11-Victory

Disclaimer: I don't own HP, GoT or ASOIAF.

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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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A.N: Someone kindly explained that the crow's beak of a war hammer was unsuited for hooking shields, and its primary function was to puncture armour. Thus, the weapon Jon picked up was replaced with a bearded axe (in chapter 11), which was historically used to hook shields by Vikings.

Without further ado, enjoy.

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The fields outside Winterfell

Ramsay was looking at the opposite side of the battlefield with a gleam in his eyes. The cavalry should have crushed and dispersed the disorganised wildling rabble and mountain clansmen, but it seems they overcame his horsemen instead. Not that it mattered; he still had the numbers advantage with infantry alone. His footmen were fresh, while the enemy was looking a bit battered after defeating the cavalry.

He looked at Hother Umber and Cregan Karstark. "It's time, go."

On the opposite side, Jon Snow stood at the front. He looked a bit winded, but his eyes were sharp, and he had plenty of fight left in him.

"Form up! Archers in front!" he gave a mighty shout. The wildlings and the mountain clansmen reformed the lines, and the bowmen quickly came to the front.

Ramsay's army was marching their way. Jon looked impassively as his enemies slowly approached. As soon as the enemy was about 150 yards away, he drew in a deep breath.

"SHOOT AT WILL!" he shouted.

The archers around him started shooting as fast as they could, peppering the enemy lines with arrows. As arrows began raining down on them, the Bolton men raised their shields and increased their pace to a slow run.

The arrows killed a few dozen men in the first volley and wounded nearly twice as many, but after that, the casualties were very few.

"ARCHERS, RETREAT!" Jon shouted as the enemy approached the 30 yards mark. He sent a mental command to dragons to come.

Jon could feel his blood boiling with excitement again as the enemy was upon them. He cleared his mind of any distractions to focus on the incoming clash. As the armies collided, he was at the very front, trying to kill as much as possible, but it was slow work. The enemy was in a tight-knit shield wall at the front, and the only way to attack was to either push, hack from above, or stab. Every man was covered by his shield on the left and his comrade's shield to the right. There was no room for other attacks, as Jon also had men behind and next to him. The battlefield turned into a pushing and stabbing match.

He hooked one shield with his bearded axe and tried to pierce the opponent across him with his blade, but the enemy parried his thrust to the left. He was forced to swing from above and hack through the raised shield of someone in the backline to kill his first man. Next to him, Ghost lunged at the enemy's feet unprotected by the shields, yet stood clad in steel. The direwolf bit through the steel as if it was paper and dragged his victim right into the hands of the wildlings, where he was quickly killed. Jon barely killed three people, and after hacking through yet another shield to kill a fourth enemy, he realised that he wouldn't make much difference here. He slipped into the men behind him with some effort, and once he was a few metres from the front, he warged into his dragons that were already flying overhead.

As the armies clashed, Ramsay's gaze slid towards the skies. Far in the distance, three big birds were approaching from the north. He squinted his eyes carefully. He had seen many things in the north, but those birds did not look familiar at all.

They were getting bigger and bigger with each passing moment. Larger than any normal bird. A sinking realisation slowly set in.

"Those are no birds," he whispered to himself.

At that moment, they were nearly above the battlefield. Ramsay could see the scales glinting in the morning sun and the mighty flap of their leathery wings.

"Those are fucking dragons!" he shouted in terror, surprise and fear. The dragons ignored the fighting below them and continued flying towards him.

Ramsay's mind felt scrambled for a moment, but he overcame the sudden urge to flee. How could you outrun a flying dragon?

His mind went into overdrive. The dragons weren't very big, and he still had his archers. The men around him were shuffling uneasily, and he could see the fear in their eyes.

He grabbed a bow and shouted desperately with all his might, "ARCHERS, SHOOT AT WILL. TAKE THE DAMN BEASTS OFF THE SKY!" while nocking an arrow towards the sky, which he released after aiming shortly.

