Jon XIX

The small fleet of boats moved forward at an excruciatingly slow pace, but for good reason. The rowers knew exactly what they were doing and had made it very clear to Jon and his men that they would have to move slow to stay quiet.

There were three boats in total, each with three warriors and two rowers. They would land on the north end of the Moat and would have to scale the walls to get in. The Greatjon had promised that he was more than capable of the feat, but Jon would believe it when he saw it.

They had embarked a few hours before midnight so that they could make it through the swamp and be on the north end by the time Lord Hawker started his attack in the early morning. That had been a suggestion that the Lord of Eagle's Roost had made himself. Claiming:

"If they fuckers are thirty, let's have them be tired as well."

Jon looked over his shoulder where Lord Hawker's men had lit up the southern end like a piece of the sun had landed on earth. The battle cries and the banging of weapons on shields were also annoyingly loud. There was no chance that anyone inside the stronghold could ignore it.

Finally, Jon felt the bottom of the boat hit firm land.

"Let's go," Jon called softly, his eyes already accustomed to the darkness.

The nine warriors quickly disembarked and began to make their way towards the ruined curtain wall, crouching and keeping their weapons sheathed as they did. They weren't sure how many men were still on the northern walls, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

Two of the crannogmen came with them, each carrying a length of a rope attached to an iron grapple that was wrapped with cloth. It would muffle the sound of metal against stone.

Without an order from Jon, they twirled the grapples in their hands, building momentum before tossing them up the wall. As usual, the crannogmen did not miss or have to cast a second time. The one nearest to Jon tugged on the rope and handed it to Jon.

"All set, my lord. Remember, one at a time," he said quietly, glancing at the Greatjon. "Especially for that one."

The Greatjon grinned, his white teeth glowing like stars through his beard. "Cheeky bugger."

With agility belying his age and physique, the Lord of Last Hearth grabbed the rope, leaning his weight against it, before slowly placing one boot on the wall. When he felt sure that the rope would hold him, he began to climb, slowly and confidently, up the wall. When he reached the top, he stopped, peered over the top, and then clambered over. His face then reappeared over the top, still grinning wildly.

"Told ya."

Jon shook his head, but couldn't help but smile before he too climbed up the wall, Smalljon climbing the opposite rope. None of them had any plate-armor on. Just boiled leather and chainmail. Plate-mail would have been too heavy for even the Greatjon to wear while climbing the wall.

When Jon reached the top of the wall, he scrambled the last bit and landed as lightly as he could on the battlements, drawing his sword as he did. The entire northern wall was undefended and completely abandoned. All the frey soldiers were on the southern wall, firing down as Jon's men marched forward with one of the rams that Lord Hawker had ordered constructed.

It took a few more moments for the others to get on the wall. Jon had his eyes trained on the battle the entire time, waiting for the right moment to strike. The Greatjon knelt right beside him, his eyes narrowed and focused.

"We'll hit the Drunkard's Tower and clear it out," Jon whispered to the big lord. "We should be able to join Hawker's men in the Gatehouse after."

The Greatjon nodded and drew his massive blade from the sheath on his back. Jon glanced behind him, making sure that the others were ready before he set off at a slow, steady pace towards the leaning tower, his eyes flickering between the battle in front of the gatehouse and the entrance to the tower.

For once, Jon felt the need to have a shield on him. If any of the archers turned, they would surely see Jon and his group. Then they would all be fucked because only Rodrick Wendel Manderly and Eddard Karstark had shields. Even then, their shields couldn't protect their whole bodies against a dozen archers firing at them.

Jon's worries were put to rest when they reached the tower, taking them out of sight of the archers on the gatehouse. The White Wolf gently pressed against the door, increasing the force to test if it was locked or not. Unsurprisingly, the door swung open. The Freys had no reason to worry about anyone appearing from the northern walls and so had no reason to lock a potential escape route.

Jon stepped inside and looked up. From the sounds of feet on wood, there was no telling how many men were on each floor. He looked behind him, holding a finger to his lips as he climbed the stairs, reaching the first door that was wide open.

The frey closest to the door was the first to die as Jon put his sword through the man's back, covering his mouth as life left the man. The half a dozen archers on the floor were quickly taken care of as Jon's men spread out and took care of them, following Jon's model and covered their mouths as they killed them.

Except for the Greatjon. He just lopped off the man's head with one swing of his sword.

Jon strode towards the arrow slit and looked out. The ram was working on battering down, but arrows were still flying from all three towers and bodies littered the walkway and the swamps around it.

