9 08-The Ghost of Winterfell

Acknowledgements: This chapter was edited by Cataclysmic Moon. I also want to thank my beta-reader nicknm, for helping me bounce ideas around.

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Thanks to Tonethstank for pointing out that the pattern of bronze should be different from ripples, as they are the result of repeated folding. A correction was made in chapter 8, and now spellforge bronze has a small intricate vein pattern similar to that of marble.

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Without further ado, enjoy the chapter.

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Petyr Baelish, the Eyrie

His idea to sow more chaos had been far too successful. The death of Dickon Tarly and pinning the blame on the newly reinstituted Faith Militant had terrible consequences he could have never predicted in his wildest dreams. King's Landing had gone up in wildfire, killing almost everyone inside, save for those that were in the Red Keep. And they had somehow managed to escape the city and run to Casterly Rock.

After the fires began to settle, the ruins of the capital had slowly been engulfed by bright green mist reminiscent of the colour of wildfire. Anyone who entered the mist would die screaming. Rain or wind did nothing to disperse it, and from the outside, all you could see were the half-melted walls or pits in the places where the gates were. Nobody really knew what happened, but Cersei had sent ravens to everyone, proclaiming that Aegon Targaryen had burned down the capital.

The seat of power of the Seven Kingdoms was now destroyed. Petyr wondered if anyone would still follow Tommen. The symbol of the unity of the seven kingdoms, the Iron Throne, was lost, and the capital was no more.

A large part of the Reach army was in King's Landing and had perished, together with almost all the major Reach lords, including Margaery Tyrell and her father, Mace Tyrell.

Aegon Targaryen and the Golden Company had managed to take the Stormlands incredibly quickly. It shouldn't have come as such a surprise, especially since almost all of the strength of the Stormlands was spent by Stannis, and the Tyrells had retreated to King's Landing for Margaery's trial. Only a few lords in the Dornish Marches were left, probably because they were quite far away from Storm's End. The Targaryen boy had Jon Connington as Hand and was now raising levies and integrating the stormlords into his army. The Golden Company had taken two hostages from each conquered House to ensure compliance and left them in Storm's End.

Doran Martell seemed to have tired of waiting and Dorne was actually mustering forces to join Aegon in his fight against the Lannisters. Baelish wasn't sure if they finally moved because Aegon was truly Elia Martell's son or because he seemed to have a high chance of finally bringing the lions down.

The Riverlands had finally been pacified, with Blackwoods dipping his banners and bending the knee. The only potential problem there would be the Blackfish. After Riverrun had been retaken, Brynden Tully had managed to run away once again, proving himself as slippery as his House's banner. All the riverlords had been forced to give hostages, which were now in Casterly Rock, so they would be forced to join Tommen against Aegon Targaryen one way or another.

Considering Mace Tyrell, Margaery Tyrell, and all of her cousins had perished in King's Landing, Highgarden no longer had any ties to House Lannister. Willas Tyrell was now the new Lord Paramount of the Reach, and he had decided not to involve his House in the upcoming conflict, focusing instead on the Ironborn that were plaguing their shores. Since all the Tyrell cousins had perished as well, the roses couldn't tie themselves to either side and finally decided to cut their losses short. They probably intended to wait and see who would win the conflict between Aegon and Tommen. Once the victor was clear, they would simply bend the knee.

Despite having almost no contacts in the North, a few rumours had tickled in. The news, however had been filled with all sorts of nonsense.

Lord Commander Jon Snow had been killed.

Jon Snow had hatched dragons.

Jon Snow had become a dragon on his funeral pyre.

Sansa Stark had jumped onto her brother's funeral pyre in grief and died together with him.

Jon Snow and Sansa Stark were both illegitimate children of the Mad King.

Dead men were walking again, and the Long Night was coming again.

The wildings had taken over the Wall with the help of giants and would conquer the whole North next.

Every single nugget of information he had gotten was more and more unbelievable, making him doubt his sanity. At this point, it was as if he had not gotten any news at all.

Magic was dead, and the giants were simply a children's tale, just like the Long Night. A Stark bastard couldn't possibly become a dragon, nor was Sansa or her brother in any way related to the Mad King.

His grip on the Vale was slipping away too. Robin had always been weak and sickly, and it shouldn't have come as a surprise as he had fallen heavily ill. Maester Colemon had tried everything, but Robin was not getting any better. Fucking Lysa couldn't give birth to even one healthy child.

