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Chapter 5: Remember where Winterfell

Summary:

The Iron Born land, there is a fight, a letter is sent, and both Jon and Robb have been forced to lose their innocence. Do not ask for who the bell tolls, it tolls for us all.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The Revolution of Westeros: How an Engineer Views Plebeians

Remember where Winterfell

Euron Greyjoy had been grinning in manic glee ever since his ships left Pyke a week ago, carrying the 600 men that would help him lay siege to Winterfell. The Northern host should now be nearing the shores of Cape Kraken, and he was beside himself with the task before him. Unbeknownst to his brother, he had struck a deal even greater than non-aggression with the fat Tyrell in the South. No, it wouldn't just be the Iron Born that would ravage the North. Sellswords from the East would land in the North and travel to Winterfell. The Starks would know what it was to be brought low by a Greyjoy.

They had faced little resistance since they landed in Stony Shore, the west of the North was vast and much of it was underutilized. It grated Euron to not rape and reave the way the Iron Born should, but he had a much greater mission. He knew his lust for destruction and misery would be satiated, for a time, when he reached Winterfell. So, he only allowed himself and his troops to kill the occasional workers they ran across. It would be a terrible blow if Winterfell knew of his impending wrath before the Iron Born had sufficiently set up camp.

There was another thing grating on Euron's nerves: Maron. His nephew, the little shit, didn't know anything about anything. He was a thorn in his side, constantly asking questions in private yet acting superior to all the other men, with the exception of Euron, because of his position. Euron decided, again, to be rid of him as soon as possible. Maybe an "accident" within a siege tower would be enough to convince Balon that Euron wasn't the mastermind of his death?

Time would tell. In only a couple days time, his army would reach Winterfell. It was surprising, it seems the Northerners were trying to build a road before he came along and murdered the workers. Oh well, it would be a shame if he didn't use it to get to Winterfell faster. Balon would laugh at the irony of a tool of the North being used against them. Who knows, maybe it would soften the blow of Maron dying a tragically pitiful death?

Maron had a feeling of foreboding ever since he left the Iron Islands. What his uncle planned was unnatural, Iron Born sieging a castle? It was so rare in their history that he wasn't even sure if it had happened before. Sure, they had taken castles before, but often times they would just use ladders and rush their way through the enemy. What Euron proposed was completely out of his character, Iron Born don't wait and siege, they fight and die. So then, why was his uncle acting this way?

It was more than the way he now thought of warfare, Balon's brother seemed  to always have a crazed, glazed over look in his eyes. He was insane before, yes, but he seemed to be… radically different than what he was. While it may have seemed juvenile to others, Maron had only shared his thoughts with a couple of the men in the 600 Iron Born contingent and they laughed his concerns off as him being a "greenie," he knew that something was amiss. Even so, he would follow his uncle. Maron was beginning to wonder if his father had sent him here because he too had seen a change in Euron. He'd have to speak with him when he returned.

Jonas was a young boy of nine name-days who lived near the Wolfsroad that was cutting through the Wolfswood in between Deepwood Motte and Torrhen's Square. His father had been blessed by the Starks to be chosen as one of the masons who worked on the road. Today, he was carrying a lunch that his father had forgotten at the house. Forward progress may be stalled by the clearing of the Godswood, which was nearly done for the time being, but there were still many things the masons could do while waiting. Sadly, Jonas would never forget this day, this horrible day.

Coming near to the construction site, Jonas was surprised by a terrible screaming. It sounded like tens of people were being attacked at once. He would have helped, Jonas was brave, but… Jonas knew his father was there. He was more important to Jonas than anything, ever since his mother passed a year ago from disease. So, Jonas did what he knew he had to do. He hid.

He ran away from the road towards the woods. He had always felt safer amongst nature, but he knew he had to get off the road so he wouldn't be found. He started in the direction of the screaming, using the trees for cover. It was horrifying that the screaming continued, the people must have been in a great deal of pain.

He ran to a tree and stopped, his heart beating in his chest. He peaked out, nothing.

He ran to another and stopped, his heart beating faster and faster. He slowly looked past the tree… nothing.

For fifteen minutes he continued like this, for fifteen minutes the screaming, crying, and wailing didn't end.

He came upon a small clearing where the road construction had stalled due to the need to call in more lumberjacks. He saw a large host. A hundred meters away, hundreds of men were gathered in the tents where he so often came and visited his father. He looked left behind the tents and saw something that made him want to hurl.

15 men, all of them the masons, and a woman and child who Jonas recognized as the family of one of the masons. Jonas had always been fond of these people, of the woman who would accompany him at times to visit her husband, of the boy he would at times play with, his friend, Artus.

They were beaten, bloodied, brutalized. Half of them lay dead, the woman, seemingly used by the Iron Born until she was a shell of a human. The boy, still alive, but crying hysterically. The men, defeated, and resigned to being nothing but husks of flesh to be tortured and murdered by the Iron Born.

Jonas was scared. Jonas was frightened. But, more than anything, Jonas was angry.

Who were these people, to come to his home, attack his friends, his family, and think they could get away with it?

They're the Iron Born, Jonas, and these individuals care for nothing but to rape and reave.

Jonas knew that he, alone, was insignificant, that he couldn't help these people. But, he needed to know if his father… if his father had gotten away. So, he made to slowly move to a different tree so he could get a better view. He wished that he hadn't.

As he peaked around the tree, his heart leapt into his throat. A pair of eyes stared back at him.

Dead, soulless eyes. The eyes of his father stared directly into his soul. He had been beaten, carved with the swords of the Iron Born, and hanged for trying to fight back. Jonas' heart shattered. He wanted to scream, to cry, but all he could do was remain silent as the tears trailed down his face.

For an entire minute, he stood there staring at his father. Grief turned to bitterness, bitterness to rage, rage to motivation. He couldn't stay here. What more could he do? He was one boy against hundreds. He had to leave. He had to warn others. What happened to these people, Artus, his father, couldn't happen again.

So, with a heavy heart, he turned to leave. As he turned around, a hand reached out and viciously grabbed his right arm.

"What do we have here?" an Iron Born lacking his armor said. "How'd you escape from the others? That won' do, won' do at all." The man had a crazed expression on his face, he had just finished with the woman, only to run across this small boy near the corpse of the man he helped carve and kill. What a lucky day for him.

Jonas startled and tried to struggle, but the grip only grew tighter. He had a dagger in the left of his belt, it would never be good to walk through the Wolfswood unarmed, his father had always told him. It would be tricky, but he might be able to pull it on the unarmed Iron Born and get away.

"Beautiful piece of art isn't it," the Iron Born started. At this, Jonas' struggles stopped, his eyes widened. "Carved it myself, I did," the disgusting, filthy Iron islander said. "He just wouldn't stop strugglin', kept screaming about hav'n a son or somethin', so we decided to cut out his tongue for him. He jus' wouldn' give us Iron Born the respec' we deserve. Me and a couple of the others decided it'd be a good idea to carve him up for all the trouble he caused us. Don' be shy boy, take a close lo-"

He was cut off. Jonas, fueled by rage, anger, and a thirst for vengeance, unclipped his dagger concealed by his jerkin and stabbed blindly upwards into the man while he was leaning down, speaking in Jonas' ear. His dagger struck true, going through the man's neck and silencing him.

