Blood and Ice
Asha Greyjoy hadn't wanted to talk to the man who had captured her and killed all of her men - some without even the 'honour' of being killed in combat, dying from inhaling smoke instead of steel. Didn't make all that much sense to Jon honestly. The Ironborn spat on the 'Greenlander' concept of honour so why was it so bad when one of those same 'Greenlanders' didn't kill them with the honour they spurned?
Honestly, it was much more likely that the Greyjoy woman was just a bitter little shrew who hated to acknowledge that a smaller, but clearly superior, Greenlander force had decimated her entire command. And within the space of six hours - it was honestly one of the shortest sieges that Jon had ever heard of. Helped that the Ironborn were so useless at siege warfare of course.
But no matter the reason why she hadn't wanted to talk to him, she just didn't speak to him. So rather than beat her to get the answers out, Jon had resolved to try a different tactic. He had threatened her with the Boltons before - the men known for how they flayed their enemies alive, despite laws forbidding it. He didn't have any Bolton men who had flayed people before with him.
Domeric had joined as a squire straight from his fostering in the Vale and had become a knight within a few weeks - the man was as powerful on horseback as any knight of the South, masterful with a lance and skilled with both sword and shield. When you spoke to Domeric you realised you were speaking to the idealised medium between a warrior of the North and a Knight of the South - he was quiet, somewhat solemn and brutal when in actual combat, as a Northman should be, but he was well read, gentle outside of battle and honourable, the ideal of a Southern knight. If you spoke to Domeric you knew he was a good man. If you just heard his name however?
That was a different story.
Domeric Bolton had never flayed a man but who would believe the heir to the Dreadfort had never engaged in the 'sport' of his forefathers? His father was Roose Bolton - the Leech Lord. The man whose very name conjured up images of blood-filled leeches and sharp knives. His family line was infamous for the inspiration behind their Words - Our Knives Are Sharp.
Jon had called the young knight to his tent as he looked over the small map he had open in front of him. He had immediately left Deepwood Motte with his order, heading for Winterfell for further orders from the Lord Paramount of the North - and the man most likely to have gotten the new information first. Asha was in a cage just outside his tent, trapped like the animal that she was and Jon was just waiting for the Bolton heir to arrive.
Domeric entered and stood at attention but Jon finished checking their position on the map in relation to Winterfell first. They had been travelling for a few days now and it seemed they were only a day's march away from the ancestral seat of the Starks. Satisfied with his findings, he looked up at Domeric with a small smile,
"Thank you for coming Ser Domeric." he greeted the other knight with a martial handshake before moving the two of them further away from Asha's cage, "You did well at Deepwood Motte Ser - I heard you saved my own squire's life. My thanks Ser Domeric."
The knight from the Dreadfort merely waved off the praise with a good natured smile,
"No thanks are needed Ser Jon. Your squire will one day be a knight that songs are sung about." he declared with a grin, "As a musician, I wouldn't forgive myself if I had let the chance to sing such songs pass me by just because of an Ironborn with a lucky axe strike."
Yes... Domeric the musician. Not any instrument either - the harp. It seemed to be at odds with his martial prowess but Jon knew that it was just something the slightly older man kept to himself. He only shared his musical talents with the companions he deemed his true friends - Jon was lucky enough to be counted amongst them. He nodded in agreement as he poured the two of them some ale.
They drank heartily before Jon spoke again, much more solemn now,
"You know why you're here."
It wasn't a question - both of them knew why Jon had called Domeric to aid him in questioning Asha. Just Domeric's presence was often enough but sometimes Domeric would have to order one of the other men to do certain things in order to reinforce the illusion that, as a Bolton, Domeric would do whatever he wanted to get the information he needed.
Domeric took a deep swig of ale, already looking a lot less chipper. The man hated what his name meant to the world at large and Jon could appreciate that but sometimes circumstances meant that things had to be done that caused discomfort. Although Domeric hated being used in this way, both of them knew that Jon hated asking and Domeric would do whatever it took to serve the order well because he believed in their cause.
To defend The North, and its people, from threats.
"I can guess." Domeric admitted as he drank some more, "I had hoped that Asha Greyjoy would be someone to break under regular pressure of hunger and thirst. But I imagine that was just my own hopefulness bleeding through."
Domeric didn't want to do it. And Jon hated to have to be the one to tell him that his choice, while noted, had no place here. He sighed a little bit, staring down into his own cup so that he wouldn't have to look at Domeric,
"I will order you to do this if I must Domeric." He admitted before glancing to his friend, "Please don't make me. Agree to come with me to ask her some questions. I have hope that just acknowledging whom you are might loosen her tongue."
