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Year 300 AC
Outskirts of Winterfell
The morning dawned cold and gray, a thin veil of clouds stretching across the sky like a shroud. Jon stood before his tent, watching the slow awakening of his army. Four thousand men prepared for battle—sharpening blades, checking armor straps, and eating what might be their last meal. Winterfell loomed in the distance, its granite walls stark against the snow-covered landscape. Bolton banners hung from the battlements, the flayed man a bloody affront where direwolves had once prowled.
Ghost pressed against his leg, silent as always, his red eyes fixed on the castle. Jon ran his fingers through the direwolf's thick fur, drawing strength from the familiar warmth.
"The men are ready," Ser Davos said, approaching from the eastern edge of camp. The onion knight looked tired but resolute, his face weathered by more wars than most men had seen. "Though many wonder if you are."
Jon met the older man's gaze. "The plan hasn't changed."
"Plans rarely survive first contact with the enemy," Davos replied. His voice lowered. "Lad, Lady Sansa's army could be here by nightfall. Twenty thousand fresh knights against Bolton's six thousand. Those are odds even Stannis would have favored."
"If we wait, Bolton retreats behind his walls." Jon gestured toward Winterfell. "He has supplies to last months. We'd be forced to siege in winter."
"Better a siege than a slaughter," Davos persisted. "Your sister rides day and night to reach you."
A pang of longing struck Jon at the thought of Sansa. After so many years, to be so close to reunion with family... but he could not afford to wait.
"I won't wait for my sister," Jon said, his voice firm despite the regret that twisted within him. "I'll use the threat of her arrival to lure out Roose."
Hugo Wull approached, his massive frame casting a long shadow across the frozen ground. The mountain clan chief's beard was crusted with ice, his breath fogging in the cold air.
"What's this about luring?" he demanded, brows furrowed beneath his boiled leather helm. "We're outnumbered, boy. I thought the plan was to wait for the rest of our forces."
Justin Massey stepped forward before Jon could answer, his blond hair tousled by the wind. "Lord Snow's strategy is sound," he said, his usual easy smile replaced by serious consideration. "Bolton knows the Vale army approaches. He needs to defeat us now, before we combine forces." Massey turned to Jon, blue eyes suddenly bright with understanding. "That's it, isn't it? You're using Lady Stark as bait without risking her forces."
Jon didn't disagree, allowing the knight's assessment to settle among his commanders. "Roose Bolton is trapped," he added quietly. "He can't remain passive while northern houses abandon him one by one. Our presence forces his hand."
"And if he doesn't take the bait?" Hugo challenged.
"He will," Jon replied with cold certainty. "Winter is coming, and he knows it better than most."
From the edge of their gathering, Morton Waynwood scoffed. The Vale knight had spent the morning voicing his objections to any who would listen. "This is madness. You throw away good men's lives on a gambler's chance."
"The North isn't yours to win, Ser Morton," Jon said, keeping his voice level. "Tell the Knight of the Vale I'm grateful for their support, but Winterfell will be retaken by northmen."
Waynwood's face flushed red. "Pride makes poor armor, Snow."
"Is that what you tell yourselves when my brother asked for the Vale's help." Jon's look sent a shiver down Waynwood's back.
Tension crackled between them until Tormund Giantsbane's rough laughter broke the silence. The wildling leader approached, axe slung carelessly over one shoulder.
"Har! Yer kneelers talk too much," he growled, eyeing the castle with disdain. "All these words won't kill no Boltons."
"Where are the Braavosi?" Jon asked, changing the subject.
"The banker man and his fancy guards are watching from that ridge," Tormund replied, gesturing to a distant hill where Jon could make out purple-cloaked figures. "Said they wanted a 'proper view of their investment.'"
Jon nodded. Tycho Nestoris had been explicit—the Iron Bank would provide gold for supplies, but would remain neutral observers to the battle itself. Their interest was purely financial, their allegiance to coin rather than blood.
"Take everyone back from the arrow range," Jon ordered, surveying the field between their camp and Winterfell. "But not too far. I want Bolton to see us clearly."
His commanders dispersed to relay orders, the camp transforming as men formed into their battle positions. The Hornwood levies anchored the left flank with their green and brown surcoats muddied by travel. The center comprised hardened mountain clansmen, Baratheon loyalists, and what remained of Stannis's southern knights. On the right, Free Folk archers stood among Northern survivors from houses too small to field proper contingents.