Jonas broke free, ripped out the dagger from the neck of the man who had fallen to the ground clutching his throat, and stabbed again. He stabbed, and he stabbed, and he kept thrusting the blade into the corpse. For several minutes there was only the sound of crying, and of a knife entering skin while a dead man hanged there watching.

Jonas arose. He looked at his dagger, he looked at the man, and he looked at his father hanging from the tree. He had taken a life, but he wished he could have traded it instead.

For several minutes Jonas sat there, his mind a blur. Soon, his mind returned to him, and he remembered what he should do. Gathering his courage, he turned from his father and left. He knew the ones that could stop these terrible people. He could only hope he could make it to Winterfell in time for them to be brought to justice.

His health was failing. While he had always been holding onto life by a thread granted to him by the Old Gods and the Children, he knew that his time was coming. It was peculiar, this was much earlier than he thought it would be. The Raven was certain that this iteration was progressing slightly differently than times before. Mayhaps humanity would win, at last, and the cycle would be ended? He nearly scoffed at the thought. Planetos had been in this cycle since the end of the first True Long Night many eons ago, and he doubted that the small changes he had seen in the north would save humanity.

"Rest now," he heard the harmonious voice that echoed through the threads of time from the weirwood he was entangled with. "An anomaly has arrived; he will be the one that brings the dawn. The Cycle waxes weak, and it must be ended once and for all. You are needed no more," Rest? He hardly remembered the last time he allowed himself such a thing.

"Who would be there to guide him," the Three-Eyed Raven began as he pondered if he would ever receive rest and see the end of his cycle of life and death.

"He holds more advantages, more knowledge, than you could fully understand, Raven. He needs none but that which we send him. Your part is finished, the cycle will end, the boy will grow strong and bring the golden age that arrives with the end of the fight between life and death. He is unbeholden to the prophesy, yet fulfill it he will. We have foreseen it."

The skeletal figure on the weirwood throne could see it, the anomaly, the boy. He had seen this boy often, the boy Jon Snow. He was the one they spoke of? What was different this time? How would the dawn be brought when so little was different from the last incarnation of this world?

As if his thoughts were known to the voice, it spoke again, "You look outwardly when what has changed is the inside. The boy will grow stronger, fiercer, and already holds an intelligence greater than most. The trials set before him will give him the resolve needed to end this cycle. He is the King, the one that is destined yet lost to the sight of the Others due to the changes inside him."

That was a boon, he was outside the view of the Night King. That, at least, gave the Three-Eyed-Raven more hope.

He was fading. Soon, he knew, he would join the aether.

His heart stopped.

His eyes closed.

'Don't fail, Jon Snow,' the Three-Eyed Raven had as his last thought, 'this is humanity's last chance.'

And so, the Bloodraven was no more.

"Robb, recite to us the history of relations held between the North and the Reach," Luwin stated during his lesson for Jon and Robb.

"Maester Luwin," Robb started to complain, "I've done it some three times now."

Luwin smiled at Robb's annoyance. "Repetition forces these things to remain in your mind, my young Lord, and the Reach is a land that would be good for you to know more of as the future Lord of Winterfell."

Robb sighed, closed his eyes, and began reciting all that he knew of the Reach and the North "the Lord Paramount of the Reach is Lord Mace Tyrell, it is a fertile land and the North often has need of the food produced there. Recently we've become less reliant due to…"

The lesson continued on as Jon tuned out the less important parts. The modern affairs and history of Westeros were important, yes, but Jon's mind was occupied with different matters. Truly, many things were on his mind.

Recently, Robb had taken on a more administrative role. With Lord Stark's absence due to the war, it was only natural for Robb to be forced to fill the vacant position as his heir. It wasn't like he was alone; he had the help and advice of their maester, his mother and, of course, Jon.

In truth, if it wasn't for the advanced critical thinking games Jon had put Robb through since they were five, then it would likely be Maester Luwin using Robb merely as a figurehead. With it, Robb was able to, for the most part, come up with good solutions to disputes. Even so, he would often turn to Jon before Luwin. Their bond, something much more important to a child thrust into a position that Robb was in, meant that Robb needed someone he held in high regard to help him. Jon was more than happy to advise him.

There were many trivial things that were hashed out each day, disputes between some of the larger farming families, tax collecting during war, filling the requests for more food from the Night's Watch, and many other issues. Nothing life changing had happened yet, and Jon found himself thinking more and more about his own projects. He had several quasi-immediate concerns that needed to be addressed.

First, he knew that he needed more people with a mind like his. But, unless another engineer or alternate reality walker suddenly appeared, that would be hard to find. Instead, he would have to train followers and teach them the mindset of an engineer, the engineering process, the scientific method, and the Socrative method. It existed to an extent here, but not nearly as much as he would have liked. Even maesters were often set in their teachings that they received from the citadel, according to Maester Luwin. While Jon could do many things himself, it would be easier to have a corps of engineers that were dedicated to innovation, manufacturing, and research.

Another issue was the need for a better trained army. This war had shown him that war would be as ever present in this life as it was in his last life. More than just in terms of equipment, but the need for a more robust training regimen. Jon had plans to create a sort of "Special Operations" Force that could double as both combat engineers and clandestine operatives. While it may seem childish to any who knew where he got the idea from, he planned to institute a sort of "hidden blade" bracer that would allow for the troops to be more multifaceted than a regular soldier in that they would always have a back up weapon that could catch their enemy by surprise. Sure, soldiers could have daggers or a separate short sword, but he liked the idea of a bracer that doubled as something able to block a sword swing and then turn into a deadly weapon.

These changes and innovations would also allow for much easier infiltration into fortified areas. Oh yes, these men would definitely learn how to scale walls. He could already imagine the terror of soldiers awakening to well over 100 operatives in a castle in the middle of the night, or realizing in the morning that their commander had been… taken out.

He had pondered whether or not to introduce gunpowder through them, but he decided against it. Gunpowder, when it came about, would most definitely cause wars to be worse. The one that had it would hold the indisputable advantage over the enemy. He wasn't against one day bringing in firearms, but he wanted to make sure that it was controlled on his terms where he and the North had the greatest benefit. After all, the Greyjoys proved that civil war was a very real possibility in Westeros. It wouldn't be good to allow rival kingdoms to have access to what could be one of his greatest resources.

Notwithstanding, he would begin producing it soon. It would be good to have a stock that he could rely on if he ever had need of it. For the most part, though, it would be low on his list of things to do.

As their lesson came to a close, the two boys bade farewell to Maester Luwin. It had become part of their routine, in recent days, to meet with Lady Stark after their lesson. The woman, they had found shortly after Lord Stark left, was with child, and the boys had tried to lighten the load of work that she had forced upon herself with the absence of her husband. Jon had tried to take on some of her work of keeping the household well managed, but she stoutly refused. He understood why, of course he understood, in this world a woman was valued on beauty and their management of a house. Lady Stark felt like she needed to continue in her same duties to feel the value of her work, as society had instilled in her. So, if she wouldn't let Jon help, then he would do it discreetly by asking the servants to bring the more trivial matters to him. It was the least he could do.

