Orys Targaryen
The lands around Winterfell
There it was: Winterfell. The place he had left more than two years ago. He had departed with his uncle, and who would have thought he would be returning here as a king, the Lord Regent to his little brother, and married to a wonderful woman who was carrying his child.
He had left a boy of sixteen, not truly knowing the world. He had not seen the worst it had to offer, though he had also seen the good. Would the world be different? If he hadn't joined the Watch? He might have died with Robb at the Red Wedding and never found the happiness he had with Shireen.
Or perhaps he would have been able to stop Robb from breaking his pact with the Freys; perhaps Robb would have restored the North and found some balance with the southern kingdoms.
None of that mattered now. All that mattered was the upcoming battle against the men who had killed his family and betrayed them under guest-right. He had to cleanse the lands he held dear, fulfill his duty to the realm, and rally the people against the Others to defend the realm of men, while still keeping part of his oath.
Soon, they rode farther up the ridge. "So that is Winterfell. I always thought Storm's End was large, but in size, this might be the largest Castle I have seen. Although according to what I have read, Harrenhal and Casterly Rock are larger." Shireen's blue eyes were bright with wonder as she looked at Winterfell.
"It truly is the might of the North. If not for the tricks and betrayal of Theon Turncloak, the Castle would never have fallen. My father used to say five hundred men could hold it for many a year." Orys grinned as he looked at the Castle.
To his right, Maege rode up. "Justice, my king. For Dacey, for King Robb, and the rest that fell because of those treacherous dogs."
"Indeed. Justice for the North." He replied.
Soon enough, their camp was established. He sent riders into the woods, mostly mounted, to join the battle after the Bolton cavalry charged his lines and to mop up survivors. He felt Nightwing's anticipation: the dragon wanted to be unleashed to show his might. You will, my friend, he tried to convey through their bond. It was different from Ghost; Ghost was calm and stalking wrath, whereas Nightwing was a brute-force fury. Fire and ice, both part of him, in family, but also the bonds with companions. Ice, slowly, could kill a man just as fire could; fire was faster, a more immediate death. Like the Doom and the Long Night, both disastrous, yet in very different forms.
He looked toward Asher. Asher had become one of his senior commanders, together with Maege, Tormund, and Galbert. "Send out riders with a banner of peace. I wish to parley, to see the men that killed my kin and countrymen under guest-right."
Fields around Winterfell.
He sat upon a large black destrier as the Bolton banners arrived. His crown of iron and bronze — made by the Glover blacksmith- rested upon his head. He hadn't worn it often, but now was the time to do so, to show the bastards who ruled here who he was.
Beside the Bolton banner, he saw the standards of Dustin, Ryswell, Locke, Manderly, Umber, Karstark, and other lesser houses. He grinned through his teeth as the pale-skinned lord of the Dreadfort came into view, the so-called Warden of the North.
To the right of that lord was an ugly-looking man with an uglier snarl. From the surcoat and the description Jeyne had given him, this had to be Ramsey Snow, or Bolton, by King Tommen's decree.
To the left was a man he had seen before: Lord Rodrik Ryswell, the father of Lord Barbrey Dustin. It did not surprise Orys; the man probably had, besides the Manderlys and Dustins, the most remaining men. And Rodrik had been the previous godfather of Lord Bolton.
The parties came to a halt, and Roose Bolton looked at him with an icy stare. It might have frightened other men, yet Orys had seen the dead rise, had seen giants, had fought beyond the Wall, flown upon a dragon's back, and looked up at the face of death and returned from it.
"So this is the bastard that has taken my wife," Ramsey Snow declared.
Orys only smirked. Truly, that mad cunt had started all this, and the man seemed mad after everything Orys had heard.
"Lady Jeyne Poole is safe in my camp, serving as my wife's lady-in-waiting." He looked at the faces of the lords and ladies who accompanied their supposed lord; they all looked surprised. "The tales she told about you, bastard? Well, I'm surprised your father has kept you around. Rabid dogs are normally put down, especially kingslayers, oathbreakers, deceiving cunts like him." Orys replied, smirking at Ramsey.
The boy, the man-boy, snarled and wanted to jump at him, but a rider beside him held him back. The man who had been held had a white sun on black on his chest. He had a white beard, a bald head, and a wrinkled face. That must be Arnolf Karstark.
