Chapter 13: Battle of the Bastards
The sun hadn't even risen when the men began to stir, preparing for the battle to come. Jon woke and glanced at the blue ribbon tied around his wrist before gathering his things. Unlike some of the lords he didn't have help putting on his armor. Instead, dressing felt like a ritual as he took his time making sure everything was in place and secure. Wyman Manderly had commissioned some extra armor for him, so it took a bit longer than it usually did.
Sansa had her own preparations. She choose a Stark gray dress, one she could ride in comfortably. While in White Harbor she'd procured a haubrek with steel ringlets ending near her elbows which she wore beneath a steel gorget and sleeveless white jack of plate not unlike Jon's longer coat. Brienne had secured her a sword and dagger held on a belt around her waist. She carefully plaited her hair, finding secret joy in tying it with an azure ribbon. While Jon wouldn't be wearing the cloak she'd made him, she secured her own ermine cloak as she left her tent.
Her fireguard were preparing their horses when she arrived. Any concern Brienne had gave way to a proud smile at the sight of Sansa looking every bit a lady even in armor with a sword on her waist. The other fireguards had stuck with lighter leather and hide armor like most of the free folk, leaving Brienne and Podrick the only ones in plate and steel.
"My lady," Brienne said bowing her head with Podrick.
"Ha! You look like a proper spearwive," Laul said with a grin.
"It's for the best," Rila chuckled. "You'll be fighting men off once they see you like this."
Sansa curtsied to Brienne and Podrick before looking to the others. "Thank you. I'll take those as compliments."
"That's be the proper way to take 'em," Rila said with a laugh. "Sure you're fine with the sword and dagger? I could steal a spear from one of these kneelers."
"I shouldn't need it," Sansa said shaking her head. "If everything goes right we'll be far from the battle."
"Things rarely go right," said Laul, "especially in war."
Sansa noticed Jon's horse being lead toward them, easily spotted by the round shield painted gray with a white wolf attached to the saddle. The young man guiding the destrier had come to them with House Dustin, a bastard named Willam rumor said was Barbrey's. He was only a few years younger than Jon, but clearly looked up to him, having become his unofficial squire.
It was barely a moment later that she noticed men separating, going quiet to watch Jon stride past them with Ghost trailing behind him, their heads turning to follow him.
Beside his usual attire topped by his coat of plates and gorget, he now had spaulders and vambraces engraved with stark direwolves. The tabard Sansa embroidered went over his coat of plates, secured by his sword belt while a sallet helmet hang from his left hand with the visor raised.
"Thank you, Willam," he said pulling on and securing his helmet before taking the reins and mounting his destrier. Turning to Sansa he looked her over, surprised by the armor and sword belt over her dress. He flashed her an impressed smile, and spotted the ribbon at the end of her hair so raised his right hand in a wave. She answered with a quick curtsy before he guided his horse away with Ghost following him.
Over time they all left camp and made their way to the Wolf's Field outside Winterfell. At one end stood the Stark forces with their backs to trees and across from them with their backs to Winterfell was a mass of Bolton soldiers.
Both armies stood still and silent until Ramsay road forward holding a rope. Reek rushed forward to take the horse's reins, handing them off to a soldier after Ramsay dismounted. With a look back he tugged on the rope, forcing Rickon to follow.
They watched as Ramsay reached behind his back, drawing a dagger which he held up to them. Jon dismounted, walking ahead of the others while Rickon lowered his head and closed his eyes, waiting to feel the dagger cut him. Instead Ramsay cut the ropes around his wrist, quickly tucking the dagger back behind him.
"Do you like games, little man?" asked Ramsay. "Let's play a game."
Reek, his head downcast, let his eyes shift toward Ramsay as the man grabbed Rickon's shoulder, pulling him closer and pointing across the field.
"Run to your brother." Rickon glanced up. "The sooner you make it to him, the sooner you get to see him again. That's it. That's the game. Easy!" Ramsay looked to Rickon, shaking him lightly. "Ready?" He guided Rickon forward, letting the boy take a step. "Go!"
