10-The Battle for Winterfell

Disclaimer: I don't own HP, GoT or ASOIAF.

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Acknowledgements: This chapter was edited by Cataclysmic Moon. I also want to thank my beta reader, nicknm, for helping me bounce ideas around.

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A.N: After a long time of research and brainstorming, I realised that the show version of Smalljon Umber was presented in a completely unbelievable way that makes no sense whatsoever(or him sitting out the call to arms from Robb Stark when he's the Greatjon's eldest son). The book version of him dies in the Red Wedding. So I have reached a compromise. Here, Smalljon too would have died in the Red Wedding, and his place will be taken by Hother Umber, who does join House Bolton in book canon and has for a decent reason for it. So far, this difference is only visible in chapter 6 (The Bastard Letter).

Without further ado, enjoy.

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Jon Snow

It would take less than a day before they would reach Winterfell. Jon spent the evening familiarising himself with the northern lords that had decided to join them in their fight against the Boltons. He could not afford to have any turncloaks. Sadly, his talent with Legilimency was nonexistent. Without a wand, with the current state of magic, he couldn't read surface thoughts or dive into a mind. So, Jon's only option was to do things the old-fashioned way. He would speak with them and gauge their honesty and reasons for joining. Having Ghost helped greatly, as the direwolf was a great judge of character. His direwolf had a nearly magical ability to sense people's intentions. Not a single person that Ghost had disliked so far had turned out decent or good in any way.

The mountain clansmen were led by Hugo Wull, Morgan Liddle, and Torghen Flint. There were a couple of other smaller chieftains with them, but those three commanded the largest forces. All of them were staunchly loyal to House Stark and hated the Boltons with a burning passion. They even called him "The Jon" as a sign of respect. The three chieftains were old and grey, and Jon could infer from their words that they had come here to fight and die for the children of "The Ned''. Nobody mentioned anything about his former vows to the Night's Watch. The clansmen were tough, prickly, and, most importantly, still loyal to House Stark, even though all that was left of the Starks were a girl twice married to the enemies and a bastard oathbreaker.

Larence Snow, the natural son of the late Lord Hornwood, had rallied some men and had been making trouble for the Boltons since Donella Hornwood had been starved to death by Ramsay Snow. The moment he had heard a word of the host marching to fight the Boltons, Larence had ridden hard to join them.

Lord Mazin, from a small House from the Rills, had also come with a hundred and fifty men instead of following his direct liege, the Ryswells. His second son had been flayed by Ramsay alive for a minor slight, and Lord Mazin would rather eat his own heart than fight for the Boltons.

And last but certainly not least, Lyanna Mormont, a fierce little thing. She was barely thirteen name-days old and had brought seventy men with her. When asked why she joined them, the girl proudly stated that House Mormont has always answered the call of House Stark, and while neither he nor Sansa had the name, they both had the blood. Jon had offered to return the Longclaw to her, as it was the ancestral blade of House Mormont. Lyanna declined, stating that she was more used to wielding a mace and that her uncle Jeor had given it to him for a reason, so he was free to keep it.

In his judgement, all of them had been honest, and Ghost reacted quite amiably to every man. Jon had expected to have to fight the might of House Bolton with the wildlings only, but it seemed that Ramsay had made many enemies with his cruelty. And even after falling so low, the Stark name and blood still held respect and loyalty in some parts of the North.

Shireen Baratheon was a bright and pleasant girl. After seeing her, Jon did not mind taking her in and offering her his protection. Her greyscale left him a bit baffled. He was no expert in magical healing, but after more than three centuries of knowledge, he knew more than a thing or two. Greyscale was not a mundane disease and had a similar magical signature to a curse while also containing traces of the water and earth elements. The curse lay dormant under the hardened skin, and it seemed like it had run out of power. Whatever the maesters had done to treat her had permanently hindered the greyscale's spread and rendered it inert. But it was still there, lurking underneath. Given time, Jon could figure out a way to counter the curse, purge the elements, and completely remove the infected flesh from her body. But that was a task for later.

He did see Sansa but did not seek her out. Jon was not ready to tell her certain things yet, and he wanted to put all of his focus on the upcoming battle.

After spending the whole evening walking around the camp and speaking to the northern lords that had joined them, Jon returned to his tent and fell asleep as soon as he hit the hay. For the last few weeks, he had only rested for the bare minimum necessary, and now he would need to be in top shape for the upcoming confrontation.

A few hours after noon, Winterfell could finally be seen in the distance. As they slowly approached, one of their scouts brought words of a group with a parlay flag. Jon quickly gathered a small entourage. Tormund represented the wildlings, Hugo Wull, the mountain clansmen, and Ser Davos, The Blackfish, Lyanna Mormont, and Lord Mazin also joined them. Sansa insisted strongly on coming, so Jon didn't bother arguing.