Jon would have liked to say that Domeric matched his enthusiasm but that was simply not true at all – the young man looked like he was going to be sick. Jon poured him some more – It wouldn't do to have their 'torturer' looking as if he was about to throw up at the very prospect of doing what it was said his family did. He considered, for a moment, what life would be like if Domeric did actually enjoy flaying men. He'd be as a mad dog. And Jon and his knights would put him down like the dog he was for breaking both the King's Peace and the laws of The North.
Thankfully no such Bolton existed.
Even Roose Bolton, fearsome reputation aside, wasn't a mad dog. The opposite as far as Jon had heard from Domeric – a cold and calculating man who did everything because of the action's benefits to House Bolton itself. Jon couldn't blame the man too much – House Bolton was down to only Roose and Domeric after all. But all that aside… he still needed to have Domeric play up to the reputation that his House held onto.
Domeric stood there, still and silent as a statue, for a few more moments before giving a nod of his head. The two of them finished their drinks and marched from Jon's tent, Domeric continuing on, barking out instructions to some of the squires. He imagined that, to Asha Greyjoy, the man shouting for a pig was rather confusing, if not foolish. But Jon knew better, Domeric knew better, the knights knew better and soon Asha too would know better than to question the 'madness' that was Domeric Bolton's unique method of torturing a person. Jon moved closer to the cage, kicking one of the woman's hand which had grasped the bars,
"Back up Greyjoy." He told her bluntly, "We're letting you out of the cage for a few questions. You won't like the questions. You won't like how we ask them. But you will answer them."
He nodded to the squires on guard duty and they opened the cage, immediately man-handling the Greyjoy woman as she had tried to attack. After some vein struggles, Asha was brought to her knees in front of Jon, both arms restrained behind her back by a strong squire. Jon glanced over his shoulder and saw that Domeric was still preparing. He drew his dagger and grabbed Asha by the hair, pressing the tip of his knife against her lower eyelid of her left eye,
"You will talk for him. Or you will talk for me." He growled, "I buried over a hundred of my sworn brothers at Deepwood Motte because of you and your scum."
Asha seemed off-put by the knife in her face but no less defiant it seemed,
"Aye, and my people won't rest until every one of your 'brothers' are dead." She snarled back, "We are Ironborn. We want what you Greenlanders have and we'll take it over your fucking corpses!"
Jon hummed a little bit,
"By my count you lost almost a thousand men for my hundred because… your people? Your people are little better than pirates." He smirked, "Krakens you might be but you're on dry land now squid. And you'll burn and blister in the sun and the wolves will pick you apart."
She didn't seem inclined to speak anymore but did try and catch his face with her spit. Thankfully Jon had the good fortune of being able to merely step to the side to avoid the projectile. And thankfully for Asha's continued 'well-being', Domeric was here. Jon stepped to the side as Domeric carried a wooden block and a leather case of some kind. The heir to the Dreadfort set the block down and sat upon it, unfurling the leather to reveal a multitude of small, incredibly sharp, knives. He looked at Asha and Jon couldn't see an inch of the man he knew Domeric to be.
It was like looking at Roose Bolton made younger.
"Do you know who I am?"
A simple question.
"A fucking Greenlander playing at being some scary bastard."
A stupid answer.
Domeric nodded to the guard to Asha's right. The guard nodded once in return before back handing the Greyjoy woman across the face. His gauntleted hand was not gentle on the woman, who spat out some blood to the side before being restrained fully once again.
"I am Domeric Bolton. Do you know the sigil of my House?"
Another simple question.
All knew the sigil of the Boltons was the flayed man, even the Houses of the South. They had seen the flayed man banners during Robert's Rebellion and the armies they faced had been shown no quarter by the men under the command of the Lord Bolton. The Greyjoys knew it as well – it had been one of the many standards that had been present at the end of their last rebellion. But Asha remained silent. The guard went to hit her again but Domeric waved the man off before taking one of the smallest knives from the case. He whistled once and a squire came forwards, clutching a struggling piglet.
Jon wished they'd have found a larger pig honestly. Mainly because they would eat it afterwards and a larger pig fed more. But also because he honestly didn't think what was about to happen should really be exercised on even animals more than was strictly needed. Domeric stood from the block and the pig was restrained to the block with ropes,
"The sigil of House Bolton is the flayed man. Have you ever seen a man being flayed alive?"
There was a shiver that Asha couldn't contain but other than that she kept a grim face on and refused to say a word. Domeric pressed the tip of his knife against the pig's hide before turning to Jon. Jon nodded and spoke for the first time,
"What are the Ironborn doing in The North? Why did you invade our lands and break the King's Peace?"
Asha snorted,
"That fat fuck isn't a king of mine." She snarled, "And we invaded because we are Ironborn. You have things we want – we're here to fucking take them."