The first volley of arrows flew up...and did absolutely nothing but fall to the ground harmlessly. The dragons were more than 50 yards in the air, and at that height, the arrows had lost almost all their momentum before reaching them.

The three dragons then swooped down towards the men, opened their maws and started spewing fire in the middle of the Bolton archers. At the prospect of being roasted to death, Ramsay quickly threw his bow away, hopped on his horse and spurred his steed to flee. His only hope of survival was if the dragons did not focus on him but on the archers instead. However, the largest dragon saw him, turned, and dived directly toward him. Before Ramsay could get anywhere, the blue dragon was already upon him. The last thing the bastard saw was the open maw of the dragon and its sharp teeth.

Soon after the armies clashed, the wildlings and the mountain clansmen were slowly pushed back. They had far worse equipment, and their shield wall was a bit uneven. The only reason they weren't overwhelmed at the very beginning was the presence of a giant in both flanks and the centre. The giants used tree trunks as clubs to push back the enemy line, sometimes outright smashing some men into meat paste. However, soon after the armies clashed, the giant in the left flank got pierced by a spear in the eye. He died instantly, and the flank started slowly losing ground.

At the same time, from the wolfswood, four hundred horsemen appeared.

"MAZIN"

"HORNWOOD"

The cavalry cut into the Bolton's left flank, taking them completely unprepared. Coupled with the giant smashing through the Bolton shield wall with a giant tree trunk at the front, the whole left flank started to buckle slowly, and soon the men in the back started fleeing.

The first breath of Dragonfire completely dispersed the Bolton archers. Only three dozen died, but many more were heavily wounded with burns, and the rest fled. Winter rejoined the other two dragons and then turned in sync towards the battle. In a few seconds, the dragons were above the battlefield and started spewing dark blue, purple, and blood-red flames straight into the back of the Bolton centre and right flank. The fire wasn't hot enough to kill in an instant from 30 yards away unless one got roasted directly, but the sight of flames raining down from the sky had almost all men turn around and try to flee. The dragons killed less than a hundred and fifty men and wounded more than twice the number by the time they got exhausted and could not spew any more fire. It did not matter as the Bolton lines had all been broken, and their men were either fleeing or throwing down their weapons in surrender.

As the enemy started fleeing, the wildlings and the mountain clansmen followed in pursuit with the Hornwood and Mazin cavalry.

The battle was won.

*

Sansa Stark

Lyanna Mormont had wanted to fight, but Jon had managed to convince her to stay behind, as she was the last of her House and not yet an adult. Sansa and Lyanna stubbornly decided to watch the battle from a nearby hill, despite the protests of Brienne and the Mormont guard.

She saw Ramsay try and bait them with a boy that looked similar to Rickon with no success. Inwardly, she sighed with relief.

Sansa had heard many songs and stories about battles as a child, but by now, she knew that the real world was far bloodier. She worried for her brother. She was worried about the battle. Could they win with such a disadvantage? As the bloody fighting began, she anxiously watched Jon, who was the first to rush into the enemy cavalry.

Your brother is a killer.

Sandor Clegane's voice rang in her head at the sight. She knew that Jon was a good fighter. She knew that he had been killed and that he was very dangerous. After two moons on the march with them, Sansa was well aware that the wildlings only respected strength. Jon had to be strong, otherwise three thousand of them wouldn't have banded together to follow her brother.

And now, looking at the battlefield, Sansa finally saw it, for Jon was killing his enemies in doves almost effortlessly, to the point that his armour was no longer black but blood red. Her heart skipped a beat every time the enemy struck him, but her brother continued unbothered, shrugging off all blows as if they did not happen. She idly wondered where this armour came from, as he hadn't carried any with himself when coming back.

"Your brother fights like a demon. He must have killed more than half a hundred men so far." Lyanna Mormont said with a very impressed voice next to her.

Sansa couldn't find her voice, so she just nodded at the girl.

And by the gods, she watched with fear and trepidation as the infantry clashed and the battle continued.