The Lords Declarant were eager to remove him from the Eyrie, and should Robin die, the next in line was Harrold Hardying, also known as Harry the Heir. The boy had been raised by one of the Lords Declarant, namely Anya Waynwood, so things were not looking good at all for the mockingbird. True, some of the nobles had been in his debt, but none would support him openly. As Hardying had reached the age of majority and was an anointed knight, if Robin died, Petyr would have very little cause to stay as Lord Protector of the Vale.

Cersei had laid the blame for the destruction of King's Landing on Aegon and had called the Vale banners. House Lannister did not have enough men left to deal with the dornish and Aegon on its own. Petyr could maybe...help advise the new Lord Arryn, but he would have to constantly wrangle with the Lords Declarant, that hated his guts. Or he could go to Casterly Rock and rejoin the small council, which now had many openings.

Just as he was lost in his musings, Maester Colemon entered the solar.

"Lord Baelish, Lord Robin has passed away from fever."

Littlefinger sighed. It looked like he would have to make a decision far sooner than he thought.

*

Brynden "The Blackfish" Tully

He had never felt so old and tired as he did now. His nephew Edmure had been a complete disappointment. His niece Catelyn and her sons were all slain by treachery. His other niece, Lysa, was dead too, leaving her son Robin Arryn in the hands of that Lannister lickspittle Baelish who would turn Brynden over to the lions in a heart's beat. Nobody had heard anything about his grandnieces Sansa or Arya either. The Blackfish had nowhere to go and nothing to live for anymore. He would have gladly died fighting but would not want to give those filthy traitorous Freys the satisfaction of his death at their worthless hands.

While he knew the Riverlands almost better than everyone else, he was declared an outlaw and couldn't stay there. The Vale was not an option, as his face was also well-known. So he snuck into the vast North, where nobody would look for him. He grew a short beard and dyed it, and his hair black. After discarding all the heraldry that would give him away, Brynden took the role of a poor old hedge knight, taking small jobs clearing out ironborn or bandits.

He was supping in a small inn in the Barrowlands when he heard something from a nearby table that garnered his interest.

"Have you heard what happened?" one rather young lad asked a grey-haired man while gobbling up a stew.

"Nay, many things happen all the time, and I'm not privy to most of them. How would I know what you speak of?" the old man retorted.

"Word is that Sansa Stark escaped Winterfell and ran to her bastard brother on the Wall."

Brynden quietly shifted closer to them to hear more. Winterfell was held by the Boltons, and Sansa was last known to be in King's Landing. How in the seven hells could his grandniece end up in the hands of the flayed man?

"Aye, I wouldn't blame her. They say her screams could be heard throughout every corner of Winterfell every night the Bolton bastard visited her. I hope her brother can shelter her," the old man finished with a sigh.

The Blackfish froze, missing the rest of the conversation. Cat's eldest daughter was a sweet and demure girl by all accounts, and if even half of what he heard about the Bolton bastard was true...she would have been in a world of pain and suffering.

He had to find her and help her before she reached her bastard brother at the Wall. He had heard a few things about Jon Snow from Cat, and none of it was good. A boy so young and green usually couldn't become Lord Commander. There was a chance that he had sold out to the Lannisters to get his position.

He hurriedly tossed the tavern wench a few copper stars and rushed towards a horse he had managed to liberate from a small group of bandits. With renewed sense of purpose, the Blackfish headed north towards the Wall, hoping to find his grandniece.

*

Rodrick Forrester, Ironrath

Rodrick Forrester was on the walls of Ironrath, looking at the Whitehill and Bolton forces besieging his family. House Forrester had lost almost all of its strength in the Red Wedding, and Rodrick himself had barely survived and escaped by a fluke. It had taken him months to get back home. He sighed heavily, remembering the circumstances that made him lead his House to this dead end.

After the Red Wedding, he tried to keep his family alive and safe from the Boltons and the Whitehills. After his younger brother Ryon had been taken hostage by the Whitehills, he thought the hostilities would finally end. But no, the surrounding villages and his men were regularly terrorized by Whitehill and Bolton men, attempting to provoke him into making a mistake. His other brother, Ethan, had even been flayed alive by Ramsay Snow.

