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Year 300 AC
Outskirts of Winterfell
The sun hung low over the western horizon, casting long shadows across the winter landscape as Jon Snow rode at the head of his four thousand. He crested the final rise with Wylis Manderly and Justin Massey flanking him. The moment Winterfell came into view, Jon pulled his garron to an abrupt halt.
Home.
The sight of Winterfell's granite walls cut through him like a blade of grief. Memories flooded through him—racing Robb across the courtyard, watching Bran climb places he never should have, Arya hiding from her septa, Father cleaning Ice beneath the heart tree. For a heartbeat, Jon was a boy again, standing in the yard with snow melting in his hair as Robb tackled him into a snowdrift.
Then the wind shifted, the reality of Winterfell's state shattered all illusions. Even from this distance, Jon could see the blackened stone of the Library Tower and the collapsed roof of the Great Hall. Bolton banners hung from the battlements with the flayed man displayed where direwolves had once flown. Jon's grief crystallized into cold fury.
"They've burned it," he said, his voice a low rasp. "The Ironborn and the Boltons between them. They destroyed my home."
"Looks like they've done some repairs," Torghen said, reining up beside him. "Not much good it'll do them tomorrow."
Jon nodded. The knowledge that seven thousand more fighters circled through the Wolfswood—including Val, despite her protests—gave him confidence. But seeing his childhood home desecrated still cut deep.
"Lord Snow," Ser Wylis said hesitantly. "May I suggest we make camp before nightfall? The men are tired."
"Yes." Jon snapped out of his reverie. "There, beside that stream. It will give us water and the ridge will shield us from the worst of the wind."
As their forces began establishing camp, Jon watched the massive baggage train lumber into position. The Iron Bank's gold had purchased more than enough provisions to keep his army fed through winter's first assault. Northern troops who had been subsisting on half-rations now ate their fill of salt beef, hard cheese, and dried fruits. The Free Folk, who had known true starvation beyond the Wall, took to calling Tycho Nestoris "The Sorcerer" with the amount of supplies he brought with him. The purple-cloaked figures flanking Tycho Nestoris moved with the fluid grace of water dancers, their hands never straying far from the hilts of their slender blades. Bessaro Reyaan's narrow face bore the calculating expression of a man tallying debts in his head, while Qarro Volentin's scarred knuckles and broken nose spoke of harder lessons learned in Braavos's back alleys before rising to prominence.
Jon watched them circle the wight like carrion birds, their initial skepticism melting into something between fascination and revulsion. The creature lunged against its chains, blackened teeth snapping at air that reeked of rot and old magic. Qarroactually laughed—a harsh bark that echoed off the supply wagons.
"The Sealord will shit golden dragons when he hears of this," Qarro muttered in accented Common Tongue, prodding the wight's shoulder with a tent pole. Dead flesh sloughed away like wet parchment. "No wonder you need our coin, Nestoris. Fighting corpses burns through armor faster than living men."
"The Iron Bank's investment protects all realms of men," Tycho replied smoothly, though Jon caught the slight tightening around his eyes. Even the unflappable banker found the undead unsettling. "When the dead march south, they care nothing for borders or debts."
Bessaro stepped back, wiping his hands on his cloak despite not having touched the creature. "How many?"
"More than we can count." Jon kept his voice level, though memory of Hardhome's screaming chaos threatened to break through. "They don't tire. Don't eat. Don't stop."
The Braavosi exchanged glances heavy with meaning. Around them, soldiers unloaded crates of salted meat and wheels of cheese, the mundane sounds of camp life jarring against the supernatural horror chained before them. The scent of cooking fires began to mask the wight's stench, but nothing could hide the wrongness of its jerky, puppet-like movements.
"Well then," Qarro said finally, his scarred face splitting into a grin that didn't reach his eyes. "Best we ensure our investment yields proper returns, eh? Can't collect from frozen corpses."
Jon dismounted, handing his reins to Satin. "Have my tent placed there, where I can see the castle."
"Yes, my lord."
He had not gone three paces when a commotion erupted near the supply wagons. Morton Waynwood, the Vale envoy who had caught up with them yesterday, was arguing loudly with Tormund. The young knight's face was flushed with anger.