Hours passed with agonizing slowness. The sun climbed toward midday, casting weak winter light across the snow-covered plains. Jon paced before his battle line, Ghost at his heels, conscious of the eyes that followed his movements—both his own men's and those watching from Winterfell's walls.
"Do you think he's lost his nerve?" Ser Glendon Hewett asked, his Night's Watch blacks standing out starkly against the colorful heraldry around him.
"Roose Bolton doesn't have nerves to lose," Jon replied. "He's calculating. Weighing options."
"Time's running short for him," Wylis Manderly observed from atop his massive destrier. The heir to White Harbor had slimmed considerably since his imprisonment, but still made a formidable figure in his scaled armor. "Our scouts report Lady Stark crossed the White Knife already and mayhaps a days ride away."
Jon nodded, eyes never leaving Winterfell's gates. "He knows."
As if summoned by his words, movement stirred at the Hunter's Gate. Jon's hand went instinctively to Longclaw's hilt as the massive oak doors swung open. Bolton forces began pouring onto the field—infantry in the center, cavalry on the flanks, archers forming up behind. Their lines extended methodically, banners unfurling in the cold wind.
The flayed man of Bolton. The chained giant of Umber. The mailed fist of Dustin. Houses that had once been sworn to his… uncle, now arrayed against him.
"They're coming out to fight," Davos said, surprise evident in his voice. "Your plan worked."
"It hasn't worked yet," Jon cautioned, watching the enemy form up with precision that spoke of experienced leadership. "Have our men ready, but hold position."
His own troops stirred restlessly as Bolton's army advanced a few hundred yards from Winterfell's walls, then halted. The two forces now faced each other across a snow-covered expanse, close enough to distinguish faces but beyond effective bow range.
Jon frowned. This wasn't right. Bolton should have continued his advance, pressing his numerical advantage. Instead, the lines had stopped, leaving an uncanny stillness across the battlefield.
A solitary rider broke from the Bolton ranks, advancing halfway toward Jon's position. Even at this distance, Jon recognized the pale, blood-red cloak that marked Roose Bolton. The Lord of the Dreadfort raised his hand, signaling to someone behind him.
Two guards dragged a third figure forward through the snow. The prisoner stumbled, falling twice before being hauled upright before Lord Bolton. Even from this distance, Jon could see the man wore the faded livery of House Stark.
"Seven hells," Ser Wylis muttered. "The boy's a hostage from the Stark household!"
"Turnip…" Jon replied. "The old cook's assistant. He was only a boy when I left Winterfell."
Bolton's sword flashed in the winter light. The prisoner's head toppled into the snow, his body crumpling a moment later. A red stain spread across the white ground, vivid as a banner.
Rage flared hot in Jon's chest, a familiar pressure building beneath his ribs. The dragon inside him stirred, responding to his fury. He took a deep breath, forcing the fire down. Not yet.
"He's trying to provoke you," Davos warned, reading Jon's expression.
"He's succeeded," Jon replied, swinging up onto his horse. "Command is yours until I return, Ser Wylis. Hold the men here. No matter what happens, they are not to advance."
Wylis gave a sharp nod in understand.
"My lord?" Davos's face showed alarm. "What are you planning?"
"What I must." Jon wheeled his mount around. "Promise me, Ser Davos. Hold them here."
The onion knight hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. "As you command."
Jon urged his horse forward at a canter, advancing alone toward the Bolton lines. Behind him, shouts of confusion erupted from his own ranks. He heard Tormund bellowing orders, holding the men in place.
When he'd covered half the distance to Bolton's army, Jon heard hoofbeats behind him. He glanced back to see Davos and Hugo Wull racing to catch up, swords already drawn.
"Snow!" Torghen shouted. "This is folly! Return to the lines!"
Jon ignored him, eyes scanning the treeline that bordered the field to the west. Nothing yet. He continued forward, closing the distance to the Bolton forces. A hundred men nocked arrows, awaiting the command to loose. Six thousand faces stared at the lone rider approaching their lines.
Davos and Hugo pulled alongside him, both men breathing hard.
"Have you lost your wits, boy?" Hugo demanded, his highland accent thickened by anger. "You'll get yourself and us killed before the battle's properly begun!"
"Return to the lines," Jon ordered them. "Now."
"Not without you," Davos insisted. "Whatever madness this is—"
"Look." Jon nodded toward the Wolfswood, where movement had begun to show among the trees. Shadows detached from the forest gloom—riders bearing the banners of houses Manderly, Mormont, Glover, and a dozen smaller northern clans. The hidden army was revealing itself at last.