When Stannis Baratheon called on the northern houses for support, Rodrick had already been pushed to the brink. The Flayed Man had the backing of the Iron Throne and House Lannister. All the male Starks were dead, and the female ones were hostages in King's Landing. As much as he wanted to rescue his brother Ryon, he long suspected that he was already dead, as House Whitehill hated House Forrester with a passion, and his little brother was neither seen nor heard of ever since the Whitehills had taken him.

In the end, he sent some men and supplies to Stannis in hope of his victory, but the Stag fell to the Flayed Man. For a fortnight, he thought that he had gotten away with supporting Stannis, but his scouts found out that a large force of Bolton and Whitehill men had gathered and was heading towards his keep. Three days later, Ironrath was under siege.

A battering ram and siege ladders were quickly built just before the enemy forces attacked the gate and tried scaling the walls. They were easily repelled, to the defenders' joy, as Ironrath was strategically built in an easily defensible location with its back towards an incredibly tall cliff. However, Ludd Whitehill proved cunning. After the first unsuccessful attempt, he decided to simply starve them out.

The problem was that they had been short on food ever since House Whitehill had come after the Red Wedding and looted most of their supplies and money. A big part of what they managed to gather later was sent to Stannis. He got a few men to scale the steep mountain facade that was protecting the back of Ironrath in the night to forage for food, but it barely kept them afloat and only slowed the inevitable. Everyone had been eating small rations for a sennight already, and were slowly getting thinner. But surrender was not going to be an option, knowing how they rebelled against the flayed man, and with the animosity House Whitehill had for the Forresters, none of them were getting out of here alive. They were to be used as an example for other rebellious Houses.

If they managed to hold out until a serious snowfall, the force outside would be forced to abandon the siege or would try and storm the walls and gate again. They couldn't really keep the siege going when they were unable to keep the supply train in the snow. And if they did hold out until winter, old Roose would still not let a rebellious House off so close to Winterfell and would descend upon Ironrath in strength. Holding Ironrath with 80 men against six hundred outside was doable, but if a bigger force came, they would fall.

Just as he thought nobody was coming to help them, he received a raven from Galbart Glover, who, in a letter, said that he had liberated Deepwood Motte from the Ironborn and was mustering men to break him out. He headed back and found Ironrath's castellan, Duncan Tuttle.

"Duncan, with the current rations, how much food do we have left?" Rodrick inquired quietly.

"Barely enough for a moon and a half, Lord Rodrick," Duncan replied tiredly. Managing everything in Ironrath during the siege had taken a heavy toll on the man.

"Double the rations, and let men eat good meals, Duncan." The castellan looked ready to argue, but Rodrick firmly pressed. "Do as I say; rationing will not do us any good at this point. And ensure all the women and children are armed with a dagger." With a sigh, the old man moved to fulfil his orders. When Glover's forces came, his men would need strength and energy to sally outside the walls and fight, acting like the anvil to the Glover hammer.

Rodrick left to find his sister Talia. He found her in her room, carefully sewing a fur cloak together. He sighed heavily and handed her his spare dagger.

At her questioning gaze, he simply responded, "In case we lose and the Whitehills breach the walls." With a heavy heart, he headed to the hall where the men gathered to eat. Regardless of everything, the Whitehills and the Boltons would not let the women and children off scot-free if Ironrath fell.

He had heard tales about the Bolton Bastard hunting women for sport. With a dagger given to each woman in Ironrath, Rodrick put their fates in their own hands. They could kill themselves to avoid falling into the cruel hands of their enemies, or they could resist and perhaps survive. He could not protect them, but he could grant them the freedom of choice. He hoped that Lord Glover would manage to break the siege, but their forces were also rather spent after the Red Wedding and the ironborn occupation, so he had to plan for the worst. Even if the siege was broken, the Boltons would not let them off, as they were too close to Winterfell. But the Forresters were sworn to Deepwood Motte, and they would follow House Glover to the end.

Soon, food was brought into the hall, and Rodrick sat down to eat together with the men, who were happily surprised at the unusually large amount of food on the table. He let the people fill their bellies and start to regain some strength. After all the food was finished, he stood up.

The hall quieted down, waiting for his speech.

"Men of Ironrath. I hope you enjoyed this meal." Loud cheering followed this statement. When the commotion died down, Rodrick continued. "Those Bolton and Whitehill bastards have pushed us too far. Our daughters and wives, raped or taken, our sons and brothers, killed or beaten! And now, they want to put us all to the sword." Shouts of anger and agreement were heard across the hall.