"This is madness!" Waynwood shouted as Jon approached. "Lady Stark rides north with twenty thousand knights. Why risk battle with a quarter of their numbers when you could wait a few more days?"
"The battle's planned, fool," Torghen growled. "We don't need southron knights to win our fights."
"Lord Snow," Waynwood turned to Jon, his voice dropping to a more respectful tone. "I implore you to reconsider. Lady Stark—your own sister—rides day and night to reach you. The knights of the Vale are fresh, well-armed, and eager to prove themselves against these traitors."
Jon felt a pang at the mention of Sansa. After so many years, to be so close to reunion... But he could not afford to wait. Not with his plan already in motion.
"The longer we delay, the more prepared Bolton becomes," Jon said firmly. "We attack tomorrow, as planned."
"You condemn good men to die out of impatience," Waynwood snapped. "Or is it pride? Do you fear sharing glory with your sister and her knights?"
Tormund stepped forward, hand dropping to his axe. "Watch your tongue when you speak to the Lord Crow."
"Enough." Jon placed a restraining hand on Tormund's shoulder. "Ser Morton, my decision stands. The northern forces will liberate Winterfell. You are welcome to observe from a safe distance."
Davos Seaworth stepped between them before Waynwood could respond. "My lords, perhaps we might continue this discussion after camp is established. The Boltons will have spotted us by now."
"Ser Davos is right," Justin Massey added smoothly, with his usual smile. "We should prepare for visitors. Lord Bolton is not one to ignore enemies at his gate."
As if summoned by the words, a small party rode out from Winterfell's Hunter's Gate—a dozen mounted men behind a peace banner.
"It seems Lord Bolton wishes to talk," Jon said, his voice carefully neutral. "Tormund, Ser Wylis, Ser Justin, Ser Davos, Ser Glendon, Lord Wull. With me."
He looked for Val automatically before remembering he had sent her with the main force despite her vehement objections. The memory of her fury—and his cold bed last night—lingered uncomfortably. He'd told her it was because he needed someone he trusted to keep the Free Folk in line, but in truth, he couldn't bear the thought of her being this close to the battle.
"Ser Axell," Jon called. "You as well."
The dour knight nodded grimly. Florent had been surprisingly loyal since Jon had taken command, perhaps hoping that Jon's conquest would eventually aid Shireen's claim to the throne. Jon had made no promises, but he welcomed the man's steel all the same.
They rode out to meet the Bolton party on a flat stretch of field between the armies. Jon kept Ghost at his side, the direwolf's presence unsettling the Bolton horses. As they drew closer, Jon recognized Roose Bolton at the head of the delegation, his pale eyes emotionless in his bloodless face.
"Jon Snow," Bolton said in his soft voice that somehow carried across the space between them. "Or do you style yourself Lord Stark now? I confess it's difficult to keep track of your titles these days. Tell me, does the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch no longer concern himself with the Wall? Or have the vows changed as readily as your titles?"
The pale lord's eyes—empty as a weirwood's carved sockets—fixed on Jon with predatory patience. His gloved fingers rested light on his pommel, the gesture casual yet calculated.
"Lord Bolton," Jon said, matching Bolton's measured tone. "The Wall stands, as do my vows to protect the realm."
"Ah." Bolton's head tilted, studying Jon like a raven examining carrion. "And you protect it by abandoning your post? By leading wildlings south? The irony is... palpable."
Lady Dustin's voice cut through the cold air like a flaying knife. "How curious that those with wolf blood seem to shed oaths as easily as winter wolves shed fur." Her dark eyes glittered beneath her fox-fur hood, fixing on Jon with predatory satisfaction. "First, your wretched father gets my husband killed, then Young Wolf breaks his vow to my nephew's house, now you abandon your watch. Perhaps honor is a summer game for Starks."
Jon's jaw tightened, Ghost's hackles rising in response to his anger. The direwolf's red eyes locked onto Lady Dustin, a low rumble building in his throat that made her horse dance sideways.
"Careful, my lady," Jon said, his voice dropping to match Bolton's soft menace. "You speak of matters you don't understand."
