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11. 'End of House Bolton'
🕑 Added 2025-02-07 15:21:06 +0000 UTC*Jon Snow POV*
"I need you to go to Dragonstone." My voice was firm, the weight of the coming war pressing down on me. "There is someone on her way there—Daenerys Targaryen. Convince her to fight for the living, to stand against the dead that march upon us. If possible, arrange a meeting. Dragonstone holds the largest deposits of dragon glass in its mountains. We need it if we are to win against the night that is full of terror."
Melisandre stood before me, her red robes shifting in the cold northern wind. A fanatic, true, but one who was loyal—to me, to her god, or perhaps to her visions. Whatever the case, she nodded with utmost seriousness.
"I have already seen myself meeting the Mother of Dragons in the flames," she murmured, her voice like a soft chant. Then, after a pause, she added, "May I ask you something, Azor Ahai?"
I exhaled slowly, it seemed I would be not getting rid of that title. "Go on."
"What will you do if she allies herself with Aegon Targaryen? By now, he must have reached the Stormlands."
My breath stilled, but I kept my face unreadable. "Are you certain? Have you seen this Aegon in your flames? And how do you know if he is truly what he claims to be and not some bastard Blackfyre?"
Melisandre’s red lips curled into something between amusement and satisfaction. "I did not know the Black Dragon was Aegon Targaryen until yesterday when I received word from a fellow priestess. She believes him to be Azor Ahai. But, just like I once did, she misreads the Lord of Light’s signs." She tilted her head. "And now, my king, what do you believe?"
I clenched my jaw. The Black Dragon masquerading as the Red.
"If what you say is true, then you must reach Daenerys first," I said. "Tell her exactly what you've told me. Let her decide whether to trust this Black Dragon or not."
Melisandre hesitated only a moment before nodding. Then, as she turned to leave, she cast me a knowing glance, an amused smirk playing at her lips. She swayed her hips more than necessary, and I couldn't help but shake my head with a small smile. The woman was incorrigible.
Pushing the thought aside, I grabbed Longclaw and made my way toward the war council, where Sansa, Tormund, Davos, and the northern lords awaited. The fate of the North was far more pressing than distant kings and claimants. And there is one good thing that will be happening tonight.
Lord Karstark will abandon Ramsay tonight. I have been watching him to determine his next move. He assured Ramsay that they would first defeat me here, and afterward, Ramsay would assist him and Lord Umber in reclaiming their keep. However, I know he plans to head to Karhold tonight while everyone is asleep. I suppose I will help him as much as I can by using skinchanging into Luna.
As I stepped inside, the murmurs ceased, and all rose to their feet. I motioned for them to sit, taking my own seat at the head of the table.
"Before I tell you my plan, I want to hear your thoughts first," I said, scanning their faces. It was a test—of their understanding, their instincts, their loyalties.
Lord Manderly was the first to speak, followed quickly by Lord Hornwood, then Tormund, and finally Davos. I listened carefully, weighing their strategies, noting what could be useful.
"I've considered your suggestions and merged them into my own plan," I said at last. "Here’s how we fight the Bolton army..."
My strategy remained largely the same as what played out in the show, but this time, I would not act recklessly. There would be no running headlong into an obvious trap. No playing into Ramsay’s hands. Every decision was calculated, every move planned.
I turned toward Lord Manderly. "You will march with Wun Wun and Ghost to rally our men. Your presence will remind them of the North they fight for, and those two will be more than enough to shatter the enemy’s confidence. Would you be willing to lead the charge with them?"
Manderly, caught mid-conversation with Hornwood, blinked at me in surprise. "I have no objection to fighting alongside your direwolf and giant, but leading the charge? That’s for younger men. If I were in my youth, I’d have relished it." He chuckled, shaking his head. "But I will stand with my men, and I will ensure they follow your orders."
That was good enough.
I turned to Brienne. "I would have wanted nothing more than to fight alongside you," I admitted. "But your duty is to protect Sansa. If Ramsay tries any underhanded tactics, I trust you’ll enough to protect from any harm."
Brienne’s expression remained stoic, but she nodded with absolute determination. That was all I needed.
"Then the war council is adjourned," I said, rising from my seat. "Endure the cold tonight today. Tomorrow, Winterfell’s walls will keep us warm."
A ripple of anticipation spread through the tent. This was happening. The battle for the North was upon us.
I stepped outside, inhaling the frigid air. The Freefolk greeted me as I walked back to my tent, their eyes filled with respect and expectation. Each of them had put their trust in me, a man once their enemy, now their leader. They would fight not for crowns or thrones, but for their survival, for the chance to see another day.
As I reached my tent, I took my seat on a chair placed near the bed. My thoughts were consumed by what Melisandre had revealed earlier.
Aegon Targaryen.
If he was truly alive, then this was not the same world I had believed it to be. That changed everything.
Aegon would have the Golden Company, Dorne, and, if he played his cards right, the Reach. Whether Daenerys sided with me or not, he would be a problem. One I had no time for—not yet.