The Northern host was near the shores of Cape Kraken. His father would be in the midst of warfare soon, and it was always on his mind. He worried, but he knew that Eddard Stark was a very capable military leader. He would succeed.

Life was set in a routine for the Starks at Winterfell, but troubles came soon. The war had come to their doorstep.

"You're sure of these numbers?" Jon asked the bloodied, frenzied boy that was standing in front of Robb and him. The boy, Jonas, had gotten to Winterfell as fast as he could. While certainly faster than an army could walk considering the boy nearly ran two marathons in one day to get here, he knew that the Iron Born would be approaching within two days, at the most, if this were true. He cursed. He needed more information. They would have to send scouts to find where they currently were.

"Less than a thousand, milord," Jonas began, "but at least several hundred. I'm sorry that I couldn't take a better count," the boy said with a downcast look. He wished he could do more to help. He needed the Starks to win. He needed them to avenge his father and friends.

Jon shared a look with Robb, some unspoken conversation passing between them as they sat in silence for a moment.

"You did good to bring this to us," Robb began as he spoke to Jonas. "Now that we can be prepared, we will most certainly have a better chance at foiling whatever plot they may have."

Jonas nodded.

"You will be granted safety here at Winterfell," Jon began as he looked at the boy with sympathy. "I know that we can find work for you so that you can stay. Everyone will have to play their part when the Iron Born show their hand."

Only when the boy was ushered out did Robb turn to Jon and Luwin and express the concerns that he had tried, and failed, to hide.

"This is bad, very bad," he began as he arose from his chair and began pacing. He may have been nine, nearly ten, but he held himself extremely well in this situation. Well, that may be an exaggeration. At least he wasn't panicking. Mayhaps it was because he didn't understand the full severity of the situation?

"Aye," Jon began as he stood to walk to his brother and console him. "But now we know that they are coming, their trajectory in line towards Winterfell. The masons..." Here a flash of anger ran through Jon's eyes. He had met many of these men. "The masons were nearing the end of the Wolfswood. The Iron Born will be here soon." He paused, taking a breath, "they think we are weak. We are not. We are put at an advantage; we have time to prepare. They will come, and we will bury them for trying to harm the North in such a treacherous manner."

Facing Robb, Jon placed his hand on his brother's shoulder, "trust me and the men left to defend this castle, brother, and we will survive." At this, his face hardened, Jon's eyes seemed to become chips of ice and his lips were set in a firm line, it would have been much more intimidating if he weren't a boy of nine namedays. "Nay," he began, "we'll more than survive. We'll crush them, and teach them why the North is not to be trifled with."

Hearing his brother's words calmed Robb, slightly. With a resolved expression, he regarded both Jon and Luwin.

"We need to prepare, where shall we begin?" Robb stated the question to both of them.

Maester Luwin, while he had never been in a situation where the castle he tended was under serious existential threat, knew the basic things that needed to be done. First, many of the surrounding people would need to be brought in. It was for more than just their protection, with the force left behind only numbering 100, it would be wise to take in the townsfolk and begin to assign them to positions.

Another thing that needed to be done is build up their food supplies for a potential siege. It would be a terrible thing for the people to starve. What also had to be done was the preparation of gear for those that would man the walls. Oil would have to be stripped from lamps, debris would have to be created to repel ladders, more things needed to be done than could be done with just the skeleton crew left behind by Lord Stark.

It was at the mention of oil, however, that a glimmer entered Jon's eye. He had an idea.

"Order a few men to gather those too young to man the walls. I need a few hundred for a task that might grant us a boon in repelling these invaders," Jon told Luwin as a chilling smile threatened to break out across his young face.

After Luwin sent out a few of the guards to gather the children, Jon, Lady Catelyn, and Robb were in Lord Stark's solar. A letter had arrived. The maester read it, passed it to Jon, and then sat down. It seemed as if the weight of the world were upon them all.

"Well," Jon began as he looked at each of the occupants of the room. "This certainly makes things much more difficult." He sighed, "Really, where did the Greyjoys even get the gold to hire so many sellsword companies? Let alone finding enough of them willing to work together so that they number more than 3,000 men?"

The intent became clear to him. Really, it was clear to everyone, the Iron Born meant to take the North while it was weak. Strike at the home of one of the most powerful armies and force it away from the battle. By doing this, they would split the King's army and force a war on two fronts. If they were successful, they may even push the King into a truce. Jon would not let this happen.

Three hundred, that was the number Jon had in front of him. Funny, he remembered a last stand with the same amount of numbers. If the Gods willed it, then his fate would be better than the King of Sparta.

They had more information now. The Iron Born were only a two day march away. His first battle in this new life was coming soon. Sadly, Jon wasn't yet a master of the blade or bow, he was much too small. However, he did know a thing or two about destructive warfare.

Smallfolk children, that would be the force that would guarantee his victory. Not with swords or with arrows, but with what these three hundred would mine. They would enter into the hot springs, and they would bring out loads of sulfur. After that, the sulfur would be ground into a fine dust. Sure, the sulfur could be lit ablaze just with that, but he had other plans. Adding it to the oil, he intended to create a proto-Greek Fire that would burn the Iron Born alive. They come to him with their Drowned God, and he'll make sure they drown in a sea of fire. First, though, he would have to rally these children into working for him.

He noticed, briefly, that Jonas was amongst the crowd. That was one that he could count on. The boy wanted vengeance, and Jon would be more than happy to let him have it.

"Alright lads!" Jon began as he spoke loudly. "You've likely heard the news. The Iron Born are coming," at this he paused and looked at the grim faces of the boys and girls, most at the same age as him or older. Few faces showed fear, most showed resignation. They already believed the worst would happen. Jon wouldn't let this attitude prevail.

"The Iron Born think we are weak. One hundred trained men, the rest women and children or men untrained." Jon began.

"But do you know what I say to the Iron Born?" He continued in a condescending, mocking tone. "You come to me with your Drowned God, and I'll let your blood be a sacrifice to the Old Gods. The Iron Born are weak, those of the North are strong. They may have more men, but each one of us, children included, are worth 10 Iron Born. Aye, we'll put their skulls on a spike all across the western coast to send a clear message. If you trespass against the North, then you forfeit your life." Jon finished with a harsh growl. His rage was infectious, and soon all of the children were ready to help in whatever way they could.

"Allow us to help!"

"Show us how to destroy our enemies!"

"Let us have our vengeance!"

The children were ready. Now, all Jon had to do was point them in the right direction.

"You will have a part in the skirmish to come!" Jon said as he lifted his voice above the crowd. " As we speak, the untrained men and women, your fathers and mothers, our fathers and mothers, are being trained in what they can do to help in the siege that the Iron Born likely plan. We are all familiar with the bow, but we must have more than arrows to repel the savages that dare infest our lands." Jon paused, took a deep breath, and continued.

"My brothers and sisters of the North, there is much work to be done! Will you help me in repelling the Iron Born? Will you help me in saving our land? Will you help me in crushing them, destroying them, and ending the lives of each and every miserable wretch that dared to step foot onto our land, and threaten our homes?" Jon's cheeks had taken on a red hue, his blood boiling within his veins. The sentiments that he held were contagious. The crowd roared with approval.