"Don't I?" She leaned forward in her saddle, grey-streaked hair whipping in the wind. "I understand that Robb Stark promised to marry a Frey, then broke that promise for a pretty face. I understand that the last Lord Commander who involved himself in the realm's wars lost his head for it." Her smile was sharp as broken glass. "Tell me, bastard, which oath will you break next?"
Behind Bolton, his men shifted in their saddles—hard northern faces carved by wind and war. Jon recognized a few: Roger Ryswell, men who'd served under his father once. Now they wore flayed men on their breasts.
"The dead don't care about our squabbles," Davos speaks instead. "They're coming, Lord Bolton. All of them. And when they do—"
"When they do," Bolton interrupted, his voice never rising above that eerie whisper, "the Wall will stop them. As it has for eight thousand years. Unless, of course, its Lord Commander has left the gates unguarded while he plays at war."
"Perhaps so," Jon replied evenly. "But in the meantime I see you've made yourself comfortable in my family's home."
"Your family's home?" Bolton's lips quirked in what might have been amusement. "Curious. I was given to understand you were a bastard with no rights to Winterfell. But perhaps the rules have changed while I wasn't looking."
"The only thing that's changed is who holds the North's loyalty," Jon replies. "The Boltons are finished. Surrender now, and I will allow your men to take the black."
"Bold words from a man so clearly outnumbered," Bolton replied. "I count what, four thousand? Against my six thousand behind stone walls."
"The North remembers, Lord Bolton," Jon said. "Your red wedding has not been forgotten, nor forgiven."
"And yet," Bolton said, gesturing at the men around him, "I do not see the great northern houses flocking to your banner. A handful of mountain clansmen, some Mormonts, a few Cerwyns... is this the great northern rebellion?"
Jon let the anger wash over his expression. "You know why I've come. Where is your son? Where is Ramsay?"
Something flickered across Bolton's face—so quickly Jon almost missed it.
"Ramsay is where he always wished to be," Bolton said cryptically. "But we are not here to discuss my son. I offer you terms, Lord Snow. Bend the knee, renounce your claim to Winterfell, and I will pardon you and your followers. Resist, and I will hang every wildling from the walls and feed you to my hounds. You have until dawn to decide."
"I've already decided," Jon replied coldly. "You stole my home through treachery. I mean to take it back, with blood."
Bolton's pale eyes assessed Jon carefully. "You have more of your father in you than I expected. Eddard Stark was similarly uncompromising. It did not serve him well in the end."
Jon felt the dragon stirring within him, felt heat rising up his spine. He forced it down, remembering his role. Let Bolton think him a hotheaded young commander, driven by emotion rather than strategy.
"Tomorrow, then," Jon said.
"Tomorrow," Bolton agreed. "Though you would be wise to reconsider. Winter is coming, after all." The Bolton lord turned his horse and rode back toward Winterfell without another word.
The party watched them go in silence until Hugo Wull spat on the ground. "Bloody leech lord. I'll wear his skin as a cloak before winter's done."
"There's something wrong," Jon said quietly. "Did you see his face when I mentioned Ramsay?"
"Aye," Justin said. "Something's not right with those two."
"Let's return to camp," Jon said. "We have preparations to make."
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Night fell swiftly, bringing with it a bitter cold that penetrated even the thickest furs. Jon sat alone in his tent, studying a crude map of Winterfell by lamplight. Ghost lay at his feet, ears perked toward the tent flap. Outside, the camp had grown quiet save for the occasional challenge from sentries and the persistent northern wind.
A shadow fell across the entrance. Ghost raised his head but made no sound.
"Enter," Jon called, taking a reprieve from the map.
The flap opened, admitting a blast of cold air and a figure dressed in the dirty furs of a common soldier. When the man pushed back his hood, Jon recognized the sharp features and dark eyes of Mance Rayder.
"It's good to see you alive," Jon said, rising to his feet. "I thought you would have left after rescuing… Arya"
"It seems the little lady made it you safely," Mance replied, shaking snow from his cloak. The King-Beyond-the-Wall looked leaner than Jon remembered, with new lines etched into his face. "I saw an opportunity, so I took it. Nice trick, sending half your army through the Wolfswood. Bolton thinks he's facing a green boy with a few thousand followers."