As their group neared Winterfell, Jon fell in thought.

There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.

Eddard Stark's words rang in his head. Was it a statement? Or perhaps a warning? Soon enough, the saying would be true, and Jon would ensure it personally.

The Bolton retinue slowly approached them. Jon carefully scrutinised their banners; the white sunburst of House Karstark, the rusted long axes of House Dustin, the roaring giant of House Umber, and the black horse head of House Ryswell.

At their very front was a rider dressed with the pink surcoat depicting the Flayed Man of House Bolton. Jon could feel his blood boiling in a deep desire to bury his fist in the bastard's ugly mug. He swiftly suppressed his bubbling emotions with his occlumency, turning his face into an impassive mask.

"My beloved wife, I've missed you terribly." Ramsay's mocking voice broke the silence, and Jon saw Sansa stiffen from the corner of his eye. A happy glint appeared in the bastard's eyes at her reaction. Ramsay turned to him and his retinue. "I thank you all for returning my Lady Wife safely to me. Now dismount and kneel before me. Surrender your army, proclaim me the true Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. I will pardon you for deserting the Night's Watch, and I will pardon those treasonous lords for betraying my House."

Right next to him, Hugo Wull spat.

"Take your pardons and shove 'em up your bunghole," the mountain clansman finished with a grunt, followed by grumbles of agreement from his party. A ripple of anger flashed across the bastard's face before it disappeared in an instant.

"Come bastard, you don't have the men. You don't have horses, and you don't have Winterfell. Why lead those poor souls into slaughter?" Bolton asked with a mocking tone once again. Gods, the fucker sure loved the sound of his voice. A cruel smile appeared on Ramsay's face, and he continued, "There is no need for battle, Snow. Get off your horse, and kneel. I am a man of mercy."

Jon stood silent for a moment, then nodded.

"You're right, there is no need for a battle. Thousands of men don't need to die - only one of us. Let's settle this the Old Way. You against me."

He would enjoy completely demolishing Ramsay in a fight, but the bastard would be a fool to accept. Even if he did, he did not intend to let any of the lords supporting House Bolton off. Jon would make all those houses pay dearly for supporting the flayed man one way or another.

Ramsay chuckled.

"I keep hearing stories about you, bastard. The way people in the North talk about you, you're the greatest swordsman who ever walked! Maybe you're that good," he mused, "maybe not. I don't know if I'd beat you, but I know that my army will beat yours. I have eight thousand men. You have, what, a little more than half that?"

"Aye, you have the numbers, but will your men want to fight for a craven like you when they hear you wouldn't fight for them?" Jon goaded him. He would give as good as he got. Realistically, he knew that they wouldn't accomplish anything in this negotiation. They had only shown up to get a measure of their enemies in person and to trade some insults.

A silence descended upon them until Ramsay smirked again and pointed at him. "You're good. Very good. But tell me, will you let your brother die because you're too proud to surrender?"

Jon could see what game the bastard was trying to play, and he would have probably even fallen into the trap if he did not see Rickon dead with his own eyes.

"How do we know you have him?" Jon asked.

Ramsay nodded towards the tall, old man wearing the Umber coat of arms. The man reached for a big bag on his saddle and threw the contents between them. The severed head of a black direwolf lay on the ground. This probably was Hother Umber, who had handed Rickon over to the Bolton bastard. Jon carefully committed his face to memory, hoping to meet him in tomorrow's battle.

Ramsay opened his wormy mouth again. "Now, if you want to save-"

"You're going to die tomorrow, Lord Bolton. Sleep well," Sansa angrily interrupted, wheeling her steed around and riding off back to their camp.

Ramsay merely smirked.

"She's a fine woman, your sister. I look forward to having her back in my bed. And you're all fine-looking men. My dogs are desperate to meet you; I haven't fed them for seven days. They're ravenous. I wonder which parts they'll try first. Your eyes? Your balls? We'll find out soon enough. In the morning, then, bastard."

Ramsay turned and quickly rode back to Winterfell, followed by his retinue.

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Sansa Stark

"Before I came, I scouted his forces carefully. Ramsay has two thousand horses and three times more foot," Jon recounted. They had gathered in the biggest tent to discuss their strategy. "If he was smart, he'd stay inside Winterfell to wait us out."

"But the whole North will be watching. If other Houses sense weakness on his part, they'll stop fearing him. He can't have that. Fear is his power," Davos responded.

Jon hummed thoughtfully but remained silent.