The Lord of the Dreadfort spoke up, his voice soft yet loud enough for the rest to hear. "My son married your sister's bastard; are you so high in your ambitions that you would shame her so? That you would give her another name?"
"No, that is something you and the Lannisters arranged. Smart move, choosing a girl about the same age as my sister, a bit older, who lived around her, her whole life. Although Jeyne Poole and Arya Stark are different in so many ways, I'm surprised no one else figured it out. Then again, most of these lords and ladies behind you closed their ears and eyes to what your bastard did to her." He snarled.
"I'm Ramsey Bolton, Lord of Winterfell, and heir to the Dreadfort and the North," the ugly cunt snarled at him. "You are the bastard, a deserter, and lover of wildlings."
"Ramsey, enough." The Lord of the Dreadfort looked at his bastard with cold eyes.
"Although my son speaks out of turn. He's right: you deserted the Night's Watch and betrayed the North when you let wildlings past the Wall. Declared yourself King of the North. I also know you killed Lord Arnolf's eldest son and two of his grandsons." Lord Bolton stated, turning to him as he looked at some of his freeflok companions.
Orys smiled at the man. "Oh, I did let them past the Wall, and I did it for a good reason. Something is coming for all of us, and it will kill us all when it comes. Something that doesn't care if you are Bolton or Stark. I let them through, so they did not join that enemy, and now they stand with me. Against you and the Others." The Bolton party snorted.
"King of all the North," Tormund and the other freefolk roared. So did the lords and ladies of his party.
"You want us to believe you let them through because of the Others," Roose Bolton said, his voice sounding amused.
"I did not expect you would believe it," Orys said with a smile.
"Still, if this were true, you still deserted your post. Declared yourself King of the North." Roose stated once more.
"I did desert my post when I received a letter from your bastard saying he had my sister and that he was coming for me. I did not get far; I was killed soon after. Now I know the men who killed me planned to do that no matter what actions I took. As for Arnolf and his son and grandson, they died in the cold, icy cell because they wanted to force Alys Karstark into a marriage. She is, of course, the true heir to Karhold, with its lord still a captive. Currently enjoying a marriage to Signor Thenn."
"You killed my kin, a kinslayer, just like your brother," Arnolf Karstark snarled.
More snorts met that.
"At ease, Lord Karstark. You will have your justice. The bastard will fall; he is what they say of bastards: breaking oaths, lying, and more. As for the fact you said have been killed yet here you stand.." Bolton declared.
"Yet here I stand, coming to break you out of my home, the home of the Starks, to return the rightful lord of Winterfell to his place: Rickon Stark. To sentence you to death for the betrayal against your liege lord and for breaking guest-right together with Walder Frey." He stated.
"Justice for the North."
"Justice for King Robb."
"Justice, I fought for your brother, as did many who stood beside us. But your brother lost the North to the Ironborn, lost it when he married a whore from a house that stood against us. For what? Because he wanted to protect a girl's honor." Lord Bolton snorted. "Where was the honor when he broke his pact with my goodfather? Where was Lady Stark's honor when she released the Kingslayer? Or the fact that your brother was a fool when he killed Lord Karstark. Your brother lost long before I put a knife into his heart."
Orys's blood boiled, yet he kept his calm. He felt Nightwing, urging him to burn them on the spot. No we must be better than them. Killing them during a parley would make us no better than they are. "Lord Bolton, on the morrow we shall meet upon the field, and thousands of our men shall die. I suggest you and your bastard boy fight me in the old way. The winner takes all. Let the Old Gods decide who is wrong and who is right."
Lord Bolton snorted. "I have seen your army. You have but a few horsemen. You perhaps took out the Whitehills and liberated Torren's Square, but most of your men are foot, and wildlings at that. On the morrow, I will crush you as I did Stannis, and with it the rebellion. I will kill your little brother, and your wife will be my men's plaything. When I'm done with you, the North will sing of me a song like the rains of Castamere."
Lord Bolton then scanned the rest of his party. "As for all the lords that stand with you, I shall tell you this: after the battle is done, pray you have daughters, for they will be all that will remain of your houses."
"Know this, Lord Bolton: on the morrow, your house will die." He rode away.