She watched with awe as the dragons breathed fire directly into the enemy, and the Bolton men started turning around to flee. Soon enough, all of them were running away or throwing down their weapons in surrender. The gates of Winterfell were open, and apparently, whatever was left of the garrison had decided to surrender as well. The battle was over, and they had won.

"The day is ours. Let's go," Sansa said impatiently and spurred her horse forward without waiting for a reply. She saw from the corner of her eye that Brienne and Lyanna had followed her. Their party headed towards the now-open gates of Winterfell.

As they rode through the battlefield, the sight around them was gruesome. The fighting had stopped, and most enemy men had surrendered or fled. The ground was soaked red with blood, and the air stank of shit, piss, and burned meat. Horse carcasses, severed limbs, guts and corpses were strewn all around. There were a few charred patches surrounded by burned or half-burned remains where the dragons had spewed their fire. Pained moans and cries of the dying and the wounded could be heard all around.

The songs were all wrong; there was nothing glorious in a battle, only misery or death.

As they approached the gate, they were joined by Ghost. Their horses seemed terrified by him, but they managed to rein them in. The direwolf was covered in blood and mud. Sansa would not have believed that the quiet and loveable Ghost that loved her neck rubs would be so vicious and dangerous. But she had seen first-hand the direwolf viciously crush armoured limbs with his bite, drag grown men by the legs effortlessly, and end many lives by ripping out throats.

As their party entered the courtyard, Sansa noted that the atmosphere was somewhat sombre, despite the victory. There was no joyful celebration, just a grim silence. She saw her brother surrounded by some of the lords inside. He was wearing armour, but she couldn't make out the finer details as it was completely covered in blood. Before the battle, she had glimpsed it from a distance, and it was pitch black, but now it was different shades of bloody red. Jon's helmet was strapped on his belt, and his face looked tired, but his eyes were still sharp.

Sansa quickly spurred her horse and made her way toward her brother.

"...throw all the captured lords and their retinue down in the dungeons. I'll deal with them one by one later. The Bolton men at arms can choose between the black and the block. And have all the rest who surrendered swear on the Heart Tree to not bear arms against House Stark ever again before releasing them," Jon spoke to Hugo Wull. The huge old man nodded and went to fulfil his task.

Her brother wiped some of the blood off his face and turned to the onion knight.

"Ser Davos, get a count on the losses, both ours and theirs. While you're at it, bring all the wounded inside the courtyard to be treated."

"Lord Liddle, find out what happened to my brother Rickon's remains. He was killed more than a moon and a half ago."

"Lord Mazin, organise some mounted patrols in case the men who fled decide to turn to banditry. Spare anyone who yields and send them to the Wall. Kill all those who fight back."

"Ser Brynden, scour the whole keep, remove everything even remotely Bolton-related inside and raise the Direwolf banners. Also, send away all of the Bolton servants that came from the Dreadfort."

Sansa carefully watched as her brother quickly and confidently gave out the orders. His posture was straight, and his tone was firm. Combined with his piercing purple eyes, the long Stark face, and the scar on his left eye, Jon looked very regal, despite being a bastard. Especially when she compared the image in front of her with the fat and drunken Robert, cruel and petty Joffrey or meek Tommen. The people around obediently followed his orders, despite Jon being baseborn. Even her uncle Brynden, who originally had some misgivings about Jon when he first joined them, looked at her brother respectfully. After the battle, he had won the respect of the lords here.

As the men were sent on tasks, she dismounted her steed, handed it over to a stable boy and went to her brother. She wanted to pull him into a fierce hug but hesitated as she eyed all the gore covering him. The last time Sansa did that was a few days ago, and she had to spend a lot of time getting her cloak and gown cleaned afterwards.

"Jon, how are you? I saw you take some hits during the battle," she asked with concern.

"I am fine, Sansa. Were you not supposed to be in the camp with Lady Mormont and Brienne of Tarth?" Jon sharply retorted.

She felt like a little girl again under her brother's stern gaze.