"I'm worried about his horses. Those mounted knights can cut through us like piss through the snow. Stannis broke our great army at the Wall with a handful of horsemen," Tormund spoke up with concern.

"We're digging trenches all along the flanks. They will not be able to hit us from the sides as Stannis did," her brother explained to the big wildling, who nodded thoughtfully.

"We barely have 400 horses, they cannot do much in this situation. Our best chance is to let the enemy charge at us. If we buckle our centre or bait them and their cavalry pursues, we will have them surrounded on three sides, and we can crush them quickly. The battle will then be decided by the foot, and we can try to harass their flanks with our cavalry." Brynden Tully paused for a moment, then looked at her brother. "Unless your dragons can help us in some way?"

Everyone looked at Jon, who stood silent thoughtfully for a few moments before responding. "They can not breathe dragonfire for more than a minute or two before getting exhausted. They would kill a few dozen men each at most and be useless afterwards. Not to mention, a lucky arrow can easily fell them. They are not big enough to be ridden yet, and I'm not sure how well I can control them in battle without mounting one of them. I will try, but I don't get your hopes too much. They haven't been seen in battle for nearly two hundred years, so it's better not to plan around them." Her brother ran a hand through his hair. "Ser Brynden's idea has the most merit, is everyone in agreement?"

After everyone agreed, the lords and chieftains started leaving the tent to get some sleep before the battle.

Tormund turned to her brother and asked curiously. "Did you really think that cunt would fight you man to man?"

Jon shook his head in amusement. "No. But I thought it would help goad him into taking the field. If he refused to fight me and then refused to fight against an army half the size of his, his men would oust him sooner or later. The North has never been a place for cravens and cowards."

Tormund nodded in understanding. "Rest well, Lord Crow, we need you sharp tomorrow." he patted Jon's shoulder and left the tent. Now Sansa was alone in the tent with her brother and her sworn shield.

Sansa didn't know anything about armies or fighting, so she stood quietly and observed. Now that they were here, about to fight for Winterfell, and she had seen her tormentor again, she did not feel their chances were good.

Sansa approached her brother, who was looking thoughtfully at the map, and asked, "Jon, do you think we can win tomorrow?"

Her brother blinked in surprise and turned to her, responding confidently. "Aye, we can definitely win."

She was worried that her brother was underestimating the Boltons. "But you don't know Ramsay- "

"Sansa." Jon gently interrupted her and looked at her with his warm purple eyes. "I saw first-hand what Ramsay did to our brother. And I can see how he's trying to bait us. We have gotten this far. I know what I'm doing. Trust in me."

She didn't know why, but all her worries and fears seemed to melt away at his calm voice. She couldn't help herself and enveloped Jon in a fierce hug. He gently embraced her in turn.

Sansa realised then that she felt truly safe in her brother's arms, as if everything was right in the world again and nothing could hurt her anymore. Tears welled up in her eyes. But for the first time since she went south, those would be tears of happiness, not of sorrow, and this meant that she squeezed her brother even harder. After some time, her brother reluctantly ended the hug.

"I'm sorry I haven't been very forthcoming with you these days. After tomorrow, I promise I'll tell you everything," Jon softly spoke. Then gently wiped her tears off and kissed her forehead. "Sleep well, sweet sister." He turned around to leave.

"Wait!" she cried out, and Jon stilled. He turned back and looked questioningly at her. Regardless of everything, this might be the last time she saw her brother.

She fumbled for a moment until she found what she was looking for and handed it to her brother. It was a piece of cloth with a red direwolf head sewn onto it. Her favour.

Jon looked surprised at her favour for a few moments. Just as she thought he'd decline, her brother took it, decisively tied it on his wrist, kissed her forehead again, and left the tent, leaving Sansa blushing at her audacity.

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Jon Snow

It was a cold dawn. Cold enough to cover the ground outside with hoarfrost. He was carefully donning all his armour while wondering if he had made the right decision. Maybe he should have assassinated Ramsay Bolton. But the other lords had some grudges with House Stark and more military experience than the conniving bastard. If they decided to hold onto Winterfell, it would make little difference from the current situation. Jon had no guarantee of successfully assassinating him and escaping afterwards anyway. It was too late for regrets now.

He still felt unprepared.

Both the battle for Castle Black and the battle of Hardhome were vastly different from having two armies face off on an open field. His fights in his last life didn't count, as he had always fought alone and with magic against completely different opponents.

Leading thousands of men towards what could easily be their death weighed heavily on his shoulders, and he couldn't help but feel sombre. Before, he had only been responsible for his own life, and as a Lord Commander, he had only a few hundred men under him. Thankfully, the Blackfish knew what the fuck he was doing. Neither Jon nor Harry had any experience in planning big battles.