"Galbart Glover has retaken Deepwood Motte and has mustered his forces to break this siege!" Cheers followed his statement. The otherwise gloomy atmosphere had lightened considerably. "And when he comes, we will sally out of the walls and let those Whitehill whoresons taste our blades!"

*

Jon Snow

The sun had just set, and Jon had found a rather small Bolton patrol. A group of five men were eating around a small campfire next to a large tree. And there was a sixth, serving as the lookout. He quietly sneaked behind. When he was close enough, he put a hand on the man's mouth and stabbed him in the heart, instantly killing him. He gently lowered the body to the ground, careful not to produce any sound, and sneaked closer towards the campfire.

As Jon was just behind the tree, he finally heard their conversation. "I heard Ironrath will not hold out much longer. Lord Whitehill is determined to kill every last Forrester this time. What do you think?" a young voice asked. Ironrath was a seat of a small house in the northern part of the wolfswood. He stopped moving and patiently listened.

"I think I want to get out of this damned forest. This place is fokin' cursed. So many men disappeared, and we don't have a single body to show for it. The vengeful ghost of Winterfell is hunting down our men in the night, I tell ya," another replied shakily. A small smile appeared on Jon's face; the voice had no idea how correct it was. Their conversation lulled into an uneasy silence.

Seeing that they spoke no longer, Jon quietly unsheathed his bronze blade and sprang into action. Before they could even react, he quickly swung three times, smacking the flat side of his sword on the heads of the three nearest men, instantly knocking them out cold.

The fourth one had hurriedly unsheathed his sword and thrust it his way, but Jon nimbly sidestepped, smashing the flat of his blade in the soldier's temple at the same time, making the man drop on the ground like a sack of rocks. The last one directly ran away, but a few moments later, screams were heard as Ghost intercepted him. The direwolf had stayed away, waiting for stragglers, as if he had gotten too close, the horses would sense him and react.

The aforementioned horses were tied to a tree nearby, neighing in fear. Jon had no use for living horses, as most of them were deathly afraid of Ghost, Winter, and Stormstrider. It would take much time before the horse would get used to their presence. Jon killed them off, decapitating each one with a quick slash of his blade. If nothing else, they would serve as food for his familiars and himself. Winter had crisped one of the human corpses in the last ambush instead of turning it to ash and began eating it. Jon definitely did not want them to develop a taste for human flesh, and it was not easy to separate the adolescent dragon from his 'meal', familiar connection or not. The dark-blue dragon still listened to him and his commands, but he was greatly willful in things that Jon didn't specify.

Ghost dragged in the body of the runaway and dived into the horses' carcasses. The dragons soon joined him, as they hadn't hunted down anything yet. Jon looted all of the soldiers and found that one of the men had died directly from the blow to his head. As he had grown progressively stronger in a short period of time, it was rather difficult to regulate his strength properly, and things like this started happening more and more. He bound the three sacrifices for his rituals and torched the rest of the bodies.

Jon spent half a day pondering what type of armour he should make and how he could accomplish it. His main goal was mobility. The armour should be magically lighter and impenetrable, so he could afford to try and make full plate armour. If properly made, it would barely restrict mobility, aside from the extra weight, which was not an issue for Jon.

The main problem was that it required a lot of components with varying sizes, some of which were not practical to use a mould for. He had to dive deep into his memories and dig out and dissect every part of a full-body plate armour. The problem was that none of the parts could be practically cast in a mould.

He thankfully got an idea pretty fast. With some experimentation, he concluded that he could, with great difficulty, control bronze in its molten form, probably because of his connection and talent with the control of the fire element. But it was proving to be quite a challenge. Thankfully, the amount of dragonglass added to the alloy made the process a bit easier, most probably because dragonglass had fire-elemental properties.

Realising he wouldn't be able to use the newly acquired three sacrifices on his armour project before they expired, and since Jon was never one for wasting things, he used them to make three spellforged daggers. He had two normal daggers he was using very often, and now he could replace them and have an extra spare.