Jon took a breath and allowed himself to regain control of his emotions. "Then help me prepare. If we have what I know we need, then we can drown the Iron Born in fire. Join me in this endeavor, do as I say, and we will have our triumphant victory."

The thought was enticing to the crowd. Children they may be, but every one of them had felt the weight of the Iron Born. Their pillaging had gone on for too long. A father on the frontlines, a brother dead, children forced to lose a parent, parents forced to lose a son, a daughter, siblings losing a brother, a sister… This war had taken from them all. Finally, they had an outlet to take out their frustrations upon. In a way, they were thankful the Iron Born were coming. They finally had some form of vengeance that they could have for themselves, and vengeance gave them strength. Because love may be the most powerful emotion, but the thirst for vengeance is empowering and intoxicating.

It was only fitting, then, that after this skirmish the same crowd of adolescents that were empowered by the skirmish with the Iron Born became Jon's new corps of engineers and warriors.

The preparations had gone along smoothly. An assembly line had been created shortly after Jon finished his speech. The children zipped back and forth between the Hot Springs and the mortar and pestles that were being used to grind it into fine powder.

This would be the most powerful form of defense, but Jon needed more than just this. He turned his attention to another quick innovation that would help in their defense.

As he entered the smithy, he knew exactly what would help the men who had crossbows on the walls. Sure, longbowmen were great in open combat, but crossbowmen ruled the battlements.

The main drawback for the crossbow was that it took too much time to reload. He had an idea for that, though. The crossbows had bars on them that specifically allowed for soldiers to place their feet on them and manually pull back the string. Now, all he needed was a way to make that process faster. That's when the idea came to him. Why not have a metal hook attached to the belt that allowed for the archer to pull up with their body instead of pulling with their arms? That would allow the crossbowmen to reload much faster than normal. Now, all he needed were the hooks.

"Mikken," Jon addressed the blacksmith. "Maester Luwin and I have a task for you and your apprentices…"

Ser Rodrik and Luwin had done well with their preparation of the other defenses. Bolts were gathered, pitch was made and added to the sulfur-oil mixture. This would help in the formation of the proto-Greek Fire. Now, Jon needed a good system of how to inflict it on the enemy. Luckily, he had an idea.

His first thought had been to use jars full of the concoction that he had made, and then use a catapult to launch it at the enemy. But that idea held too much room for error. The jars could easily burst in the catapults, and that would make it useless. No, he would use it for the walls. Able-bodied men would use the crossbows and longbows, children and women would be in charge of using the fire-concoction. There were braziers where the few longbowman archers that would accompany the women and children would set their arrows aflame and light the concoction once it was poured on the ladders and Iron Born climbing up. The Northerners would let the Iron Born begin their climb only to be drenched in flames.

For the potential battlefield? He would layer it with the excess sulfur dust. Barrels of sulfur powder would also be placed at strategic locations so that the area effected by the flames would ensure that the battlefield would be set ablaze. More than that, the fire would create a final component that would allow the Northerners to kill the Iron Born even more easily. When sulfur combusts it forms sulfur dioxide. A gas that is toxic. It would steal the breath from the Iron Born, and it would allow the Northerners to pump them full of arrows or ride them down once the gas began to lift. No Iron Born would make it further than the gate of the first wall.

If any survived the first battle? Then a portion of the skeleton crew would infiltrate the Iron Born camp and kill them in their sleep. Jon hoped, though, that few would survive.

They were here. All 700 of the Iron Born were set up outside of the walls. Ready to rape, reave, and kill. Euron could barely contain the excitement he felt.

Should he give them the chance to surrender or attack immediately? The decision came easily. Attack first, allow surrender later. Or not at all.

The siege engines were built. The ladders ready, all that he needed was to attack. Heh, he wouldn't even need the sellswords. Take the castle outright, and he could use the sellswords to take other lands and force the Northern host to back out of this war. The Iron Born would win, and he would have all the glory.

Too bad, then, that there was one boy unwilling to surrender and oh so ready to turn this battle to the North's advantage.

The day had come, Jon knew. It wouldn't be easy, but his 300 had toiled these last two days the enemy gave them to ready his concoctions. Sulfur crushed into fine dust, added to the concoction for fire arrows, once set ablaze it would burn just a bit longer than regular oil. A rag dipped in this concoction and added behind the arrowheads was fitted for each archer. This, Gods willing, would stop any siege engines in their tracks and burn the Iron Born from inside out.

The barrels were not yet set in the fields. He didn't have enough time to put them out, and the sellswords weren't even here. It would be better to wait until the entire enemy was present and kill them then rather than tip his hand. So, with his fire arrows and concoctions made, he would let the Iron Born get close. Come into my parlor said the wolf to the kraken.

Their impatience would be their undoing.

It was becoming more real to Jon. This wasn't just a game of numbers or a simple skirmish. This was war. People were going to die. His plans, the plans of Ser Rodrik, and the help of Maester Luwin would be all they had. If it was not enough, then they would die. So, Jon prayed it was, indeed, enough.

The fight began without warning. Oh, Jon had been prepared for that. Euron Greyjoy wasn't known for holding anything as foolish as honor. Men were already at the walls, longbows ready, arrows dipped in oil, crossbows aimed, and bolts ready to punch through the chainmail of the Iron Born.

The Iron Born advanced.

Jon was at the walls with the men, ready to fight them off. Robb had protested, why should Jon go if he couldn't? Jon very calmly explained that Robb was the acting Lord of Winterfell. He couldn't be at the front of the fight, but someone had to be there for him. Jon couldn't not be there. If he were absent, if the smallfolk and all the guards fought on their own, how would they feel if things went poorly? No, better to have an able-bodied representative that could hold things together.

Jon had already been familiarizing himself with the heads of the garrison. He had explained to them, quite bluntly, that the new practices when it came to archery had come from him. His expertise on war, though surprising, was welcome to the garrison. Though he was young, they listened. He had proven himself knowledgeable through their talks. Perhaps, even more knowledgeable than some of the higher-ranking officers. It was for this reason that Ser Rodrick (though in truth Ser Rodrick already knew of Jon's proficient strategic thinking and sword hand. He did train the boy after all.) and the other officers included him. Truly, they recognized their need of him.

So, there Jon was. On the outer walls with the two hundred strong garrison made up of one hundred trained men and one hundred volunteers. This first wave, Jon knew, would test them all.

"Knock arrows!" Came the command. Jon raised up his crossbow, bolt covered in oil that was already set aflame.

The Iron Born advanced, and Jon saw the rest of the archers knock arrows. They weren't yet within range, but soon, they would be. The siege engines steadily rolled forwards. Men carrying ladders ran towards the walls.

Just a little more. A few more yards.

"Loose!" Came the command. The sound of hundreds of arrows whistling through the air was the reply. Jon followed the trajectory of his bolt. He saw, with satisfaction, his bolt slam into one of the Iron Born carrying a ladder. He fell, but Iron Born continued forward.

"Knock!" Came the command. Archers and crossbowmen all around had already had their second volley ready.

"Loose!" the commander said once more. With every volley, tens of Iron Born fell. At least one hundred men had already found themselves felled by bolts or arrows. The Longbows doing just as much damage as the crossbows. Jon began to feel their victory. The siege engines, now covered in flaming arrows, began to smoke. Iron Born ran from their engines, abandoning them.