"Lady Mormont and I convinced our guard to watch the battle from a nearby hill. While we couldn't fight, we'd rather watch from there than sit around in the camp and do nothing but worry, not knowing what was happening," she returned with some steel in her voice.

"So, you, Lady Lyanna and your guard got on your horses, stood on a hill, and watched the battle?"

"Yes."

"Sweet sister, what would you have done if Ramsay sent some of his horsemen after you? Or even his whole cavalry?" Jon asked with a tired voice. Sansa owlishly blinked at him as she realised she had never thought either of those scenarios over. "You could be dead or captured before I could do anything. Even if you escaped on the horses, the whole battle would have been in jeopardy. This was an unnecessary risk. If you wanted to watch the battle, you should have told me, and I would have found a better solution."

Sansa wanted to open her mouth and argue. How could she speak to him when he avoided her the last few days?! But she knew her brother had a point and was probably right. And now was not the time for petty arguments, for Jon had promised to tell her everything yesterday. However, the middle of the courtyard wasn't the place for such conversations. After a few moments of thoughtful silence, she realised that her brother had deflected her original query.

"I'm sorry," Sansa apologised softly but continued stubbornly, "but don't try to change the topic, Jon. Injuries are not a joke. I insist you get looked over by the Maester!"

Jon stood silent for a few moments, but after a sigh, he replied with a question. "Didn't that Maester work for the Boltons? Are you sure he can be trusted?"

"Yes. He is dutiful and good. Maester Wolkan was the one slipping me moon tea and treating my injuries when he could." Sansa explained patiently. Next to her, Ghost decided to lie down on the ground, completely unbothered by all the mud around him.

"Alright, fine. I will get checked over," her brother finally conceded. Jon turned toward a nearby man with Mormont livery and walked over to him. "Could you please fetch the maester and bring him here? Tell him he will be tending to the wounded from the battle too, so he'd be prepared."

"Aye, m'lord." The soldier nodded and ran off to find the maester.

Sansa followed after her brother and asked one of the questions on her mind. "Jon, do you know what happened to Ramsay?"

"Aye. I skinchanged into Winter during the battle and bit his head off when he tried to escape. I did spit it out, so if you want, I can find it for you," her brother replied with a twitch of his lips.

Sansa felt relieved that Ramsay was dead, but his death seemed too easy and simple. On the one hand, she wanted Ramsay to suffer for everything he had done. On the other hand, putting extra attention and time into the cruel bastard that had been her husband would be a waste of time. Not giving Ramsay any more time after he died, directly proving how unimportant he was both in life and death, would also be her final insult. While she was lost in thought, the maester had arrived.

Wolkan was an old man with receding grey hair. He had grown a short beard since she last saw him. He also looked very stressed and had large circles under his eyes.

"You called for me, my lord?" the maester asked timidly. He appeared to be intimidated by the tall and bloody figure of her brother.

"Aye, my sweet sister demands that I get checked," Jon mirthfully said while looking at her.

"I need you to take your armour off, my lord." Wolkan shuffled uneasily.

Her brother just shrugged and started taking off his bloodied armour, piece by piece.

It was not appropriate to look, but she found herself staring with interest anyway. Her brother's body was lean and strong when she saw it in Castle Black. How did he look now, after growing a few inches?

Soon, all the armour was off, followed by the chainmail and the arming doublet. Jon even took off his thin linen tunic, leaving him only in breeches and boots. Whereas before, her brother was fit and lean, now, his muscles were bigger and more defined. His whole body was brimming with strength. She gazed with fascination at Jon's figure, which was more and more pleasing to her eyes with every passing moment. Her eyes slid towards the previous seven stab wounds. They were no longer angry purple but had become dull silvery in colour, and his torso was also adorned by a dozen new, thin scars that he previously did not have. Sansa made a mental note to ask him later about the fresh scars.

She heard a gasp from the maester next to her, and he was looking deathly pale at the sight of her brother's stab wounds, particularly the one right over his heart.