"Eyan, lock the door we came through," Jon ordered, keeping his voice low. "We have more floors to go. No one goes up alone. Understood?"

The northern warriors nodded firmly.

"Try to keep the kills quiet. If not, then we knew were in for a fucking fight." Jon said with a grim smile before going up the next flight of stairs, his adrenaline settled now that he had gotten his blade wet.

The next floor went almost as well as the first one did. Five of the six archers were killed without a sound, but Brandon hacked off one man's leg, causing the archer to cry in pain before half of his head was taken off.

"Great job, Fur-Brain!" Eyan hissed at his brother as the sound of footsteps could be heard on the steps.

One leather-clad man came running down the steps, stopping in his tracks as he took in the nine northerners.

"Intruders!" He bellowed before Eyan put an arrow through the man's throat, but it was too late.

"Hold the base of the steps!" Jon cried as more men came running down the steps. The first one to touch the floor was cut down by Jon, while the man behind him had the misfortune of coming face to face with the Greatjon. He lost an arm before he was thrown by the big lord behind the fighting, where he met Darryn Hornwood and was stabbed in the chest by the heir of Hornwood.

More and more freys came running down the steps as the higher floors were told, but Jon and the Greatjon held the line, cutting anyone they could and throwing those they couldn't behind them into the waiting swords of their companions. A few of the smarter buggers brought their bows with them, but Eyan Hawker made sure that those men went down before they could even reach for their quivers.

Jon and the Greatjon held the base of the steps for another half hour before they were replaced by Wendel Manderly and Brandon Hawker who kept the process up. After another half hour, they were replaced by Eddard Karstark and Daryn Hornwood. Owen Norrey and Rodrick Forrester were ready to take over whenever needed.

Eyan Hawker kept firing away at the enemy, now using the arrows of the downed freys.

Jon moved over to one of the windows and glanced out. The ram had broken through the gate and now the northern horse led by Maege Mormont was flooding in. the battle would soon be over.

Jon turned back to the battle at the steps as the Greatjon pulled a body back behind the fighting. The fur and iron armor identified the warrior as Own Norrey.

"Owen!" Jon said, kneeling beside the dying man.

The young clansman grinned up at Jon, blood in his teeth as one hand held his stomach where he had been stabbed.

"It's been an honor, White Wolf," he said before the light left his eyes and his body went slack.

Jon sighed and got back on his feet, getting next to the Greatjon. "Hawker's through the gate. You think we can finish the fight here without any help?"

The large lord grinned wildly. "Follow me and try not to get hit," he ordered as he charged forward, his large sword sweeping back and forth like a scythe, clearing all the men from the steps in a matter of moments as he continued his mad charge. A bellowing roar came unending from his throat.

Jon was at his back, cutting down anyone who got behind the large lord. He gestured for the others to follow.

"Come on! For the North!"

"For the North!" The others cheered as they followed Jon and the Greatjon.

After fighting on the steps for nearly two hours on the steps between the second and third floor, most of the other floors had only a few men. The Greatjon led the group the entire time, which had to be a terrifying sight for the freys. A mountain of a man, soaked from head to toe in blood and gore, wielding a sword bigger than most men.

Jon understood why northmen were regarded as savages after catching sight of the faces of the archers before they were slaughtered by a berserk Greatjon.

When the group of northerners reached the final floor, Jon allowed the others to take care of the last of the archers as he looked out over the gatehouse. Jon caught sight of one man in the middle of the frey defenders who were desperately trying to stave off the sieging northmen at the top of the tower.

The man wore plate-armor and wore the sigil of House Frey on his tabard. He was surrounded by another half a dozen men all wearing variations of the armor but was obvious that he was in charge. That was the man known as Black Walder.

"Eyan," Jon called as the others cheered and embraced each other after the final man had been killed. The archer jogged over to Jon, a curious look on his face. Jon pointed towards the enemy commander.

"Can you hit him?"

Eyan shrugged and nudged Jon out of the way. He stuck his free hand out of the window before drawing an arrow and taking aim at the commander. Jon watched quietly, not wanting to interrupt or distract the warrior.

Eyan loosed the arrow, lowering his bow after the arrow was on its way. Both he and Jon watched as the man in the middle of the ragged circle of defenders cried out and fell, an arrow appearing in his knee.

"You didn't kill him," Jon commented.

Eyan looked at him, holding an arrow. "Frey's are bad at three things, Jon. Loyalty, fighting, and making arrows. I'd be better off with sharpened sticks."

Jon chuckled and turned back to the others. "Let's get down there and finish the fight."