The volleys continued.

Jon couldn't count how many men he had killed that day, but he was sure the Iron Born were feeling the  wrath of Northern archers. Many arrows had been covered in flaming oil, and every siege engine was now ablaze. Iron Born corpses filled the battlefield.

Men were sent to retrieve any still alive. Their executions would be a message. The North knew no conqueror but the Starks. Any who dared would be met with a swift and painful death.

It wasn't supposed to be this way, Maron thought as he watched another man be put down by archers like a rabid dog.

No, they were meant to be victorious. But, alas, they were not. Euron had moved too quickly, thinking himself superior to the reportedly small garrison of Winterfell. His arrogance was his undoing.

'Fucking Starks,' Maron thought as he laid on the battlefield, crossbow bolt stuck in his side. He was put with the men running towards the walls hoping to scale them with ladders. Alas, he was felled quickly.

As he lay there, bleeding out, he thought of Euron. It became ever clearer to him that this was what he wanted. It wasn't so much that Euron was impatient and wanted to take Winterfell (which was true, he really was impatient and desired Winterfell) but he also wanted to get rid of him. Maron was always seen as a lesser being by his uncle. For that, Euron sent him to his death.

In the end, Maron died as he lived. Pitifully. And few knew his name or ever remembered him. His was not a story that was sung. It was a story of insignificance. Truly, few mourned him.

Those wounded that were brought in from the outside were soon executed. The North had little mercy for invaders. Robb carried out the sentence for many himself. While he and Jon were still young, they were strong enough to play those sorts of roles.

Jon hated this. He hated that the war stole his brother's innocence. He hated that Sansa, poor little Sansa, had come to him in tears and asked if the garrison failed whether she would die or not, whether the Iron Born would dishonor her and the other women. He hated that Bran and Arya couldn't play in peace like they once did. He loathed that Lady Stark had to have this war influence her pregnancy. He only hoped that it would end soon.

Sadly, that seemed to not be possible. The men on the battlements gave him most troubling news. The first of the sellsword companies had arrived. By their counts, the enemy now had numbers of at least one thousand men. It seemed, surely, that they would need help.

Few had died in the first skirmish, but the Iron Born volleys that were shot in desperation at the wall had wounded some commanders. Indeed, Ser Rodrick had been wounded enough that it seemed he wouldn't be able to command for some time. With so few truly experienced commanders, Jon took control. Though, he didn't have to push too hard. They knew him and trusted him somewhat, yes, but their desperation for someone, anyone, to offer them hope is what likely led to them trusting a boy of nine namedays with any position of power.

The next day, Euron sent a letter demanding that the garrison surrender or that the men, women, and children would all be put to the sword.

Jon knew they were in a precarious position. His barrels couldn't be used until all of the enemy had arrived, and without the men to hold the castle they would all surely die.

It became clear to Jon what needed to be done.

"Maester Luwin," Jon said to the man, "write down what I have to say, and send outriders, volunteers from the smallfolk, with the message to every town in the North and every great house in the South."

"In the year 292 AC, I, Jon Snow, brother to Lord Robb Stark and son of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell do write this letter.

To the people of the North, and all Westerosi in the World,"

A man read aloud at the town center of Torrhen's Square. Around him, men gathered to hear what troubling news came from Winterfell.

"I am but a child in the eyes of the law, but I find that my age only makes my passion for my country, my fellow man, and my family burn that much hotter."

Willas Tyrell read aloud to his family members gathered around him.

Olenna's attention was more on Margaery than anyone at the moment. Her granddaughter, so full of fire, was glaring at her father. Margaery knew that whatever they read was likely only possible due to her father's moronic deal with the Iron Born. That it hurt the Starks (her dear friend Sansa) only added to her anger.

"We have been besieged by more than a thousand men under the control of Euron Greyjoy. Most of the senior officers have perished. Command has fallen to me. A task which I do not take lightly."

A man in the war tent of the King's host reads as Ned's face becomes ashen with worry.

The King's brow was furrowed in both concern and anger.

"I, and the men with me, have sustained continuous attacks both day and night. Yet, we have not lost a battle."

A man reads aloud to the men gathered at Riverrun.

In the back, Edmure Tully is seen testing the string of his longbow, his sword at his side.

"The enemy has demanded a full surrender, else the garrison, women, and children are to be put to the sword if the castle is to be taken."

Doran reads aloud to his family in Dorne.

Oberyn's eyebrows were raised. This letter has caught his attention.

Perhaps a trip to the North would give him the measure of this boy?

"I have answered the demands with a shot of a fire arrow and the execution of more Iron Born invaders. We shall never surrender. We shall never retreat."

A group of fifty men can be seen riding from Deepwood Motte down towards Wintefell. A small force, all volunteers. However, with the wagons of food they scrounged for they intend to bring relief to Winterfell.

"Now, I call on you in the name of liberty, the honor you hold, and everything dear to the Westerosi Character to come to our aid with all haste."

The knights of the vale rode out. A small force of 500 fielded. Many of their men with the King's main host. However, their honor would not refuse a land in need.

"The enemy is receiving reinforcements every day, and will no doubt increase to four or five thousand within the sennight."

The mountain clans of the North gathered themselves. They would go to Ned's Children. They would protect their friends or die trying.

"If this call for help is neglected, I am determined to sustain myself and these men as long as the Gods will grant us, and die like a true Northman who never forgets what is due to his honor and that of his country."

Even in the Westerlands and Stormlands, volunteers led by younger sons of lords gathered. Carrying with them swords, food, and all they could so as to help. So moved were they, that they would make the trek North.

"We will fight until the end.

     - Victory or Death.

Jon

Snow

Acting Commander of the Winterfell Garrison"

All across the kingdoms, volunteers marched towards Winterfell. Moved by their love for their country, the appeal to their honor, and the need to protect their fellow Westerosi.

This would be where they proved what Westerosi were made of. This would be where they were enshrined forever in the songs that would live on.

And so, they marched ever forwards towards the siege of Winterfell. The only words on their lips: "Victory or Death."

Notes:

Hey Guys! Sorry it's been so long. Had some family issues, dad had a stroke, some more nieces and nephews were born, got super involved in politics for a while, and I just lost track of time. But guess who's back? It's me. I'm back.

Hope y'all enjoyed this new chapter!

Peace!

P.S. I think almost everyone that reads this will understand where the source material for the letter came from. If you don't then oh well, but William Barret Travis' letter was arguably one of the greatest letters ever written. Don't be surprised if many of the speeches and letters written in this story come from great communicators. I have a love for inspiring speeches, and while I don't seek to just copy them without giving them credit, the themes of Sir Winston Churchill's "We Shall Fight on the Beaches," William Travis' "Victory or Death" letter, and many more will permeate throughout my writings. It's only natural for me.

Chapter 6: Ridir's Midnight Ride

Summary:

A boy survives, we see how the ravens were sent, women are quite capable of killing men, and Jon has some strange dreams.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The Revolution of Westeros: How an Engineer Views Plebeians

Ridir's Midnight Ride

Ridir was not a man trained in combat. No, he wasn't trained in much. Such was the life of someone who belonged to the land a Lord owned. Many of them specialized in one thing rather than becoming a jack of all trades and a master of none.