Jon spent most of the night awake, thinking if he should use his dragons in the upcoming battle and, if so, how. In the end, he concluded that he had to get Ramsay to commit most, if not all, of his forces, before throwing the dragons in. They wouldn't cause much damage, but maybe they could cause mayhem and break the enemy lines with fear, if not with fire. If he called upon them too early, Bolton would simply retreat to Winterfell and turtle up.

Despite what he said to Sansa, he wasn't too sure how this battle would turn out, but he would do his damned best to win. If nothing else, he was good at killing people. And by the gods, he wasn't blind or stupid. Jon suspected Sansa had developed feelings for him, despite thinking he was her brother. But with her favour and blushing look, he now knew for sure. And, he was, perhaps, a little attracted to her as well. The favour was safe, tucked underneath his right bracer. He would think about this after the battle; it would do him no good to get distracted now. He shook his head and cleared his mind.

After he was done with his armour, he left the tent and headed towards the front. On the way, he was joined by Ghost, who had gone hunting in the wolfswood the previous night.

Ser Davos and the Blackfish had command of the reserve. Larence Snow and Lord Mazin were in the rear, hidden within the wolfswood with all the cavalry. After the fighting started, they would go around and hit the enemy at the sides or rear. Brienne, Podrick, and a few men were with Sansa and Lyanna Mormont, serving as their guard. He had ordered them to take his cousin and flee if they started losing. All the clan heads and wildling chieftains were at the front and would fight on the first line, as the First Men tradition dictated. Morgan Liddle and Sigorn Thenn would hold the left flank, and Torghen Flint and Soren Shieldbreaker would hold the right one. Jon himself would lead the centre with Hugo Wull and Tormund, where the fighting would be heaviest.

As he got to the front, he was greeted by solemn faces staring toward Winterfell. Four burning crosses with flayed corpses bound to them could be seen. It was a poor intimidation tactic, as the men got angry instead of fearful at the sight.

The army was on a small hill, so the Boltons could only see their first lines. They had decided to position a few men in the middle to bait the cavalry and quickly flee into the real centre a few dozen yards back, where they would hide behind a line of spears and pikes that should, in theory, kill the cavalry charge. Horses might be animals, but they wouldn't charge blindly into a solid wall of spears. The riders would not be stupid enough to do that either, but if baited in a charge, they would be unable to stop their momentum at the last moment. Ramsay's army had assembled and was slowly marching towards them. Everyone on their side had already gotten into position, and he had sent Ghost to the backline.

Tormund came next to him and slapped his armoured shoulder. "Can you even move in that fancy southron steel of yours, Lord Crow?"

"Aye, well enough to fight, at least," Jon replied with a shrug, and they descended into silence again.

Even Tormund wasn't one for jokes and stories before a battle.

The enemy stopped moving about 800 yards away. A figure came forward on his horse, leading a tied-up boy. Even with Jon's ritually enhanced sight, he could barely make out the details of their faces at this distance. He did recognise Ramsay, and the boy looked like Rickon. However, his hair was not auburn but bright red. His eyes were not blue but light grey. Jon could see how the child could be easily mistaken for his youngest cousin from a large distance.

Ramsay drew a dagger and dramatically raised it in the air. After a short pause, he cut the cords around the boys' wrists.

'Gods, Ramsay could have had a great career in acting with his skills,' Jon snorted inwardly.

The boy was soon sent running towards their army. Ramsay then got a bow and theatrically started shooting arrows. He wasn't even trying that hard, as the first arrow was wildly off course, but the following ones went closer and closer to the running target. If that was the real Rickon, Jon would be beside himself and would do something very impulsive and stupid, like charging forward in an attempt to save him. For good or for bad, he knew that his cousin was already dead, and whatever reaction the bastard expected to get out of him would not happen. While it was indeed a pity that a young child's life would get snuffed out, Jon had hardened his heart long ago and would only truly move and fight for his family. He schooled his face as the fifth arrow pierced the poor boy through the heart and put his helmet on.

Ramsay looked a tad disappointed that he got no reaction, and after a few moments, he ordered his cavalry to charge.

They started at a slow trot.

"STEADY," Jon shouted. The timing was the key here. If they retreated too early, the enemy could theoretically manage to stop their charge and wheel around. If they withdrew too late, they would get run over by the cavalry.

At about 300 yards away, they sped up into a brisk gallop.

"RETREAT," he cried out, and the men around him instantly turned around and started running north with all their strength.