"Seven save us," Davos whispered.
Across the field, Bolton's forces noticed the emergence of the hidden army. Shouts of alarm spread through their ranks. Horsemen wheeled about, commanders barking hasty orders as they tried to realign to meet this new threat.
In the confusion, Jon saw his opportunity. "Step back," he told Davos and Hugo, dismounting swiftly. "Take my horse and go."
"What in the seven hells are you doing? What are you trying to prove?!" Hugo demanded.
Jon drew Longclaw and plunged it into the frozen ground, where it stood upright in the snow. "You'll see. Trust me and step back. Now!"
Something in his voice must have convinced them. Davos took the reins of Jon's horse, and the two men retreated several yards, watching with bewildered expressions.
Jon turned to face the Bolton army. A hundred yards separated him from their front line, where confused men-at-arms shifted nervously between watching him and the newly revealed forces emerging from the Wolfswood. In their midst, Roose Bolton sat motionless atop his horse, pale eyes fixed on Jon with unnerving intensity. His gloved hand rose, two fingers extended—a gesture his commanders knew well.
"Archers!" The command cut through the chaos like a blade through silk. "Loose!"
Jon closed his eyes, reaching deep within himself. The fire that had lived within him since his resurrection surged eagerly in response, racing through his veins. He embraced it, feeling the familiar pressure building in his chest, behind his eyes, beneath his skin.
I am of the North, he told himself as the fire surged through his veins, threatening to scorch away everything he'd been. And those who would devour the North will find only blood and ash.
With a final breath, he surrendered to the transformation.
Violet flames erupted from his body, so intense they vaporized his clothing and the arrows coming at him instantly. The heat melted the snow beneath his feet, creating a circle of steaming earth around him. Jon heard Davos and Hugo retreat further, alarmed shouts carrying across the field.
"Back! Get back!" Davos seized Hugo's arm, hauling the mountain chief away from the searing heat. "The fire'll cook us alive!"
"By the old gods..." Hugo's voice came out strangled, his weathered face slack with awe as violet flames consumed the space where Jon had stood. "By the old gods and the new!"
The transformation was both agony and ecstasy—bones cracking and reforming, skin hardening into scales, muscles swelling with newfound strength. His consciousness expanded, senses sharpening beyond human limits. He felt himself growing, rising, spreading massive wings that blotted out the winter sky.
Across the field, the Bolton army dissolved into chaos. Men threw down weapons and fled. Horses bucked and scattered, throwing riders into the snow. Only the front lines truly saw what happened—a man erupting into violent flames, transforming into a creature of legends where Jon Snow had stood.
Screams echoed across the battlefield, cries of "Sorcery!" and "Demon!" rising above the cacophony. Some men stood frozen in terror, while others broke ranks and ran blindly in any direction away from the nightmare before them.
Jon opened his eyes—eyes that took in every detail of the battlefield and more. He saw Davos and Hugo staring up at him in awe, their faces pale with shock. He saw his own army standing firm, those who knew his secret calming the others at the moment. He saw the hidden northern forces advancing from the woods, eleven thousand strong, closing like a fist around the disordered Bolton ranks.
And he saw Roose Bolton.
The Lord of the Dreadfort had been thrown from his horse as the beast bolted in terror. Now he knelt in the snow, both legs buckled beneath him, arms hanging limply at his sides. For the first time in living memory, Roose Bolton's face showed naked emotion—pure, unadulterated horror as he stared up at the dragon towering before him.
Jon lowered his massive head, bringing his face level with the fallen lord. When he spoke, his voice rumbled like distant thunder, deep and resonant enough to vibrate the very ground beneath them.
"I only wish Robb could see the end of House Bolton," Jon said, the words emerging in a growl that carried across the silent battlefield.
Roose's lips moved, but no sound emerged. Around him, what remained of his army scattered like leaves in a storm, all discipline forgotten in the face of the impossible horror before them.
Jon drew a deep breath, feeling the fire build within his chest. Then he exhaled, releasing a torrent of purple flame that engulfed the Bolton front lines. Men screamed as the dragonfire consumed them, armor melting into flesh, bodies reduced to ash in heartbeats. The heat was so intense that those not directly touched by flame still fell, their lungs seared by superheated air.
A fifth of the Bolton army vanished in that first breath, leaving only scorched earth where men had stood moments before. The survivors broke completely, throwing down weapons and banners as they fled in blind terror.