Ridir was lucky enough to have been taught to ride horses from a young age. Aye, it was a privilege few had. Horses in the North were an important resource for nearly every industry, so it truly was a privilege to learn to care for horses and ride them as excellently as Ridir had learned.

He hoped that one day he could join those that care for horses in Winterfell. His experience, though he had only had his 13th nameday, would be good to have in a castle as grand as the holding of the Starks. He didn't know whether he was foolish to hope for it or whether he truly was as experienced as he thought.

When the Iron Born invaded, it had changed things rapidly. Almost all of the Wintertown residents (though at this point it was largely women, children, and just enough men to tend the farms, shops, and other things that could be found inside Wintertown and on the outskirts) were moved inside the walls of Winterfell. It was a testament to the massive structure that even with so many people inside the walls it didn't feel crowded. Nay, if people felt so crowded they could have just moved to the Godswood and made camp there, but even then it never seemed necessary.

For Ridir, this change was welcome. He had always dreamed of sleeping inside the walls of Winterfell, and even if the circumstances were dire he had a feeling that something big, for him, was coming. If he knew at this point what it was, he'd have probably cursed himself for feeling the way he did. The only thing for him in the few days to come was misery.

It was when the word went out that riders were needed that he saw an opportunity. A dangerous opportunity, but one to become something more than he was now, nonetheless.

"Calling all capable riders!" a man dressed in the house guard colors shouted in the middle of the small bustle of people moving from task to task.

"We have need of capable riders, able to traverse dangerous lands and bring word of our needs to the rest of the North!"

Ridir saw his opportunity. So, with untold amounts of naivety, he gave the man his name and fell in line as the last poor soul who would sacrifice much to see their home saved.

Ridir didn't know what to make of this boy handing out letters and dolling out instructions. He was younger than Ridir, that much he could tell. But the way the rest of the grown men deferred to him was enough to tell Ridir that he was likely more than just a green boy.

Oh, he knew who the boy was. Jon Snow was a topic of interest for many of the people in Wintertown. There were whispers that he was touched by the Gods in his knowledge and wisdom. But whispers and rumors were usually just that, nothing more.

When his father was alive he used to tell him war stories of his youth. He would tell him fantastical tales of going south and slaying many a man. How could a man like that be felled so easily by the Iron Born in their much more frequent raids as of late? No, Ridir had no need for tales and rumors. He'd believe what his own eyes proved. They hadn't failed him yet.

"I know what is being asked of you is a task most perilous," the boy's soft tone brought him back to reality.

"I wouldn't ask it of you unless we were in such an equal amount of peril. The Iron Born will have reinforcements soon. 10 to 12 days, by my counts. We must either outlast them until they have no more foodstuffs, or gather help to repel them." The boy took a breath. His eyes seemed heavy, dark circles had formed under them. Ridir felt a pang of sympathy. Why should a boy so young take on so grand a burden? The Gods truly were unfair. Just as he lost the last of his family in his father, he wondered if the Gods saw fit to take his home from him too. Had the North offended them in some way? Was this truly their punishment?

"I have seen fit to do both." The boy (though how could a boy give orders and hold such confidence in himself that the steel in his voice would shine through so greatly?) said to the assortment of old and young men gathered before the stables.

"Each of you shall ride forth, under the cover of darkness. We grant to each of you our fastest horses, bred for these conditions. Take the letters given to you, and give them to the Houses I have ordered you to go to. The directions that you are to be told, keep them in your memory. Continue to speak them so that you may know where to go," Here the boy paused.

"If you are to be captured," his voice broke at the end, and Ridir could see that it physically pained him to send others to do this job. Why shouldn't it? He was likely sending them each to their deaths.

"If you are to be captured," the boy said again as he found his composure. A slight fire in his eyes, "then I ask that you rip up the letters and swallow them. Let the Iron Born find nothing but bloodied scraps so that they know not of the army that rides to our rescue."

"I know what I ask is not an easy ask. What you are to do is not an easy task. But I hope, with all my heart, and I wish, with all my faith, that you are each successful. That you return, in the Gods' good time to that which you have left behind," here he looked at each of them, memorizing each face. The faces of those he had sent to die for nothing but a shaky promise of hope.

"In this life," he swallowed, "or the next."

No man clapped. No man smiled. They knew what was needed of them. They knew to where they went.

They had each received their directions, they were to go to all corners of the North. Not so much to find help, but so that ravens could be sent to all of the keeps of the North asking for their help. Ravens sent from Winterfell would be shot down. But ravens from another castle? They could make the trip.

Ridir had oft dreamt of seeing White Harbor and the sea. It seemed, in the Gods' cruel way, that wish might be granted.

And so they set out. Not to be a savior. Not to be a hero. But to hold on to that which was theirs. They went to sell their lives dearly so those left behind could find salvation.

Ask not for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for these cursed souls.

Jon took no pleasure in the tasks set before him. His orders, from beginning to end, would result in the deaths of hundreds. That he must send people, quite literally, to their deaths gave him plenty of sleepless nights.

He was not heartless. Arrogant? Yes, that he was. Unfeeling, uncaring? No. Not at all. Jon understood that without the commoner there was no society. Pragmatically they must be preserved and their lives bettered. Building a solid foundation would ensure a prosperous society.

But more than that, Jon just wasn't an asshole. He was arrogant because he believed he could just about anything on his own. Swordfights? Those were just angles. With simple mathematics, he was progressing easily, and was likely to be one of the best swordsmen of his age. Archery? Basic geometry. Archery, he found, is quite easy if one has the strength. No, Jon knew he could do any task he set his mind to. Even administrative tasks were easy when he looked at things simply as operations that needed to be fixed.

What Jon couldn't do was keep people from dying. He wished he could. He wished, with every fiber of his being that the people under the North's protection could live happy and peaceful lives. Not just for pragmatic revolutionary reasons, but because he truly did wish to see all those around him prosper. If he had the knowledge to raise others up and give them a better life, why shouldn't he? He'd be incredibly selfish to horde knowledge for himself.

No, Jon wasn't a selfish person. He was, in fact, quite selfless in nature. That was why he found it so hard to make the decisions a commander would have to make.

"For the good of the North, for the good of your people, for the good of your family," that was the mantra he repeated in his mind over and over and over again. Men would die, but they would all die if some did not. All had to give some, and some had to give all.

Jon forced himself to keep moving forward. He wouldn't let dear Sansa, sweet Arya, and little Bran fear what Robb and he were forced to fear. He'd protect them. He'd lead everyone to victory himself on a field of battle if he must. This world wouldn't steal from him the family he had found, the family that had accepted him.

So, it was with a heavy heart that Jon sent ten men outside the walls. A rhythmic heartbeat that reminded him this was all real. A heavy heart that told him many more men would die for the plan, the plan that brought victory, to be achieved.

His heart, both burdened and troubled, pushed him forward. So he continued to move, both in action and in planning, towards that moment of victory where all his pain, all this death, and the fear would be overshadowed by a victory won at all costs.