Rickon took a few more steps before he looked over his shoulder to Ramsay, Reek's eyes shifting between Ramsay and Rickon.
"No, you have to run, remember?" Ramsay said playfully. "Those are the rules."
Ramsay turned as a soldier brought him a bow which he took, letting Reek hold the quiver of arrows beside him. Rickon took a breath and started running as fast as he could. Ramsay drew the first arrow and Jon turned, rushing to his destrier and leaping onto it, digging his heels in and galloping into the field, alone.
Ramsay took his time nocking the arrow, letting Rickon run, looking back over his shoulder as Ramsay loosed. The arrow landed a meter to Rickon's left, though Ramsay shrugged, having barely aimed.
Reek watched him take another arrow, looking across the field to Jon Snow galloping toward his brother. Ramsay drew, but turned to Reek, his lips stretched into a playful smile as he loosed the arrow and turned to see where it landed. Nowhere near Rickon.
Jon held out his right hand as he got closer, Rickon breathing heavily as he pushed himself to keep going.
Reek watched Ramsay draw the bow string back, closing one eye as he angled it.
And then Reek hit him.
It wasn't very hard, didn't make him bleed or likely hurt much, but it was enough to make his arrow shoot far to the right. Far from Rickon. And it was surprising enough to make Ramsay stumble back.
The soldier that had brought him the bow rushed forward to grab Reek, drawing his sword until Ramsay held out a hand. "No!" Ramsay glared into Reek, who stood in tears, terrified of what he'd done. "Throw him in the kennels, but keep them caged. Let him work them into a frenzy."
Jon looked past Rickon as he heard Reek scream while he was dragged away, "RUN!"
Ramsay picked an arrow off the ground, stood firmly in place and loosed his fourth arrow.
Rickon's hand reached out and grabbed Jon's, his feet leaving the ground as Jon pulled him up with his right hand while his left tugged on the reins of his horse. The destrier started to turn when the arrow pierced it's left eye, pushing through it's right cheek.
His horse came to a stop, it's front legs buckling first and their army watched in horror as Jon and Rickon were thrown off the horse flipping over itself.
Sansa gasped watching Jon roll his shoulders so Rickon landed on top of him, taking most of the impact for the boy. A moment later they were standing. Ghost stood on his haunches, growling.
Tears were streaming down Rickon's face. "Jon," he sobbed.
With a glance toward the grinning Ramsay, Jon tore off his helmet and put it over Rickon's head. He grabbed Rickon's furs and nearly dragged him to the downed horse. Jon pulled the shield from the saddle and handed it to Rickon, making him hold it behind him and turning him toward his army.
"Run," Jon commanded.
Rickon took a shaky breath, looking back at him in shock.
Jon pushed him, pointing toward Sansa. "Run to Ghost!" Jon backed away from him and yelled, "GHOST!"
The direwolf broke into a sprint, becoming an ivory streak as he sped into the field.
"Go!" Jon commanded, turning to face Ramsay. Rickon winced, hating himself as he turned and did what Jon asked, running toward Ghost.
Ramsay tilted his head, smiling as Jon began walking forward. He wasn't charging or running or dodging, just walking. Challenging Ramsay, who couldn't help but reach for an arrow with a chuckle.
Jon stopped and tilted his right shoulder back, barely able to track the arrow which passed half a meter from his shoulder. Once he heard it hit the ground, he started walking again.
"What the fuck he is doing?!" Rodrik Ryswell asked, practically rocking in his saddle.
Barbrey Dustin's eyes traveled from Jon to Rickon, running from Jon as Ghost ran to him. "He's baiting him," she said thinking back to their war council. "He's baiting the bastard to let the boy escape!"
Ramsay broke into a laugh, turning to hand his bow away and walk past his archers, who raised their bows and loosed a volley of arrows on the field.
Davos looked to the men readying to charge. "DON'T! Not until the boy's safe!"