Line Break

Jon looked out from the battlements as the surviving freys were rounded up and stripped of weapons and armor. There weren't more than a hundred of them left. According to one of the Frey boys who was squire to Black Walder, around five hundred men had died because of the poisoned water. The remaining defenders, those who had been deemed well enough to fight, were spread out between the three towers, which were about twelve hundred men in total.

Many of those who couldn't fight died during the battle, succumbing to the poison. Lord Glover found their bodies and now mass graves were being dug about half a mile south of Moat Cailin where all the frey bodies could be buried.

Jon had already ordered that the army would spend two days at the Moat and send out riders to White Harbor before marching out. They lost two thousand footmen during the battle, mainly from the archer fire from the three towers, but that's a lot less than if the northern host had attacked the Moat with a healthy garrison.

"Not a bad fight." Lord Reed said quickly as he walked up to Jon. Unlike many of the northern lords, the Lord of Greywater Watch did not have a speck of blood on him. "Heard you and the Greatjon took out the Drunkard's Tower. Had about three hundred men in it. Probably saves twice that number of northmen."

"Aye, so I've heard." Jon replied. "You know we only won this battle because of you and your men."

Howland shrugged leaning against the battlements. "We would have taken the castle regardless."

"But we would have lost another three thousand or more men in the process." Jon countered. "I will write to Robb and let him know that you deserve credit for the taking of the Moat."

Howland shook his head. "Don't, it's quite alright. The history books will mark this down as the moment where the White Wolf, brother of the Young Wolf, began his campaign in the North that saw it freed of ironborn and traitors."

"I don't want to be in the history books." Jon said stubbornly.

Howland chuckled. "Tough luck lad. Your name became etched in history the moment you were put in command of this army. When this war is over, who do you think is going to be spoken about? Lord Rowan? What about Lord Swann's son? How about Lord Forrester?" The wiry lord shook his head. "No, the history books will focus on four men. Robb Stark, obviously, Randyll Tarly and his assault on Casterly Rock, The Blackfish, and you."

Jon sighed, dropping the argument. "When I was a boy, I asked my father who his most dangerous bannerman was. The Greatjon had just visited and you can imagine my first thoughts of the man. He didn't say the Umbers or the Boltons. He said Howland Reed. I told Robb this, and we were both very confused." Jon turned and looked at the northerner. "I'm not anymore."

Howland smiled slightly, nodding back to Jon. "I appreciate that. So you have Moat Cailin, what's your next step?"

"I already had a rider sent ahead to White Harbor. With any luck, the Manderly's wouldn't have turned their cloaks and will be able to send reinforcements." Jon explained. "I and Lord Umber will take half of our force, a little under five thousand men, and march east towards the Dreadfort. Lord Hawker and Lady Mormont will take the other half and march west to relieve Eagle's Roost, put down the Dustins and Ryswells before moving on to retake Deepwood Motte."

"What about Torrehen's Square?" Howland asked.

Jon cursed internally. He had forgotten about Torrhen's Square. That's where Victrarion Greyjoy was apparently. It would take a good force to clear out the raiders.

"Don't worry about it lad." Howland said gently. "Victarion's moved out already."

Jon raised an eyebrow. "He's gone?"

Howland nodded. "Aye, he and most of the ironborn are gone from the North. There are a few raiding ships still huddled around the Stony Shore, but other than Asha Greyjoy at Deepwood, the North is free of the ironborn."

Jon felt a smile of relief spread across his face as he heard the news. He now only had ten thousand northmen and he had been worrying himself for days wondering how he was going to deal with both the Boltons and the ironborn. The traitors could muster about five to seven thousand men according to the other northern lords, but the ironborn had another ten thousand raiders.

Now, Jon had Bolton alone.

"Wait, where have they gone?" Jon asked.

Howland shrugged. "Not sure. My best guess is that they saw a lot of armed men marching north and left in search of elsewhere to raid. Probably the Reach since the Westerlands are due to fall soon."

"We'll have to send a rider to Riverrun warning Margaery." Jon said. "I believe Robb left a host of ten thousand there, but it's near Tumbleton and nowhere near the coast."

Howland nodded. "Aye, I'll get on it," he promised. "Oh, I should also let you know that my friends have said that the Company of the Rose is due to land in the North any day now."

Jon's heart sank. After hearing about the ironborn pulling back, he had been overjoyed. The reason a mercenary company was landing in the North was because Roose Bolton had paid them to fight for him.

"How many men?" Jon asked.

"Around four thousand I believe." Howland answered, not sounding the least bit concerned. "Remember your history, Jon."

And with that, Howland walked away, leaving Jon more confused and worried than he had been at the start of their discussion.