After a few moments, Wolkan managed to get his trembling hands back under control and check her brother. "You are as healthy as an auroch, my lord, if a bit tired," Wolkan replied with disbelief.

"Thank you, maester. Go tend to the others. They would need it far more than me." Jon quickly dismissed the old man, who ran away as if on fire towards some of the wounded who had just entered the courtyard.

Sansa turned around and saw that Lyanna was right behind her and staring at her brother's bare body with great interest.

"Brother, you can get dressed now," Sansa reminded him with a slight cough.

"Jon Snow!" called a familiar voice from nearby. She turned to see Tormund approaching.

"Still alive, I see." The red-haired wildling wore a large grin but had a large gash on his right cheek.

"Aye. But you seem to have picked up a trophy from the fight." Her brother pointedly nodded towards his wound.

"Bah, just a scratch." Tormund dismissed it with a wave of his hand.

"You should go to the maester over there to check it anyway. Great warriors have died from small wounds after they festered," Sansa decided to cut in.

"My sister is right, you know. No point risking it," Jon agreed with her as he put his tunic back on.

Tormund grumbled for a bit but eventually relented.

"Fine!" he grunted in agreement and left for the maester.

Sansa's mind wandered. Now that they had won Winterfell back, there were other enemies to take care of. The crown in the south would ask them to kneel, or they would be considered traitors. But there was no way they would kneel to a Lannister. To the north, another enemy was coming. And even now, they would have to deal with all the Houses that had sided with Roose and Ramsay. They might have won, but the troubles did not go away. The summer dreams of childhood were long gone, and the cold winds of winter were blowing.

Just as she was lost in her musings, a man-at-arms quickly ran up to them.

"My lord, a small party with Glover and Mormont banners is approaching."

*

Gates of the Moon

Autumn was ending, and snow had blocked most of the mountain roads in the Vale. The Eyrie would soon become inaccessible, so Lord Arryn's court had moved to the Gates of the Moon.

Most of the important Vale Lords had gathered in the hall of the keep after the ascension of Harrold Arryn as Lord Paramount of the Vale and Warden of the East.

At the end of the hall, the new Lord Arryn was seated upon the weirwood throne on the dais and watched silently as the lords in attendance argued loudly, discussing what to do.

Aegon Targaryen and Queen Regent Cersei Lannister had called upon the Vale banners and fealty to deal with their enemies.

Ser Lyn Corbray, who was representing his elder brother, rose from his seat and spoke. "We should ride out and crush that Targaryen pretender!"

Yohn Royce slammed his hand on the table and spoke up loudly. "That would mean siding with the Lannisters! You might have forgotten, my lords, but I haven't! The lions killed Lord Jon Arryn. They killed Eddard Stark too. We all remember when Ned and Robert were fostered in the Vale together, and Ned did not have a single treacherous bone in his body! We would have ridden out of the Bloody Gate and crushed all the lions and roses with the Young Wolf if it wasn't for the cowardice of Lady Arryn! I will never swear fealty to a Lannister of Casterly Rock!"

The hall exploded in mayhem again.

"My lords, we swore to follow the Iron Throne. But King's Landing is all but a charred ruin, and the Iron Throne is no more! Why would we follow a king who rules from the Rock or Storm's End? Let the lions and the dragons fight each other. We swore under the threat of Dragonfire, and the dragons are long dead!" Lord Horton Redfort shouted from his seat.

The whole hall stilled.

Gilwood Hunter, the Lord of the Longbow Hall, abruptly stood up and broke the silence. "The Lannisters and the Targaryens can go fuck themselves. I remember when Elbert Arryn and Kyle Royce were killed by the Mad King twenty years ago. The Lannister imp armed the mountain clansmen with steel, and they have been raiding us harder than ever. Let all the dragons and lions who want to rule us come and break their teeth and claws at the Bloody Gate if they dare," he proclaimed strongly.

"Winter is almost upon us. In a few moons, most roads in the Mountains of the Moon would be fully blocked by the snow. We should head back to our keeps and wait until spring before making any moves," Lord Belmore proposed.