Jon watched the wave of arrows soar toward him, his hand twitching to grab his sword and swing, as though he could deflect any. Instead he took a breath and kept walking, raising his arms over his face and chest. He sucked in a breath as an arrow pierced his left spaulder, digging into his shoulder while Jon snapped the shaft.
Ghost nearly slid as he came to a stop, turning and lowering himself to let Rickon leap onto his back. The moment he was on and holding Ghost's neck the direwolf pushed up and sped away from the field.
"GO! GO!" Davos bellowed. "Follow your commander!"
Men on horses with Ryswell, Harwood, and Dustin caparisons charged the field.
Tormund let out a roar, drawing his sword and leading the free folk and infantry into the field, Wun Wun roaring as he raised his cudgel.
Atop his horse again, Ramsay leaned his head toward his lords. "Now."
"Cavalry!" Harald Karstark called out. One of his men brought a horn to his lips, blowing four rapid blast before Harald yelled, "Charge!"
Sansa's eyes widened, shifting from Rickon and Ghost to Jon walking in the field. "The signal."
Jon came to a stop, exhaling and giving himself a small nod as he drew Longclaw and stared down the line of cavalry charging toward him. They must have been a hundred meters away when half of them turned, their horses running to the left and right of the field, leaving only the Bolton and Umber horses charging toward Jon.
Ramsay sneered as he watched the riders split off, leaving his men behind. "Turncoats," he spat, gritting his teeth tight enough they might have cracked.
Jon seemed resolute and ready to face the remaining cavalry on his own, but his riders sped past him, clashing with the Bolton men. Pikes and spears pierced men, throwing them off horseback while others fell because the horses collided.
While most of the Kartsark men were turning back toward the field to join their army, Sansa noticed one of them riding toward her.
"Damn it! Loose!"
Another volley of arrows soared into the field, Jon picking up a round Ryswell shield off one of the fallen men, raising it. Thankfully the arrows all missed him.
Sansa dismounted as Ghost approached, coming to a stop and letting Rickon get off. Once the boy was off his back Ghost turned and sprinted back into the field.
Rickon watched Ghost run off, flinching when he felt a pair of arms wrap around him and turned to see Sansa with tears streaming down her cheeks. "Rickon," she gasped.
"Sansa?" He asked, confused and scared.
"It's me, sweetling," she nodded.
Rickon took a shaky breath as his own tears fell. "He told me to run," he said, begging her to believe him. "He told me to run."
"I know," she assured, brushing her fingers through his wild hair. "I know."
"We may as well be taking shits back here," Davos declared, dismounting as he started forward. Drawing his sword he roared, "FORWARD!"
Ramsay's eyes narrowed, watching his archers fire volleys into Karstark cavalry, most of them falling aside. Small Jon laughed when he saw Harald Karstark tumble of his horse and get to his feet, drawing his sword and making his way toward Ramsay. He barely made it ten meters from Ramsey before arrows pierced his jaw, neck and collar.
"It's time," Ramsay commanded, watching Karstark's corpse fall while Small Jon drew his sword, walking ahead of the infantry.
"Who owns the North?"
"We do!"
"Who owns the North?!"
"We do!"
"Show me!" Small Jon yelled, turning and aiming toward the field, his men charging past him.
Jon grunted when he ran Longclaw through a man's throat, pushing him away to tear it free through the side of his neck and turned to parry the slash of another. While the taller man's arm was pushed aside, Jon slashed up, Longclaw slipping between his breastplate and spaulder to cleave his armpit.
Jon heard a yell and turned to find a man charging him with a spear until a flash of white slammed into him, turning slightly in the air. Ghost landed and slid in the mud, his fur stained brown and red as the man's throat fell from Ghost's jaw. The direwolf looked to Jon, like a puppy begging for approval, so Jon gave him a nod and Ghost sped off, a streak of snow weaving through the battlefield.