Controlling molten metal was different from controlling a flame, as it was not a pure fire elemental construct, not to mention it had tangible weight. But more than three hundred years of magical experience were not for show. Even just his visualisation and intent had been sharpened to the utmost limit. With his level of occlumency, Jon's mind was also capable of iron-clad control over his magic which wouldn't slip unless he was in great emotional turmoil. The rituals had also enhanced and unearthed his potential for control and magical power and had deepened his connection to the fire element. Fifteen days spent almost single-mindedly on the task brought his control of the molten liquid to a satisfactory level.

Meanwhile, Jon had warned Ghost, Winter, and Stormstrider to avoid hunting during the day. If the dragons were seen, one of his greatest advantages would be given up. Winter was technically grown up enough to be ridden with a wingspan of nearly thirty feet, but Jon himself weighed more than 250 pounds. After the body refinement, small growth spurt, ritualistic enhancement and training himself with the use of resistance runes, his muscles, bones, tendons, and organs had become denser and tougher. Winter was bigger than the other two, but he still had some growing to do before Jon could take to the skies on top of his dragon.

After nearly two weeks without any accidents, a big part of the Boltons' search parties had foolishly split up and started spreading across the wolfswood, most probably looking for clues about their missing comrades. It was too bad they wouldn't find anything; however, they would soon get the honour of joining them.

Now that Jon had worked out the process, it was time to get the rituals rolling again. Hunting and subduing smaller groups was quite easier, so Jon managed to capture thirteen men in less than a day.

He set up the ritual and started. For armour, Jon had chosen cushioning, indestructibility, and featherlight enchantments after careful deliberation. He simply imbued all the enchantments into a big furnace full of molten alloy and kept it hot with help of Winter. Jon focused on slowly forming the required components, letting them cool in the air and solidify. He hadn't bothered calculating the precise amount of metal required and just went with a big lump, and after all the components were done, there was still a sizable amount of enchanted molten bronze to go around.

He made three direwolf brooches for himself and his sisters and deposited the rest of the lump in his bottomless bag after it cooled to use later. Once the crafting process was finished and it was enchanted, it would be very hard to get it to liquid form again, but Winter's dragonfire and his own flames only became hotter with time; it would not be an impossible task. The whole thing took him twenty hours, and in the end, sweat was pooling beneath his feet from exertion.

Three days later, a set of plate armour was finally assembled. From one of his many victims, Jon had liberated a fitting gambeson for his size, which had been subsequently enchanted with indestructibility, elasticity, and cushioning. The problem was that some of his joints were still unprotected, and making a chainmail hauberk took even skilled blacksmiths weeks of hard work. He had no such time, nor was he experienced or skilled in smithing by any stretch of the imagination.

Ever since he had crafted a bottomless pouch, Jon looted everything useful from his victims before turning the corpses to ash. He found a chainmail shirt that fit him perfectly amongst his loot and would cover his otherwise unprotected joints.

They had no dragonglass in them, and the metal was very magically resistant and was made long ago. It took thirty-nine lives to manage to imbue his chosen trio of enchantments, and the result was still quite weaker compared to his bronze armour. After equipping everything, the armour thankfully fit well, and his movements were barely restricted, but sadly he looked like a mismatched fool. The chainmail was dark grey, and his armour was bronze with black veins. He didn't care much about looks, but if pulled off right, they could be very effective for intimidation.

Using blood magic, he made some magical paint that would be impossible to remove normally and painted the chainmail and all the armour pitch black. He also marked the breastplate and the visored barbute helmet with a snarling white direwolf head, symbolising the House that raised him and his faithful companion Ghost.

In the past thirty-five days or so, he had ritually increased the potential of himself and his familiars, crafted a perfect spellforged weapon, three daggers, and a full set of armour, and managed to enchant a chainmail shirt and coif to be used underneath. He could now fight without any fear or lethal injury until his stamina ran out.

All the ritual murders brought Jon's soul and mind to the limit. While his occlumency held, his temper had shortened quite a bit, and there were probably other consequences that he could not directly guess right now. His soul had small tears and cracks, but it would heal in time as long as he didn't pull off any similar stunts. The remorseless killing of more than a hundred lives in sacrificial magic was no joke. If another weaker and less experienced wizard had attempted to do something like this, they would have suffered irreversible backlash at only a tenth of the amount of men he sacrificed. Ritual magic was heavily frowned upon and illegal for a good reason. It was considered forbidden even before the Statute of Secrecy was instituted, the same statute that forced magical governments to form up and monitor and regulate magic. Thankfully, Jom got everything he needed and more.