Harrold Arryn stood and watched the lords argue, trying to keep his expression impassive while vividly imagining how he would ravish the busty maid serving the wine.

With the destruction of King's Landing, most of the lords were unwilling to follow a Lannister child King with dubious origins that would rule from the Westerlands. Nor were they willing to follow a Targaryen pretender again, especially after that line had produced one too many cruel madmen. More than one Lord would love to rule themselves again, separate from the affairs of the other Kingdoms. But they were also unwilling to declare a green, unproven, and lusty summer boy like Harrold king.

*

Arya Stark, The Twins

Most members of House Frey slowly tickled into the great hall to attend the feast. There were other weasels spread around the Riverlands, but most of the important ones were here. Arya felt deep joy and satisfaction at the memory of her serving Walder Frey pies made of the meat from his sons and then slitting his throat. Now she was wearing the old weasel's face and was going to extinguish the main branch of House Frey.

In a few minutes, the hall was full, and the atmosphere was rowdy. Everyone was chatting happily. Arya slammed down her cup twice, and everyone grew silent.

She stood up and spoke happily in the raspy voice of the old weasel, "You wonder why I called you all here tonight. After all, we just had a feast. Since when does old Walder give us two feasts in a single fortnight?"

The hall boomed with laughter.

"Well, it's no good being so successful as I have if you don't celebrate with your family. That's what I say!"

The Freys cheered and started slamming their fists on their tables. Arya gave a sign to the servants, and soon wine and pies were being served to everyone. There was plenty left of Lame Lothar and Black Walder, and she had also carved up Lord Walder himself to add to the material.

"I've gathered every Frey who means a damn thing so I can tell you my plans for this great house now that Winter has come." Arya barely managed to contain her eagerness and kept speaking with the voice of Walder Frey. "But first, a toast! No more of that dornish horsepiss. This is the finest Arbor Gold. Proper wine for proper heroes!"

All the fools in the hall started cheering, and Arya smacked her glass on her table twice.

"We stand together!" she exclaimed the words of House Frey and raised her cup in a toast as everyone in the hall stood up and repeated after her.

Arya observed as they drank and started eating the Frey pies. She held her cup to her lips but did not drink. The girl next to her picked up her cup and drank. The servants must have been in on the Red Wedding too. They would all die. She'd rather a hundred innocents die than let a single guilty soul escape.

"Maybe I'm not the most pleasant man. I'll admit it. But I'm proud of you lot! You're my family, the men and women who helped me slaughter the Starks in the Red Wedding." Arya addressed the hall again, barely containing the fury in her voice. All the Freys foolishly cheered at her words. She signalled the bards, and they began to play the melody of the Rat Cook in the background.

"Yes, yes, cheer. Brave men, all of you. Butchered a woman pregnant with her babe. Cut the throat of a mother of five. Slaughtered your guests after inviting them into your home. But you didn't slaughter every single one of the Starks."

Some men finally looked alert at her speech and even looked around suspiciously. The song about the Rat Cook was a dead giveaway, after all. But it was too late now, groans slowly started filling the hall, and the music itself stopped. She hadn't spared the bards either.

"No, no, that was your mistake. You should have ripped them all out, root and stem. Leave one wolf alive, and the sheep are never safe!"

Arya watched with vicious satisfaction as everyone in the hall started to choke and spit up blood, including the serving girl next to her. She would make sure that everyone responsible paid in blood for the vile butchery of her mother and brother.

She smiled widely at the sight of Freys dying and choking from poison after eating their own Lord and his sons and listening to the song about the Rat Cook. Vengeance was sweet in her mouth, yet her heart felt empty.

Arya frowned; if she had killed everyone inside the Twins, nobody would be able to tell the tale of what had happened here. All the guards and servants had been served poisoned wine on her orders. She slowly made her way to the maester's room, still wearing the old weasel's face. Thankfully he was still alive and reading a scroll, and the cup of wine on his table was untouched. Without the old maester, she wouldn't know how to send ravens across Westeros.