Another soldier charged him, but Jon raised his pilfered shield, letting the blade scrape across the surface while Jon thrust Longclaw through the soldier's pelvis. He thrust the shield into the screaming man's face, ripping Longclaw free and turning, bringing it up just in time to press the edge through the leather gorget of another Bolton soldier. Turning, he tore through the man's throat, his foot digging into mud while he raised the shield to take the overhead slash of another.
The sword dug into the wooden shield deep enough it took a moment for the man to yank it free, but when he did he stumbled into the sword that pierced the back of his head. Tormund kicked the man's back, yanking his blade free. Behind him Wun Wun swung his cudgel, knocking aside a line of three men, one of whom died from the impact while the other two screamed from their broken, jutting bones when they landed meters away.
Just as the Bolton men with large pavise shields started moving to surround them, horns blared from the west. Ramsey's eyes followed the thump of hooves, sitting up as he saw almost three thousand men charging the field, most of them on horseback.
Sansa watched the lone Karstark rider come to a stop beside them, her fireguard aiming spears at the slim soldier who threw her helmet aside to reveal the gaunt face of Alys Karstark.
"Thank you," she wept, practically falling off her horse to approach Sansa, clutching her hands. "Thank you."
Small Jon found Jon on the field, grinning at the man who'd impressed him again and again. He charged at Jon, hitting his shield hard enough to make Jon's arm numb and nearly cleave the shield in two. Quickly backing away, Jon tossed the shield aside, looking for a replacement when he heard Tormund yell and clash with Small Jon.
An Umber soldier flipped through the air, thrown by Wun Wun's cudgel. His wooden splint armor spotted with arrows, Wun Wun grabbed handfuls of spears, breaking the small shield walls the men tried to make while his cudgel slammed into their sides, mowing down the ones not impaled on cavalry spears.
Ramsay frantically assessed the field. He watched a red haired wildling shove a sword into Small Jon's side with such force the massive man was lifted off his feet and thrown into the mud gasping for his last breath. His infantry was being knocked aside by a giant, torn limb from limb by a muddied white direwolf, beaten by knights, northern soldiers and wildling men and women. His cavalry was non existent, the few remaining unhorsed. His archers fired wildly, but were being picked off by an old knight leading their archers.
His army was broken.
His eyes moved across the field where he saw the northern lords that hadn't joined the fight sat watching. At the head of them stood Sansa Stark and her honor guard, her left arm around the shoulders of her youngest brother. Ramsay nearly choked when he realized the gaunt woman beside her in Karstark armor was his wife.
Anger seethed through his every pore as he turned his gaze to the field and found Jon Snow yanking his sword from the stomach of a fallen Bolton soldier. As if feeling his gaze, Jon turned to stare at Ramsay sat atop his horse. Tormund came up to Jon's right, looking from him to Ramsay as Ghost came to stand on Jon's left and Wun Wun towered behind him.
Nearly his entire body splattered with blood and mud, yet Jon's eyes were clear as they met Ramsay's. Standing tall, Jon raised his right hand, holding Longclaw in the air as he roared, "WINTERFELL!"
"Winterfell!" Men and women called across the field, more and more chanting it, like a wave stretching out from him.
Ramsay tugged on the reins of his horse and turned in retreat. If this had to end in Winterfell then so be it.
Seeing Ramsay retreat and Jon call for men to follow him, Sansa pulled Rickon to her horse, mounting it and helping him into the saddle. The others all seemed to realize what she was doing, taking reins and following her around the battlefield to make their way toward Winterfell.
Ramsay came through the gates of Winterfell as the reserve he left behind readied their bows along the walls. Dismounting he watched them close the gate. "Their army is useless."
"Our army is gone," said a soldier.
"We have Winterfell," said Ramsay. "We can wait them out."
There were shouts from the walls as men started firing arrows before a thunderous crash came from the shaking gate. The archers manning the battlements signaled for others to switch out with them, firing more arrows below as there were more bangs on the gate.
With a crack a giant hand comes through the gate, Ramsay's eyes widening as he backed away. The archers all began firing toward the giant, who continued to hammer the gate until the ancient wood splintered and it fell over.