From the Wolfswood, the northern forces surged forward, cutting down fleeing Bolton men or accepting surrenders from those wise enough to yield. The battle—if it could even be called such—was over almost before it had begun.
Jon spread his wings, casting a shadow across the battlefield as he took to the air. From above, he could see the full scope of Bolton's defeat. Hundreds dead from his fire, thousands more surrounded between his hidden army and the visible one. Winterfell's gates stood open, abandoned by their defenders in the panic.
He circled once, ensuring victory was complete, then descended toward the castle walls. Winterfell belonged to the wolves again—reclaimed not by sieges or battles, but by fire and blood.
As his massive claws gripped the edge of the broken tower, Jon surveyed his childhood home. The fire within him burned with satisfaction, yet beneath it ran a current of ice-cold grief. This victory had come too late for Father, for Robb, for all those lost to Bolton treachery.
But it was not too late for the living. Winter was coming, bringing enemies far worse than Roose Bolton. And now, the North would face them united under the Stark banner once more.
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Val crouched at the forest's edge, feeling the cold seep through her furs despite the midday sun. The Wolfswood provided good cover—thick evergreens and ancient oaks concealing eleven thousand northmen ready to spring Crow's trap. From their vantage, she could see Jon's smaller force arranged in battle formation far from Winterfell's walls.
She shifted her weight, fingers tightening around her bone-handled knife. Waiting never suited the Free Folk, but Jon had asked for patience, and she'd given her word.
"The flayed lord ain't taking the bait," Robett Glover muttered, his breath frosting in the chill air. "We've been squatting in these woods since dawn."
His brother Galbart shook his head. "He'll come. Bolton's no fool—he knows Lady Stark brings twenty thousand Vale swords. He can't afford to sit behind walls while our forces grow."
"Perhaps we should have waited for the Vale army," Ser Clayton Suggs said, his southern accent grating on Val's ears. "Snow risks too much with too little."
"Jon Snow knows what he's about," Alysane Mormont snapped, her bearskin cloak pulled tight around her broad shoulders. "If you southron knights lack stomach for northern fighting, wait here with the baggage train."
Val's lips curved into a half-smile. The she-bear had the right of it. These kneelers with their fancy titles would never understand Jon's way of thinking—the way he'd learned from the Free Folk. Strike fast, strike hard, before your enemy expects it.
"Girl's got Jeor's temper," Maege said, pride evident in her voice as she regarded her daughter. "Still, there's merit in waiting for Sansa Stark. Twenty thousand fresh knights could make this a certainty rather than a gamble."
Val turned her gaze from the field to the she-bear's mother. "Jon Snow won't be needing southern knights or our army neither."
Brows furrowed across weathered faces. Maege opened her mouth to question, but a shout from Jorelle Mormont cut her off.
"The gates! They're opening!"
All eyes snapped to Winterfell. The massive wooden gates swung wide, and Bolton forces began pouring onto the field. Thousands of men in formation, banners of flayed men fluttering in the winter wind.
"Aye, there's the bastard's father," Galbart Glover said, nodding toward a rider in blood-red armor. "Ready yourselves."
Val watched as the Bolton force halted, maintaining discipline. Something wasn't right. A lone figure was dragged forward.
"Who's that they've brought out?" someone asked.
Before anyone could answer, a distant flash of steel, then a body crumpling to the snow.
"They've killed a prisoner," Val said, disgust rising in her throat. "Trying to rile the crow."
"Gods be good!" Lawrence's voice carried through the trees. "Lord Snow rides out alone!"
Val's eyes found Jon immediately—a solitary figure on horseback advancing toward six thousand Bolton men. Her heart stuttered. It's time.
"Seven hells!" Robett Glover's face contorted with disbelief. "Has Snow lost his wits? He'll get himself killed before we can—"
"FORWARD!" Maege Mormont bellowed, her voice carrying through the ranks. "THE NORTH REMEMBERS!"
"All forces advance!" Galbart shouted, drawing his sword. "Now, while they're focused on Snow!"
Val surged forward with the front ranks, snow crunching beneath her boots. The massive force emerged from the trees like a great wave breaking against the shore—eleven thousand strong appearing where none had been moments before.
The Bolton army noticed them too late. Shouts of alarm spread through their ranks as commanders desperately tried to reorganize to face this new threat.
Val fixed her eyes on Jon, still riding alone toward the enemy. Two riders had caught up with him—the onion knight and the mountain chief. All three had stopped, facing the Bolton army as chaos spread through the enemy ranks.