I exhaled slowly. My priorities had to shift. I had planned to seek out Parseltongue to deepen my connection to magic. But now, power took precedence. I needed magic. And more than that—I needed a dragon.
Rhaegal, where are you?
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**Third Person POV**
The battlefield was a sea of churned mud and blood, painted in hues of grey and brown after days of relentless drizzle. Banners flapped in the wind—House Stark’s direwolf standing defiant against House Bolton’s flayed man. Jon Snow sat astride his horse at the head of his army, Ser Davos and Tormund at his side. Across the field, Ramsay Bolton observed from the rear, his lips curling into an amused sneer, though inwardly, he seethed.
Karstark’s betrayal had cost him dearly. The loss of men to Karhold, compounded by the slaughter of his own soldiers during their flight, had left him with barely thirty-five hundred men—still more than the Stark bastard, but not as overwhelming as it should have been. With an army camped outside his walls, he could not afford further losses, nor could he punish Karstark’s treachery without sealing his own doom.
Jon and his men stood their ground, waiting. Ramsay, frustrated by recent events and Jon's refusal to make the first move, signaled his cavalry forward. The Bolton riders surged across the field, led by Smalljon Umber, his war cry a thunderous roar. The Stark forces braced themselves—shields locked, spears poised.
Jon raised his Valyrian steel blade high, his voice slicing through the wind.
“Free Folk! Northmen! We fight today not just for vengeance, not just for blood—but for home! Winterfell is ours! The Boltons stole it, but we take it back!”
He turned, dark eyes burning with conviction. “And we do not fight just for today! We fight for tomorrow! For what comes after! The cold winds rise. Winter is coming. If we fall here, there will be no one left to stand against them!”
His blade pointed at the oncoming cavalry. “Hold the line! Stand your ground! We win, or we die—but we do not kneel!”
As the Bolton cavalry thundered toward them, a deafening roar split the air. From behind a small hill, Wun Wun erupted, leading a force of a thousand men in a flanking maneuver against the Bolton reserves. Chaos tore through Ramsay’s rear ranks as the giant plowed into them, tossing men aside like broken dolls. Arrows peppered his flesh, but he pressed on, ripping through enemy lines with sheer brute force.
At the same time, Ghost streaked through the battlefield, leading another detachment in a sweeping assault on the cavalry’s flank. The direwolf moved like a specter, jaws clamping onto a horse’s throat, dragging both mount and rider to the ground. Inspired by the beast’s ferocity, the Free Folk and Manderly men surged forward, hacking and slashing at the disoriented cavalry.
Jon plunged into the fray, his sword carving a crimson path. A Bolton rider swung at him—he ducked, his blade slicing clean through the man’s side, cleaving him in half with inhuman strength. Another came at him with a lance. Jon twisted aside, grabbed the shaft, and wrenched the rider from his saddle, finishing him with a brutal stab.
The battlefield became a churning mass of death. Tormund fought like a man possessed, his roars cutting through the clash of steel. The trenches Jon’s men had dug forced the Bolton cavalry into a grinding melee, their momentum shattered.
From his vantage point, Ramsay scowled. He had been tricked, outmaneuvered by a bastard. If Karstark had stayed loyal—if he had those extra men—this battle might have been his. But it was slipping through his fingers like sand. He signaled his archers, commanding them to fire indiscriminately, even as his own men fought below.
Arrows rained down. The men led by Wun Wun raised their shields just in time, but many Stark soldiers were not so fortunate. Bolton infantrymen fell to their own lord’s cruelty, and some, seeing his disregard for their lives, threw down their weapons and fled into the trees.
The Bolton cavalry was finished. The combined might of Jon’s forces overwhelmed them, and with their flank compromised, they were cut down to the last man. Now, the remaining Stark and Free Folk soldiers turned to the fight ahead—where Wun Wun and his warriors still battled despite their numerical disadvantage. Each swing of the giant’s massive arms sent Bolton men flying, their bodies shattering against the muddy ground.
Jon spurred his horse forward, leading the final charge, his cavalry crashing into the remnants of the Bolton forces. Behind them, Tormund’s infantry surged ahead, sealing the fate of the battle.
Then came the turning point.
With his reserves collapsing, his army in tatters, Ramsay Bolton knew the battle was lost. He turned his horse and fled toward Winterfell, abandoning his men to die. But Jon had anticipated this. Without hesitation, he spurred his mount forward, his pursuit relentless.
Ahead, Winterfell’s gates loomed. Ramsay’s men scrambled to close them. But before they could, Wun Wun roared and slammed his fists against the wood, splintering the gate. Jon leaped from his horse, landing with supernatural grace, and with a single, mighty blow, shattered what remained of the entrance.
Inside, Ramsay stumbled back, shock flickering across his face. He reached for his bow, but Jon was faster. He crossed the distance in a blur and struck Ramsay with a backhanded blow, sending him sprawling. Blood gushed from his nose and ears as he crumpled into unconsciousness.
Winterfell was theirs.
The battle was over.
But Ramsay’s reckoning had only just begun.
Did you like the battle? And what are your thoughts on the black card entry of the Black Dragon?