"How did you get past my sentries?"
Mance smiled thinly. "I've slipped past the Night's Watch for twenty years. Your camp guards weren't much challenge."
Jon gestured to a stool. "Sit. Tell me what you've learned."
Mance took the offered seat, warming his hands over the brazier. "Your Bolton problem's half-solved already. Roose killed Ramsay."
"What?" Jon leaned forward. "Are you certain?"
"Roose is alive so that means Ramsay is dead. The bastard was planning to murder his father—not very subtly, I might add. I'd been encouraging him, truth be told. But the old leech lord was a step ahead." Mance took a swig from Jon's wine cup. "Roose is a cold-blooded killer, but at least he's not mad like his son."
Jon nodded slowly, absorbing this information and its implications. "Roose must be desperate. Without Ramsay or 'Arya,' his claim to Winterfell weakens by the day."
"Exactly why he'll come out to face you tomorrow. He needs a decisive victory to crush this rebellion before it spreads." Mance stretched his legs toward the brazier. "Now tell me, Jon Snow—where's my son?"
The question caught Jon off-guard. In the chaos of planning, he'd almost forgotten about Mance's infant son.
"He's safe," Jon said carefully. "I sent him south with Samwell Tarly before I left the Wall."
Mance was on his feet in an instant, fists bunched in Jon's cloak. "You did what?" His voice was dangerously quiet. "You sent my son away? To where?"
"To Oldtown," Jon replied, making no move to break Mance's grip. "The wildlings at Castle Black were hungry. The Night's Watch was hostile. The red woman wanted king's blood for her fires. I sent Sam, Gilly, your son, and Maester Aemon to the Citadel where they'd be safe."
"Safe?" Mance snarled. "You think any place in your southern kingdoms is safe for the son of the King-Beyond-the-Wall?"
"Safer than near Melisandre," Jon replied evenly. "Sam will protect him. No one at the Citadel knows who the child is."
Mance stared at him for a long moment, then slowly released Jon's cloak. "If any harm comes to my boy—"
"Blame me," Jon said. "Not Sam. He's risking his life to protect your son."
Mance ran a hand over his face, suddenly looking exhausted. "I should be with him. My son needs his father."
"Your son needs you alive," Jon said more gently. "We finish this business with the Boltons. Then, if you wish, I'll help you find him."
Mance gave a short laugh. "The bastard of Winterfell, helping the King-Beyond-the-Wall rescue his son from the Citadel. The world's gone mad."
"The world's been mad," Jon said. "We're just noticing it now."
They fell silent for a moment, the only sound the crackling of coals in the brazier and Ghost's steady breathing.
"There's something different about you, Snow," Mance said finally, studying Jon's face. "You've changed since the Wall."
Jon thought of his transformation, of the fire that lived beneath his skin, of the revelation of his true parentage. "Death changes a man."
"So does rebirth," Mance replied cryptically. "The free folk whisper that you're something more than human now. They say you can turn into a dragon."
Jon met Mance's gaze steadily. "Would you believe such tales?"
"I've seen giants riding mammoths and dead men walking. A dragon doesn't seem so impossible anymore." Mance rose, pulling his hood back over his head. "Whatever you are, Jon Snow, Bolton fears you. I can smell it on him."
"Good," Jon said. "Fear makes men careless."
"Or desperate," Mance warned. "Watch for treachery tomorrow."
"I always do." Jon stood as well. "Will you fight with us?"
Mance smiled grimly. "I've been fighting the Boltons from inside their walls for months. I'll be there when the gates open, don't you worry."
After Mance had gone, Jon stepped outside his tent. The night air bit at his face, but he welcomed the cold. It helped clear his mind. He looked up at Winterfell's distant silhouette, a darker shadow against the night sky.
Tomorrow, he would take back his home. Not for himself—never for himself—but for Rickon, for the North, for the living who would need its shelter against the coming storm. Jon Snow, Aemon Targaryen, whatever name he bore, his purpose remained the same.
The Wall was failing. The dead were coming. And winter was almost upon them.