He quickly warged into Bloodfyre to check on the progress of the wildling host. They were moving with good speed and would probably arrive in another ten days or so. He could maybe move towards Ironrath and try and break the siege if they still held. Now that he no longer had any reason to take any captives or lug unconscious bodies around, his killing speed should greatly increase.

*

Beyond the Wall, Meera Reed

The dead were almost upon them, and there was no escape. After Bran had been marked, they always knew where to find him. Benjen Stark managed to help them escape for some time, but his horse eventually tired of carrying three people. The former First Ranger had decided to stay back to buy time, but he only slowed the dead for a few minutes before he was overwhelmed. Neither the wights nor the White Walkers required any rest, compared to the horse, which needed warmth, food, and sleep. It was no wonder the poor animal expired in less than two days. And while Meera had persisted onwards, dragging Bran on an improvised sledge, she wasn't as strong as Hodor or Summer, nor was her endurance infinite. It didn't take much time for the half-rotten corpses and the icy abominations to finally catch up to them.

She stopped trudging through the snow and stood in front of Bran, gasping for breath and ready to make her final stand with an obsidian-tipped spear in hand. Meera realised that her story most definitely wouldn't have a happy ending. If only they didn't follow those idiotic dreams and visions of her brother, all of them would still be alive.

She managed to kill two wights before a cold blade pierced her heart.

Meera Reed was no more.

*

Jon Snow

As Jon neared Ironrath, he contemplated how to break the siege. He could just charge into them and start killing people, but chances were that once they realised, they couldn't kill him, they would simply scatter, and letting any information about himself and his capabilities reach Winterfell was not something he desired.

For the same reason, using Winter would be inadvisable. While his dragonfire was hot and dangerous up close, the dragon was still young, and he couldn't spew dragonfire for too long or from a big distance yet. And even if he could, it wouldn't be very deadly, managing to burn a few men at most before making the enemy scatter. There was always the chance of his dragons dying from a stray arrow through the eye. And if enough arrows pierced a hole in the soft membrane of their wings, the dragon would be unable to fly and would be easily killed on the ground. With time, the membrane would become harder and thicker. But for now, Jon would definitely not let any of his dragons fight in a big battle yet.

Not to mention dragons were most useful for intimidating and dispersing the enemy unless the battlefield wasn't an open area covered by dry grass. Even Balerion, who was more than a hundred years old, with the help of Meraxes and Vhagar, only killed four thousand out of fifty-five thousand men in the Field of Fire. Additionally, most of those deaths were due to the fire spreading because of the dry grass and not dragonfire directly. The rest of the enemies had deserted into the hills or surrendered. The North itself was cold and wet, and there were no fields of dry grass to burn. And while Winter was very formidable, especially after the rituals, he did not have more than a hundred years to grow like the Black Dread. And last but not least, there existed a real chance that he could set the surrounding wolfswood on fire, which was definitely not advisable either.

It would simply be easier if he attacked them during the night and picked them off one by one. Their numbers would be whittled, and when they started to desert, he would not let any slip away with the help of Ghost. But any real plans would have to wait until he had the layout and enemy numbers.

Jon still couldn't form a connection with any other animal. Skinchanging in the mind of an animal forcibly took a great deal of concentration, intent and power. It took him about fifteen minutes to slip into the mind of a raven and head towards the siege to check the layout and the enemy numbers.

What he found left him somewhat baffled. The siege was broken, and recently at that. Piles of corpses were being stacked up and burned, as digging graves was not feasible as the ground was quite rocky. Most of the men wore Glover heraldry, which was very weird considering Deepwood Motte was supposedly still under Ironborn control.

One thing was for sure: they were definitely against House Bolton, but that did not mean they would fight for him and Sansa. But all in all, this was good news, as that meant that house Bolton would have fewer men at their disposal.

Jon returned to his body and deliberated on his next move. He entertained the notion of going to Ironrath and speaking to the Glovers but quickly dismissed it. For all they knew, he was a deserter of the Night's Watch and would try to catch and kill him before speaking to him. Currently, he was nearly twenty miles away from the seat of the Forresters, so it was simply not worth going, even if they agreed to hear him out.

He and his familiars would sweep through any deserters from this battle and turn their attention to the remaining Bolton scouts for a few days. Then they would join the wildling host and Sansa before they arrived near Winterfell.