The giant entered Winterfell, his armor littered with arrows as he stood and roared, Jon leading a group of infantry through the gate behind him. While the others rushed into the battlements, Tormund followed Ghost to stand beside Jon, coming to a stop to stare at Ramsay, who was reaching for his bow. He watched as men of the north slaughtered his reserve, nocking and arrow and aiming it past Jon, loosing it toward Ghost.
The direwolf's bared teeth were blocked from view by Wun Wun's hand, Ramsay's arrow barely making it through the leathers wrapped around his palm.
Ramsay's eyes frantically looked to the men surrounding him, aiming bows at him, baring swords and axes. He turned to Jon, smirking. "You suggested one-on-one combat, didn't you? I've reconsidered. I think it sounds like a wonderful idea."
Jon sheathed Longclaw and took a step forward.
Tormund looked to him. "Don't."
Jon ignored him, raising the Mormont shield he'd picked up on his way there as he dashed to Ramsay. An arrow pierced the shield, stopping inches from his collar. Ramsay started to nock another arrow when Jon reached him and thrust the shield through his bow, snapping it before he backed away, meeting Ramsay's eyes, daring him to keep fighting.
Ramsay stared at him, smirking as he swiftly drew his dagger and tossed it to his left hand while his right drew the falchion on his waist.
Sansa and the other lords rode in on their horses just as Ramsay dashed forward, slashing at Jon, who blocked Ramsay's falchion. When he thrust the dagger as him, Jon sidestepped it and grabbed Ramsay's extended wrist, pulling his left arm up and driving the side of the shield into his elbow. Ramsay grunted as his arm bent the wrong way and the dagger fell from his grasp.
Ramsay lunched at him with the falchion, slashing wildly. Jon seemed to dodge the strikes with ease, the bastard too angry to be clever or quick. When he finally raised his shield, Jon took hold of the straps of his shield in both hands, taking a strike from the falchion before slamming the shield into Ramsay's hand hard enough to break his fingers.
The sword fell away and Jon stepped back, throwing the shield aside. Ramsay could have given up and begged for mercy, but instead he dashed forward and swung at Jon with a guttural roar.
Finally Jon balled his hand into a fist, pulling it back as he stepped forward after a missed swing, driving his fist into Ramsay's stomach hard enough the bastard tasted bile and blood as the air was forced from his lungs. Curling to the ground, Ramsay looked up to the gate and saw the North watching him.
Sansa Stark sat atop a horse with Rickon Stark in front of her. Brienne and her fireguard surrounded her, Alys Karstark, Lyanna Mormont, the Manderly sisters and Barbrey Dustin, who wore a vicious grin when she saw Ramsay doubled over in pain.
Jon looked back and saw a familiar face among those who stormed the gate with him and Tormund. "Willam," Jon called out, turning his gaze to Ramsay and drawing Longclaw, "fetch me a block."
A pair of men rushed forward, gripping Ramsay as he struggled while Willam rushed to find an uncut log and bring it back into the courtyard as the lords gathered around and men filled the walls. Willam set it on the ground, backing away as a wildling and Ryswell man forced Ramsay onto his knees with his neck over the log.
"Any last words?" asked Jon.
Ramsay looked up at him, his lips curving into a grin. "You're just like me. A lord raised a bastard. Abandoned and ignored even though we're better than the rest. You're no different than I am, you're just on the winning side this time, bastard."
He laughed, keeping his smile and locking his eyes on Jon.
"In the name of the North, for your countless crimes, I sentence you to die." Jon stared into Ramsay's eyes as he brought the sword down, severing his neck.
They watched as Ramsay's body twitched one last time, his head rolling in dirt soaked by his own blood.
None looked away.
Finally catching his breath, Jon gripped his scabbard and sheathed Longclaw. The others watched in silence as Jon walked to where Rickon and Sansa stood. He looked both over before giving a firm nod. "Lady Stark, Lord Stark. Winterfell is yours."