The sound of incoming horses was getting nearer and nearer, but thankfully they managed to run behind the real centre, which had the frontline lower the pikes and spears face skyward so they could flee freely.

As soon as Jon got behind them, he turned around to check their pursuers. They were riding at full tilt and were almost upon the Stark host.

"SPEARS!"

The wall of spears was swiftly raised, and, at this point, the cavalry had gained too much momentum to stop in time. Some of the horses tried to stop or turn around but were run over and trampled by those charging behind, and the vanguard impaled itself on the spears.

A few managed to break through a gap in the line, but their momentum was lost, and the riders were pulled off their steeds and killed. Some of the enemy men were smashed by their falling horses, but most managed to get off the saddle on time and jump into the ground, only to get trampled by the horses coming from behind or fall straight into the enemy lines. Everything quickly became chaotic.

The air was filled with dying cries of pain and anguish. Their charge was stopped, and now was the time to strike. The left and right flank were already attacking, leaving the Bolton horsemen boxed from three sides. Those towards the back had managed to stop their charge before crashing into the bloody melee at the front. But now their formation was broken, their momentum was gone, and the cavalry was surrounded and vulnerable.

Jon unsheathed his sword and threw himself into the fray, followed by the big form of Ghost. He quickly decapitated two fallen horsemen before they could get up and engaged a third. Jon was swift enough to lop off the head of his next enemy before he could react. The next opponent managed to parry his first two strikes, but his sword broke from the second, and he lost his head at the third. Meanwhile, a Ryswell man had sneaked behind him and had struck him in the side with an axe, but it bounced off his armour harmlessly. Jon simply turned around, deflected the next swing with a swipe of his left hand and rammed the tip of his blade into the eye of the soldier, killing him instantly.

Ghost was slower in killing than him, as his fastest method of killing was ripping an enemy's throat out. However, the giant form of the direwolf and his red eyes seemed to terrify the enemy horses greatly. Those who survived the charge were uncontrollable and were trying to throw off their remaining riders.

Since he didn't need to dodge or parry, Jon fully focused on going on the offensive. He could easily slash or stab in less than a second, but stabbing required a return motion, while with slashing he could easily chain his attacks. Few could resist him with more than four strikes. If they managed to react to his speed, the first strikes of his bronze sword directly bit their weapons if it didn't cut or break them directly. And with the following two, he would finish them off.

Chainmail couldn't hold against his forceful blows, but he still tried piercing through it or avoiding it altogether, as he would get exhausted from cleaving through it all the time. Half-plate left a lot of vulnerable points, which he targeted. Shields were annoying as they required a few strikes and full strength to break through them, so he simply picked up a fallen bearded axe from the ground to wield with his left hand. The axe's beard was useful in hooking and pulling shields out of the way or simply unbalancing those who held on to them.

His blood sang at the carnage he was causing as the enemy fell in droves around him and Ghost. He lost track of time, and everything almost blurred together as he was reaping lives on the battlefield. Soon, he found himself facing a knight wearing full plate armour emblazoned with the twin rusted axes of House Dustin. Jon hooked the enemy's shield downwards towards himself with the warhammer and headbutted the knight with his helmet with all his strength, dazing him. The enemy lost balance and fell to the ground. Jon simply stepped on his chest to stop him from moving and stabbed the tip of his sword in the gap between the helmet and the breastplate. He could have slashed that plate armour open, but it would require a few strikes and exert a lot of force which he would need to save to keep killing more enemies.

As the dying knight was gurgling in his own blood, Jon noticed that the fighting around him had mostly stopped, and the few Bolton horsemen still alive were surrounded and quickly killed. The ground around him was strewn with corpses.

With no enemy nearby, Jon stopped to catch his breath for a short moment. With the adrenalin wearing off, the exhaustion started setting in. Even with the life drain enchantment, his limbs felt heavy, and he was feeling quite winded. Despite his nearly inhuman physique, the sheer amount of flesh, bone and metal he had to cut through was exhausting, even with his sharp spellblade. Not to mention he had pushed his reflexes and speed to the limit, which was taxing by itself. So many were killed by his blade that his armour was almost fully painted red by blood, and his sword was now crimson. Ghost silently trotted to him. His direwolf wasn't much different – his fur was no longer pure white but almost entirely covered in mud and blood.

His armour seems to have done its work splendidly. Jon himself was mostly unharmed despite being in the thick of the fighting. He could feel three small sore spots where hammer blows struck him, but other than that, there was no damage.

After a few short moments, Jon managed to somewhat catch his breath. There was no more time to rest – they had dealt with the enemy cavalry, and now they had to deal with the infantry, which was already coming their way like a tidal wave.