Nock! Aim for the knights!" If he could hurt the Vale charge perhaps his Phalanx could manage to swing back…
"FUCK!"
"RUN AWAY!"
A flash of white and grey caught Ramsay's eye before a searing heat erupted not twenty feet from him. Horses panicking in fear, Viserys toppled from his into the mud below in an undignified heap. Ramsay, more skilled as a horseman, managed to quiet the beast and was able to see the white dragon glide by. Flame erupted in a continuous stream as Edderon charred to death at least a third of his archers - the rest fleeing as fast as their feet could take them. Even the most hardened of soldiers had their breaking point.
His eyes turned back to the thatch of red hair in the distance. His wife. Sansa noticed this through the wreath of flames, barely having shifted from gazing at her 'husband' since she and Lord Royce crested the hill. The Vale knights had split into two columns, one House Arryn and one House Royce. The Arryn column slammed into the unprotected rear of the Bolton phalanx. All attention kept to the front, they had nothing defending behind them and were slaughtered by lance and sword. House Royce's column wheeled around the phalanx's semicircle, right into the flank of the Frey horde. Barely armored as it was, against the steel tipped weapons of the Knights of the Vale they were nothing more than beasts to the slaughter - the Blackfish used the distraction to run his sword through Black Walder's gut, destroying whatever discipline House Frey had. A smirk crossed Sansa's lips, the meaning easy to decipher.
Resigned, Ramsay motioned for his retinue to ride back to the castle. Nearly left behind, Viserys only managed to scramble back onto his horse in time to catch up in a hurried gallop. "Do something, Hand! Stop them! You said that the Vale would declare for me! Save my army!"
"Fucking shut up!" Ramsay snarled. "My King," he added with venom. The Targaryen obeyed, shockingly chastised.
Winging a blast of fire into a cluster of Frey men, Dany led Balerion into a looping bank worthy of the best dragonriders. The stench of fetid death and charred corpses wafted to even this height. The battle was clearly won, any sort of coordination among the Bolton ranks broken. Many clusters - especially among the hoplites - were even surrendering, seeking whatever mercy their foes would toss their way. A screech from the black dragon focused her attention. There was Jon, a wildling and two giants by his side as they charged toward the castle… was that Winterfell? It seemed far drearier than Jon had always described it, but from what she could tell Jon hadn't been in it for a long time. Urging Balerion towards the castle walls, Dany was determined to finish this once and for all.
"Close the gate!" Men were dashing about, the courtyard in sheer chaos. Such had changed so massively since the day Robert Baratheon had arrived - not even one person from that time was even present within the walls. "Mi'Lord, where's our army?" asked the garrison commander.
"Dead on the battlefield, though their army's little better," Ramsay replied evenly. "It appears the Dragon Queen has arrived." Viserys, alone and shellshocked, was merely muttering to himself. "We still have Winterfell, and if the Dragon Queen is in charge we can exchange that puissant fool to her in exchange for…" His words were interrupted by two bellowed war cries. The sentry opened his mouth to shout when a pike ran him through the middle. Grabbing a bow and quiver of his own, Ramsay barked at his remaining men. Get atop the battlements! Fire on any that come close!"
Archers scrambled atop the walls and mantlets, some firing and some shouting for reinforcements. A loud slam echoed, rattling the gate on its hinges - followed by another and another. "Two giant cunts! We need more men…" And in a split second the battlements disappeared in a gout of flame. Men charred into ash-crusted skeletons on the spot or writhed in agony, the pork-like smell of burned, acrid flesh joining the plethora of smells in the Winterfell courtyard.
In a flash the wooden gate burst into hundreds of flaming shards. The fireball blossomed, smoke and flame shrouding the entrance to the castle. Many knocked over from the blast wave, even the most hardened soldiers pissed themselves as an immense black dragon - a silver-haired Queen Visenya reincarnated perched atop its neck with a glinting blade in her arm - mounted the battlements. His maw opened and unleashed an ear-splitting roar while two giants and two dozen free folk and northern warriors poured in. Arrows flew and swords clashed. A minute hadn't even passed before all the Bolton resisters were dead or surrendering.
Eyes darting from Robb, to Jon, to Mag, to Tormund, to the still mounted Daenerys, and to Jon again, Ramsay chuckled. "Well, Snow. I think I'll take up that old offer of yours. Us, one on one." He quickly nocked an arrow.
Heart clenching for a moment as Ramsay let an arrow fly, Dany calmed herself at seeing Jon block the bolts from hitting him. Plopping on the ground, her boots squelching in the mud, she focused on the surprising sight of her own brother. Viserys was dressed regally but looked just as craven and terrified as the last time she had seen him. What a disgrace to House Targaryen - but he could wait, Jon would come first.
Fist flying into Ramsay's face, every punch flashed an image into his red tinged eyes. Sansa's abuse. Robb nearly getting his throat slit. Rickon just escaping death. All the pain and anger now being taken out on Ramsay Bolton. "Jon, stop!" Robb attempted to yank him by the shoulder but he shrugged him off, still punching and leaving the once grinning face a blood-soaked mess.
"Jon." Sansa, her voice a carbon copy of Catelyn's but without the loathing, finally drew his attention. Their eyes met. She wanted him dead, but not this way. "Enough. Someone is here for you." The Dragon Queen had arrived, and Dany knew her long suffering brother deserved this.
Jaw not working, shaking all over, Viserys felt as if his whole world was crashing down in a massive earthquake toppling the stone walls. "No. No! This is impossible!" He screamed to the heavens. "You are my slut sister, and you are a bastard son of a traitor! I am the King! THE TRUE KING! THE TRUE…" A fist slammed into his face, knocking him out cold.
"Shut it!" Tormund growled, spitting on his face.
Eyes turning away from the bleeding form of Ramsay Bolton, deep breaths and the huffing pants of a large dragon sapped the rage from Jon's system. Turning, his grey eyes locked with pure violet - the violet that had haunted and graced his dreams for years. Violet that could belong to only one woman. For the first time, Jon truly grasped what had just happened. Who had just arrived.
His gaze hadn't lost its effect on Daenerys Targaryen. Not after many years. The handsome boy that she had last seen at her wedding to Drogo was replaced by a man. A grizzled man, covered in blood and gore and the scars of many campaigns and battles. He enchanted her all the same - just like before. A shiver passed through Dany at Jon's stunned, intense stare.
She was here. She really was here. At that moment, everything else mattered nothing to Jon. Only the ethereal beauty finally back in his life. "Dany."
Tears filled Dany's lids. "Jon."
All else cast to the wayside, their legs effortlessly carried them closer and closer until they slammed together in a crushing embrace. Jon lifted her in his arms, eyes closed as the warmth he had missed for so long finally hit his skin again. The dragon queen buried her face in his neck, Dany caring not that it was covered in grime and flecks of blood. She felt at home. At last, she was where she belonged.
Not letting her go, Jon pulled back to gaze into her eyes. Deftly removing his glove, he cupped her porcelain cheek. Dany sighed dreamily as she nuzzled the palm. Without words, they closed the gap and crashed their lips together.
