The Lost Dragon | Game of Thrones

Chapter Forty-Four

Jon knew the moment he stepped foot onto the battlefield, that he had made a mistake. He did not heed his sisters warnings about Ramsay Bolten, and was thus outsmarted by the bastard himself. His brother; Rickon, laid trampled amongst the grass and snow. So many of the few men that had promised to follow him were fallen beneath his feet. He was quite literally standing on top of his fallen brothers and men he had killed, and the regret burrowed itself in his gut like a leech.

Blood was soaking his body, it was rolling into his eyes and blinding him. Dirt was scuffed across his body and tinting his pale skin brown. His curly raven locks of hair were matted into his head, a mixture of both dirt and blood.

He didn't have the numbers, not even slightly. His five-hundred manned army couldn't begin to touch Ramsay's force of two-thousand. He was surrounded on all sides by Bolten men, and he was sure him and the last few of the free folk that stood beside him were to die soon. He knew none of them would leave this world without fighting with the last breath they had in their body. Tormund was beside him, waving his axe wildly at any man who came near. Wun-Wun the giant, was trying his hardest to make a dent in the shield wall that surrounded him -- but he was repeatedly held back by spears and swords.

"I'll cut your pecker off if this is how I die!" Tormund growled towards Jon, fear coming out through his bright blue eyes.

Jon would give anything to be able to turn back time and not march onto battle that morning, but he was repeatedly refused by almost every house in the north -- and his patience wore thin.

"I'm so sorry." Jon mumbled, feeling his hope wearing thin. There were too many men surrounding him, they were in a position they almost could not get themselves out of, and the dead were piling up before their very eyes.

Jon could see the shield wall closing in on him, and he closed his eyes for a moment, ready to accept the death that was sure to follow.

It was only a moment later that he heard a loud whistle from above and he felt the heat from the flames.

~

Violet could sense she was in the north the moment the air changed. She couldn't feel the coolness around her, but she could see it in every breath she took. Daario would shiver behind her, before his cool hands found their way back to her waist. It had taken them almost an entire day to fly across the narrow sea, and she was glad their journey was soon ending. Her bottom ached something fierce.

"Do you know where we are?" Daario asked.

Violet glanced down from the skies to see the brown and white of the dead grass and snow. The forests without leaves, and the familiar castle from Winterfell could be seen in the distance. She could tell something was happening in the open field, but from their distance she could not tell exactly what. If Jon was at such a disadvantage as Sansa said in her letter, she wasn't expecting to show up with him on the winning side. She needed to use herself and Rhael as an advantage, and she soon flew up higher into the sky to make them unknown.

"Is that a circle?" Daario asked, pointing out at the small circle that seemed to envelope a small mass. Violet couldn't see what it was, but she knew in her gut it was men.

"I don't know which side is which!" Violet cried out, frustrated that she couldn't see which side she should attack from that high up.

"Does the nights watch have a sigil? Or shields?" Daario asked once more.

Violet shook her head. "No, the nights watch wouldn't be fighting anyway. They barely had enough men to hold castle black as it is."

"Then you'd best attack that circle of shields before everyone in the middle dies." Daario exclaimed. Violet nodded her head, knowing he was right. That was one thing her and Jon had in common, they hated fighting with shields.