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Near Cerwyn
Sansa drew her furs tighter as a bitter wind swept across the camp. From the small rise where she stood, she could see the sprawling Vale encampment—twenty thousand men with their tents, horses, and banners stretched across the winter landscape like islands in a frozen sea. Beyond, perhaps a day's ride distant, lay Winterfell. Home.
The thought brought both warmth and terror. The castle of her childhood now sheltered those who had betrayed her family, who had helped murder Robb and Mother at the Twins. The Boltons. Even their name burned her with rage and disgust.
"Lady Stark."
Bronze Yohn Royce approached, his breath clouding in the cold air. Despite the harsh conditions, he wore only light furs over his armor, the bronze runes catching the weak winter sunlight.
"Lord Royce," she acknowledged. "I apologize for bringing your men so far north in such weather."
"The men of the Vale do not fear snow, my lady." His voice was gruff but not unkind. "Though I confess, we expected to join forces with your brother before engaging the Boltons."
Sansa turned her gaze northward again. "Jon was always... impulsive. But I know where his heart lies."
"Impulsive is a dangerous quality in a commander." Royce studied her carefully. "Our scouts report he has barely four thousand men facing a garrison twice that size. Is this the same brother learned with the Young Wolf? I had heard tales of Robb Stark's military genius—how he outmaneuvered Tywin Lannister himself."
"Jon and Robb were... of a similar mind." Sansa chose her words carefully. "Yet I cannot understand why he has taken this course."
"We've received conflicting reports," Royce continued. "Some say he's gathered wildlings and mountain clansmen—hardly a proper army. Others claim he took the Dreadfort with barely a fight." His weathered face hardened. "The Knights of the Vale do not follow blindly, Lady Stark. We need to know what manner of man we're allying with."
A cold knot formed in Sansa's stomach. She had risked everything to bring these knights north, had played a dangerous game with Littlefinger and won. Now Jon's rashness threatened to unravel it all.
"My lord, Jon is Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. He wouldn't rush into battle without a plan." Even as she said it, doubt gnawed at her. Did she truly know Jon anymore? They had never been close as children, and years had passed since she'd last seen him.
"All I know of your brother is that he left the Wall to it's own device as Lord Commander to fight in the realms affairs," Royce's voice softened slightly. "Not a good start if he wants to bring men to his cause."
"The Boltons murdered our brother," Sansa said, straightening her back. "They betrayed the North. Jon knows what's at stake."
Royce nodded slowly. "I pray he does. Your cousin Robert has committed the full strength of the Vale to your cause. If your brother fails before we arrive..."
"He won't." Sansa turned to face him fully. "Jon has northern lords with him—Manderlys, Glovers, Mormonts. They know the land, the people. And if half the stories about the wildlings are true, they're fierce fighters."
"Undisciplined fighters," Royce corrected. "They've spent generations raiding and running. That's not the same as facing armored men in open battle."
Sansa thought of the stories Old Nan used to tell—of wildlings who stole women and ate the flesh of their enemies. But she also remembered what Jon had written in his letters from the Wall, about the Free Folk being just people trying to survive the coming winter.
"Perhaps Jon sees something in them that we don't," she offered.
"Or perhaps your bastard brother has doomed us all by refusing to wait." Royce sighed heavily. "Forgive my bluntness, my lady."
The word "bastard" stung her unexpectedly. Once, she might have used it herself, might have thought less of Jon for his birth. Now it felt like a slight against her family.
"Jon is a Stark," she said with quiet firmness. "Whatever name he carries."
Royce bowed slightly. "As you say, my lady. I've ordered the men to break camp at first light. We'll force the pace tomorrow, but I fear we'll still be a day behind your brother's attack."
When he had gone, Sansa remained on the hilltop, watching as darkness crept across the land. Anxiety clawed at her insides. So close to home, yet still so far. She had survived King's Landing, had escaped Littlefinger's clutches, had secured an army to reclaim her birthright—only for Jon to risk everything on what seemed like a reckless gamble.
"What are you doing, Jon?" she whispered to the cold air. "Wait for us. Please wait."
But the wind carried no answer, and the distant silhouette of Winterfell remained silent against the darkening sky. Sansa closed her eyes, remembering her father's words: the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.
She could only hope that Jon remembered them too.