They were to ride side saddle. A dummy was placed on top of the horse (leaned forward to appear that the rider was injured) so that when it fell as they came near to the Iron Born they would think the horse were simply an unmanned horse riding free and in fear.

It was a dangerous plan, but it was the best they could think of. Five would leave from the front gate, five from the back. A young man held tightly to the horse, begging this plan to work. Letter in his hand, ready to rip it to shreds if the Iron Born were to capture him.

With a final look, the men were ordered out by the boy, Jon Snow. He told them he would be watching. He told them that if no one else remembered them then he'd remember their courage, their honor, and their love for their country. It did little to soothe the nerves of the young man holding onto the horse as it rode out at a steady fast pace. They were each given their directions, and he knew where to go. The Mountain Clans, for the King's army had little need of their larger numbers when the rest of the North had so quickly answered his call to war.

His horse rode quickly. He saw, in the darkness, the camp of the Iron Born that he would pass by. They weren't a great host yet, but they had enough now to surround the castle to some degree. One smaller host, maybe two to three hundred men at the Northern gate, and the rest spread out around the other gates. It seemed the enemy was awaiting its full host before making a full scale attack. The idea was that, with enough speed and with multiple targets, the Iron Born wouldn't be able to catch one or two of them.

They all knew they would likely die. They knew that. They had accepted that. Death was the enemy here, not the foe that had come to their lands.

So they rode quickly, they rode with courage. It was time, the dummy was quickly pushed off the horse so as to make the horse seem without a rider. He waited with bated breath, hoping that the trick was not found out.

His hopes were all for naught. The Iron Born, through a stroke of miraculous insight, thought it best to kill each of the horses. Each man at the North Gate was quickly found and killed. Their letters never found. The reason for them leaving Winterfell, though suspected, was unknown.

Jon watched. He held back his tears of frustration. He only hoped the South Gate, where his brother was watching, would bring better news.

Ridir was not very superstitious. However, he knew he might die today or sometime soon, and so he found it within himself to pray. He prayed that he would make it, that help would come, and that he would be able to return so that his reward could truly be put to use.

There wasn't any fanfare when the riders went forth. They all knew what they must do. So they rode out. They went to the place where men die. Ridir only hoped he would come out of that place alive.

The Iron Born on this side also meant to fell every beast that came out of Winterfell. Ridir watched as the man closest to him fell as his horse was killed. He watched it happen to each of the riders. He watched it until he was the last one. He knew, in that moment, that if he didn't take control of the reigns and begin to truly ride then he would die. He would die and help would never come.

So in a graceful move, he switched in one fluid motion from riding side saddled to riding in a fully upright position. Arrows continued to whiz by him, they grew in number since they now realized a person was riding atop the horse.

He rode, he didn't look back. By the blessing of the Gods', the Iron Born's poor archery, or whatever combination, he hadn't been shot down yet. So he rode and he rode and he rode. All night he spurred his horse forward. He went to the brink of his horse's capabilities until he worried that it might die. He had passed the camp of Iron Born, but he couldn't rest easy. He had to make it to the Manderly's. His horse was tired, but he urged it to continue to trot. Whether by its great pedigree or by some supernatural force, the horse seemed capable to continue. He traveled far that night. He only hoped the Iron Born couldn't catch him. He stopped to rest, though sleep didn't come naturally. He awoke before dawn, his night restless and dreamless. Ridir was alone, just him and his horse. But he knew his directions, the only directions given to him, so he went on.

He'd find the Manderly's and deliver Lord Robb and Jon Snow's letters or die trying. He had come too far to give up. His people needed him.

And so, a boy, barely a man grown by the laws of man, rode out. Enemies trailed after him, but Ridir would not be an easy one to catch.

It was almost poetic to Jon that a boy would be the one to survive at the Southern Gate. Robb had told him, tearfully but also so full of hope, that one had made it. It was not certain he would survive. But he gave them a chance. That was all Jon needed to have hope bloom in his chest. A hope that pushed him forward and gave him the strength to plan and teach more volunteers how to use the few extra crossbows they had.

That was another worry, they began to run out of equipment. Arrows and bolts could be made easily from that which was able to be fashioned from wood they took out of the Godswood, but there were only so many crossbows, swords, and armor to be had. They increasingly began to turn to farm tools to bolster their defense. Desperation drove them, and when a person is desperate anything will become their weapon.

By the end of the next day, Jon had another fifty men ready to join at the walls. He would need more when the full force arrived. But it was a good start.

After the last skirmish, there were a solid twenty injured. Many of them the more experience soldiers. It truly seemed as if fate were trying to force children into roles they had no position being in. As if they were meant to grow faster than they should, experience what none should have experienced, and grow stronger as a collective group.

230 men were not enough to man the walls for Jon. He needed more. Especially if the enemy were to spread out across the entire castle and try to take it at each draw bridge on the top. No, Jon knew he needed more to hold the outer wall. He only hated that, for the time being, he'd have to enlist people he wished never had to fight.

It was with a heavy heart that he began to gather women strong enough to pull back crossbows, use farm equipment to push off ladders, all of the things necessary to hold a castle. His force would grow, but many mothers and sisters might lose their lives.

It wasn't a sense of sexism that made him feel the way he did, but growing in this world without a mother had taught him the importance of having one. That he might be forced to steal that away from someone…

That the Iron Born might steal them away, he felt a strange sense of defeat. He couldn't protect everyone, but he wished that he could.

By the third day, Jon had 400 to man the walls. Women were more than eager to avenge their husbands and children. Their thirst for blood, even greater than the garrison, was pushed on by their knowledge of what would happen to them if they lost. The Iron Born were known for raping and reaving. They wouldn't let that happen to them.

So, these were the ones that continuously halted the Iron Born when they tried to catch them by surprise. Euron, for all his impatience, had actually done something quite smart. He sent small groups to test the defenses of the castle. More harassment of the people inside Winterfell than anything, but the message was clear. The Iron Born wanted Winterfell, and they were willing to die to take it.

All those that they had captured were just more heads on spikes for Jon to place around the walls. He wondered, in private, if his father would return to see a wall of skulls. Would he be proud? Would he be fearful of what Jon had to do? He only hoped that Ned would see that all he had done was for the North. Honor, mercy, all of those weaknesses couldn't be had when the enemy was at your doorstep.

So, he felt no pity for what he had done. If the Iron Born wanted to throw away their lives as the useless bags of flesh they were, then he'd oblige them. All the more heads for him to parade around Winterfell.

Ridir had moved as far as possible each day. He had no clear idea of how many leagues he had traveled, but it was more than he had ever traversed on a horse. He hoped, with all his heart, that he was nearing White Harbor. His directions told him that he should be close. The landmarks that were given to him, he had passed most of them. He knew it shouldn't be long now.

It was only fitting, then, that a small group of Iron Born, only numbering in four or five men, found him. He had been riding at a trot when he felt something was wrong. He heard it seconds later. The sound of multiple horses coming at full speed.

He had a sinking feeling. Ridir knew who it likely was. He urged his horse forward.

"Faster, " he pleaded with the horse, "faster, faster, faster faster faster faster" he cried to himself. He needed to outrun them, he needed to be faster than them. If he wasn't, then he would surely be cut down.

His horse began to slow. It began to falter.

'No,' he thought. 'Please, please no.'