Then Jon dismounted, standing alone between the armies.
"What's the bastard playing at?" Ser Godry muttered, pushing forward through knee-deep snow.
The answer came in a blinding flash of violet light that erupted from Jon's position. The flames shot skyward, so bright Val threw up an arm to shield her eyes. The snow around her melted instantly as a wave of heat washed across the field.
"Gods have mercy," someone whispered nearby.
When Val looked again, Jon Snow was gone. In his place stood a monstrous black dragon, wings spread wide enough to cast a shadow across the battlefield. Obsidian scales absorbed the winter light, while eyes like burning coals surveyed the Bolton forces.
The northern army stumbled to a halt, struck dumb by the impossible sight before them. Men crossed themselves, whispered prayers to old gods and new. Even the Mormont women stood frozen, weapons forgotten in their hands.
"Well," Val whispered, though no one seemed to hear. "That never gets old."
"By all the gods..." Robett Glover's voice trembled. "This changes everything."
The dragon—Jon—reared back its massive head, then exhaled a torrent of purple flame across the Bolton lines. Men vanished in that terrible fire, their screams cut short as flesh and armor melted together. The stench of burning meat carried across the field, making hardened warriors gag.
"The bastard of Winterfell… is a dragon," Maege said, turning to her daughter without taking her eyes from the spectacle. "I understand daughter. I understand your faith in him now."
The Bolton army broke. Men threw down weapons, scattered in every direction, discipline forgotten in the face of a nightmare made flesh. Some ran toward Winterfell, others fled toward the northern army, and still others simply ran blindly across the open fields.
Val found her voice, raising it above the chaos. "DON'T LET THEM REACH THE CASTLE!" she shouted, brandishing her knife. "CUT DOWN ANY WHO RESIST, TAKE THOSE WHO YIELD!"
The northern forces snapped from their stupor at her command, surging forward with renewed purpose. They fell upon the fleeing Bolton men, steel flashing in the winter light.
"Throw down your steel and live!" Galbart Glover's voice boomed across the field. "Fight and die!"
Hundreds of Bolton men dropped to their knees, casting aside swords and shields. Others fought desperately, cut down where they stood. The more fortunate reached Winterfell's gates, only to find them abandoned by their guards, left open in the panic.
Val raced forward with the vanguard, her spear finding the throat of a Bolton sergeant who raised his sword against her. Blood sprayed across the snow as he fell, another nameless kneeler who'd backed the wrong lord.
Overhead, Jon circled once, his massive wings sending gusts of wind across the battlefield. Then he descended toward Winterfell's broken tower, landing with a force that shook the ancient stones.
Val watched him claim the castle and felt a strange mix of pride and unease. The man she'd come to respect had become something else, something from the old songs that made even brave men tremble.
"Well," she said to no one in particular as she wiped her blade clean on a fallen Bolton cloak, "reckon the kneelers will listen to him proper now."
Maege Mormont approached, her mace dripping red onto the churned snow. The old she-bear's eyes remained fixed on the dragon perched atop Winterfell's tower.
"You knew," she said, not a question but an accusation. "You knew what he could do."
Val met her gaze without flinching. "Aye. Saw it at Castle Black and Hardhome when he saved us from the dead. Figured he'd show himself when the time was right."
Robett Glover joined them, his sword sheathed, his expression caught between awe and horror. "With... with this power, we could take back the entire North in a fortnight. Not a lord from here to the Neck would stand against us."
"That ain't why he did it," Val said sharply. "Your petty squabbles over land mean nothing to him. The dead are coming, and when they do, you'll be glad of the dragon."
Around them, the short battle was ending. Bolton men knelt in surrender by the hundreds, disarmed by grim-faced northerners who'd lost kin at the Red Wedding. The snow was stained crimson in patches, but fewer men had died than anyone expected.
Alysane Mormont approached, wiping blood from her cheek. "Winterfell's ours. The remaining garrison threw down their weapons when the dragon landed."
"And Lord Bolton?" her mother asked.
"Gone to meet his son," Alysane replied. "Lord Snow—or whatever we should call him now—made certain of it."
Val looked toward Winterfell, where Jon still perched in dragon form. Smoke rose from his nostrils, curling into the winter sky. She wondered how the rest of these kneelers would feel about him.
Either way, the North would never be the same. The dragon had come home to Winterfell, and winter was coming with him.