"Lord Frey, you mustn't move so much at your age with gout," the maester said with concern as soon as she entered.

"Nonsense. After this feast, I feel as spry as a newborn pup," Arya deflected with a slight lilt in her voice. "Maester Brennet, I want you to send some letters to everyone," she said in a commanding tone.

"Everyone?"

"Aye, every single important Lord in the Seven Kingdoms."

The lord shuffled and put a stack of parchments on the desk. "What should I write, My Lord?"

"Do you remember the tale of the Rat Cook? The North Remembers. Winter is coming," Arya uttered with her own voice and finally removed the face of the old weasel. Maester Brennet froze, and his face paled rapidly.

"GUARDS! FACELESS MAN!" the old fast maester shouted in horror.

"Shout all you want, maester. Nobody will come. The only people alive in the Twins are you and me," she said with a smile and stabbed her dagger into the table. "Now write if you value your life."

The old man looked as white as chalk, and his eyes were darting around. Arya raised her eyebrow and started playing with her dagger. Seeing that nobody was coming, he gulped and started writing down her messages with a shaking hand.

As soon as the messages were sent, she approached the maester with the dagger in hand. He too must have been complicit in the Red Wedding and would not be spared. The fat old man saw his death coming and went on his knees.

"Mercy, please, mercy! I am innocent." Seeing no change in her, he switched to another tactic. "I know that the Faceless men only kill their targets. Nobody would have paid for my life!"

So the maester knew how the order worked. It was surprising but not unexpected. Yet Arya was not a part of the faceless men; even if she was, he too would be marked for death, as he had seen her in action.

"You're wrong. The life of everyone here has been paid in blood already. Did you think that any of you would get away with breaking Guest Rights and killing my family?" Arya sharply retorted.

"Spare me! There are prisoners from the Red Wedding in the dun..." she slashed his throat open before he could continue begging any further.

The old man fell to the ground and pitifully gurgled as he choked on his own blood.

Arya quickly decided to visit the dungeons to see who those "prisoners" were. If there was anyone left alive, it must have been some of the lords loyal to her brother, and she shouldn't mind setting them free.

After a dozen minutes, she was down where the prison cells were. It took her some time to find the keys, but Arya eventually spotted them on the corpse of a dead guard. She picked them up and started checking the cells one by one.

Most were empty, but there was one with an old corpse inside. He had been dead for quite some time, as it was half rotten, and the stench was unbearable. Arya had almost given up on finding anyone until she got to the last cell. Inside was a very tall man with both legs shackled to the wall. He had unkempt grey hair, and a messy beard and was dressed in rags. After all the years of captivity, the prisoner was quite thin but still had some visible muscle on his frame, hinting at a strong figure before his imprisonment.

"Lyanna!? By the old gods, am I dead already?" the prisoner exclaimed loudly.

She did not recognise the face at first, but the loud booming voice she vividly remembered from a harvest feast in Winterfell. One did not simply forget Greatjon Umber and his loud voice, but he had brown hair and a beard back then.

"You're not dead, Lord Umber. And my name's not Lyanna," she explained, hiding her surprise of being mistaken for her dead aunt.

Greatjon's face scrunched in confusion for a few moments, but understanding slowly appeared in his eyes.

"You must be Ned's girl! Run, Arya, if the treacherous weasels catch you..."

"Relax, Lord Umber," she interrupted him calmly and unlocked his manacles. "I've already killed every single Freys here."

He wildly looked around, but when he saw nobody was coming, he grinned.

"Good!"

After they exited the dungeons, he exclaimed with a savage smile, "What now, Lady Stark?"

Arya paused for a moment. King's Landing was a ruin, and she did not know her way around Casterly Rock. The same could not be said for Winterfell.

"Now we take whatever we can carry from here and throw the rest in the Green Fork. Then we go North. I will make Roose Bolton and his son rue the day they started plotting against House Stark."