He knew what he had to do. He pulled out his knife that his father gifted him. It was small, the blade slightly dull, but sharp enough to do what he needed to do.

Without hesitation he shoved the knife into the horse's hind. He had a choice. Run the horse to death, or die.

He would not die today.

It wasn't too long until the horse gave out beneath him. The strain too much for its heart. He couldn't hear anything, but he knew he was still being followed. He rose from the horse, grabbed his knife and checked himself for the letters. Then, with a silent apology to the horse who had been good to him, he took off running. He didn't stop, he only went forward.

It had been three days since Jon had tried to send word for help. He felt, hopelessly, that none was likely coming, but he couldn't share with the men and women such a painful thought. He was sure, now, that they would have to buckle down for a long siege. The Iron Born didn't have supply lines, neither did the sellswords, but they could easily take from the abandoned houses of Wintertown and the fields surrounding them. By his counts, they likely could stay for months before they even needed to think of moving on.

If he rationed correctly, then the people of Winterfell could easily outlast them by weeks as well. He didn't want to, he knew that them leaving meant that other castles would be taken and that the North would be burned. But he had no true way of repelling them without help from neighboring castles. So, he had, with Robb and Maester Luwin, began the rationing of food for each person in Winterfell. They would do what they must. They would hold the wall, and they would survive.

More than these recent realizations, Jon had begun to have strange dreams. He would sleep and find himself in looking at the dirt ground, the trees, all things he didn't go to bed looking at. He had heard tells of Wargs from Old Nan, but he had always been skeptical. Knowing what he knew, though, of how he had been put into this new body made the entire thing more of a possibility in his mind. He had begun testing it. He tried to whittle his way into multiple animals, and he was more than a little surprised that he had success.

With his practice, he began to find that he had more control of the animals he was in at night. He soon realized that he was a wolf, and that a quite large pack had arrived outside of Winterfell. Nearly 50 wolves had congregated in the woods just outside of the Iron Born. It surprised him. Wolves typically don't travel in packs that large, but with his newfound ability he wondered if the Old Gods were real and sent them as a form of help.

With practice, he began to push his desires into the pack. Protect Winterfell, kill the Iron Born. Each night, more and more Iron Born were killed. Not many, he couldn't risk the pack being killed to the last, but the patrols were often felled by the wolves more often than not. Each night he awoke with blood on his taste buds. The patrols were growing in number, from five to ten to twenty and now thirty, Iron Born had become cautious. It was a two-edged sword. The pack had been able to fell a good 100 of them, but it was not enough to truly turn any tides. If anything, it only gave them the ability to prepare better for what they had in store for Winterfell.

Time, Jon knew, that was what he needed. If he only had the time, then he could win. That was what this pack was granting him, and if he made it out of this then he pledged he wouldn't ever look down on the religions of Westeros nor the North.

Ridir had run through the night. He was tired, exhausted really, and scared. But he was more determined to make it to White Harbor and find help.

It had happened quickly. They found him in his moment of exhaustion. Before he could even move to get away, the four Iron Born were on him and kept him from doing anything to protect himself or rip up the letters he was given.

They mocked him, over and over they mocked him.

"'Ow bout we cut off his balls and cock, make him eat 'em and piss on his corpse? 'e sure gave us the run around, I say," the ugliest of the bunch said.

They were disgusting. Harbingers of evil with faces of men. How could a culture be so foul?

The next occurrence happened even more swiftly. Arrows came from the woods, and the Iron Born were all shot in vital places. They laid there dying, and Ridir couldn't find anything in him except satisfaction.  They had meant to kill him, only to be killed themselves.

Men came from the woods. Ten of them were there. The leader of the group was a very large man. It was honestly a wonder how he was even able to fit in armor or ride a horse.

"What are Iron Born doing this far out?" He asked in clear puzzlement.

Ridir kept quiet. He didn't know whether he was friend or foe.

"Come on lad, out with it. You were taken by them, what do these squids care about so much that they'd ride out so close to White Harbor?" the man asked in a commanding voice.

"I…" Ridir paused, "I was told only to speak to the Manderlys. I will say more once I've met with them in White Harbor."

The man chuckled. "Well," he began, "it seems to me that fate meant for us to be here boy. I am Wendel," he said not unkindly, "Wendel Manderly. What brings you to us boy?"

Ridir's eyes grew wide. He smiled in relief. Tears of joy filled his eyes. He hadn't failed.

That was all that mattered.

He hadn't failed.

Songs would be sung of a boy who risked his life and lived while other brave men died. His name, Ridir, would be enshrined as an example of courage, tenacity, and an unwillingness to die. Many would work to portray those same qualities.

But the songs were not yet written, for the siege was not yet lifted. But the letters had been delivered. Robb called the North to him, and Jon asked for volunteers to come North.

It was a twofold plan. The Northerners that could be fielded would help bolster the garrison until greater volunteer numbers could hold it in their steed. Then, when the numbers had fully amassed, they would strike when the Iron Born were weak and hungry as they were cut off from their supply lines.

Winterfell would have to survive for some time without help, but it was a fortress. It was a castle incredibly hard to take. The Iron Born and Sellswords would see that soon enough.

It was clear to Lord Wyman Manderly why there were two letters sent. The first one, from young Lord Robb, was meant to call each of the Northern houses to Winterfell. It was a call that they couldn't refuse, a call they had to answer loyally.

More than that, it was a call that they were expected to answer. There would be little reward for answering a call one was expected to answer.

So, it came as a little bit of a surprise when he was asked to send the second letter, from Ned's baseborn son to the Houses in the South. But he understood why, at the least, Jon Snow had written the second letter and not Robb Stark.

It was fiery, that was true, few had their way with words than those two boys. But it was very cunning. If any southern Houses answered, they would find no reward. Glory would be some type of reward, true, but what could the bastard of a lord grant to someone else? No, it was a smart move. If any answered from the South, then the North would receive all the benefits and little drawbacks.

A cunning plan, one that Wyman approved of. His heart had been moved by both letters. Robb Stark had been very clear when had stated what he wanted, "Victory. Victory at all costs." He spoke plainly that his brother had been successful in repelling them so far, but without help they may not last.

Well, if it was help the Starks needed, then it was help the Starks would get.

That day, ravens flew to every keep in the North and many of the great Houses in the South. Help would come in an avalanche towards Winterfell, and it would be the Iron Born who found themselves totally unprepared.

The next day, Wyman had prepared Wendel to take 500 horseman and 1000 footmen and head near to Winterfell. He had received word from many of the Houses in the North. Few had refused, but only Wyman and the Mountain Clans could really send out the necessary troops to lift the siege. Wendel would converge with the 2,000 footmen of the Mountain Clans and the other soldiers from the North outside of Winterfell, and from there they'd lift the siege.

Jon was running in the forests. He could smell the men that were coming. He looked with the eyes of a wolf, and he saw what made his heart plummet. They were here faster than he thought they'd be.

The rest of the enemy had arrived early. His final plans for the defense of Winterfell would need to be put into action. Already he had the barrels placed around the walls covered by the earth with a painted skull just in front of them.

His archers were ready, orders were given. He'd need to repel them so that they could have a chance of victory.

He would do what he must.

He would survive.