The answer seemed to make sense in some ways but not all of it added up. For example, the fact that it appeared that The North had already called its banners for some reason, hence why Deepwood Motte had only a token defence force and the younger of the Glover brothers. And the Ironborn had to have known this, otherwise they would never have invaded so far inland – and definitely would never have even thought to take a keep of The North and attempt to hold it for their own.
No, it was a decent answer but wrong all the same.
Jon nodded to Domeric and the Bolton heir began to slowly cut into the hide of the pig, just a shallow, straight cut. But the pig was already squealing and crying as if he had taken an organ or something similar. Asha tried to look away but the guards grabbed her by her hair, forcing her to watch as Domeric made an incision parallel to the first one. The woman shook as she watched the skin of the pig being sliced with such precision and, seemingly, all done by a man who didn't seem to feel anything about what he was currently doing.
"Wrong answer Greyjoy." Jon told her bluntly, "Your people are raiders at heart but you thought you would be able to actually hold one of the keeps of The North. Not even a small one either but one owned by one of the bigger Houses of The North. So again. Why have your people thrown away their traditions and rather than raid have instead tried their hand at conquest?"
The Greyjoy woman growled as she glanced at Jon,
"Go fuck yourself bastard."
Without even a sign to continue, the guards forced her eyes front again as Domeric made a third incision. Then, with the greatest of ease, Domeric began to peal the skin from the pig with grace and precision that put most leather-workers to shame. After tearing the first bloody strip from the pig, Domeric began to flay the beast in earnest. It seemed his hands were almost a blur as he sliced easily through the light pink hide of the pig and tore entire sections of its skin from it. He paused when the pig's entire torso was now a bleeding mass, not a scrap of skin to be seen anywhere on the body of the pig anymore.
Domeric wiped the blade clean on a nearby rag and, almost conversationally, addressed Asha,
"Are you aware that the pig is still alive?"
Asha started, shocked at the revelation as the pig's cries had begun to die down as the flaying progressed. Domeric hummed,
"Oh yes, it's still alive. For now."
He smacked the pig's bloody body for emphasis and the creature let out a truly pitiful sound of pain before becoming silent again. It appeared to be getting the 'reality' of the situation through to Asha, who tried to break free of her captures again. Of course the guard were ready and she barely moved an inch before being backhanded again and restrained. Domeric hummed,
"I'm a good practitioner of this art. My father is a master. I can flay a man so he may live for many hours afterwards – my father can flay a man so slowly, and over such a long period, that the man will survive for days."
All lies of course – Roose Bolton never flayed living men. He had skinned men already dead and displayed their bodies as a warning to rebellious smallfolk in his hands but there was no law against that. The law was that a living man may not be flayed.
But Asha Greyjoy knew none of this.
All she could see was the pig, flayed half raw and half-dead but still existing in some kind of torturous state of life. Domeric killed the pig by slitting its throat and untied it from the block. The squire who had brought the pig hurried it away for cooking and Domeric once again wiped his blade clean, this time working it with a whetstone to keep its edge.
Jon could see that Asha was shaken by what had just happened in front of her and he struck now, while the iron was hot,
"Greyjoy." He snapped at her, catching her attention for the first time since the flaying had resumed, "Answer me truthfully and Domeric's knives shall not touch you."
She eyed said knives cautiously as Domeric continued to sharpen the one he had used. Jon pushed forwards with the questioning,
"Why have the Ironborn invaded?"
There was silence for a long moment before Asha spoke,
"Because the attention of the Greenlanders is somewhere else."
Well that was something, if only the vaguest confirmation of that which he already knew. But at least she wasn't trying to bullshit them with some story and get out of giving up anything of real value,
"And where is that attention?"
Another silence before the answer,
"South." She relented, "Some pirate king has taken control of the Stepstones. They say he went to the leaders of Lys, Tyrosh and Myr."
No.
Old gods and the new gods fucking NO!
The Three Daughters.
Every boy who had ever studied the wars of the lands of Westeros knew about the Three Daughters, the alliance of three Eastern city states that had threatened the very kingdom itself. If they had allied again, even if it was only temporary, then the Realm itself was in mortal peril. No wonder the banners of The North were gone – there was a much greater threat to the Realm than the Ironborn. The Ironborn were hardly a threat even when you weighed then up against three nations – four if you included the Stepstones – that had known nearly constant war over the disputed lands. Their men were battle hardened and no doubt hungry for the kind of plunder and riches that could be gained from attacking Westeros.
Even if it was just a massive slave drive for them, the danger was still present and the damage would be massive.
But it did let Jon know something he had hoped to avoid having confirmed – they were on their own. The high Lords of Westeros were already on a campaign, either defending their shores or taking the fight to the invaders from the East. He didn't know which and he didn't care. All that mattered was that The North stood alone at this juncture. He had barely four hundred men left and he was somehow the strongest the defence that The North could currently muster up.
Sure, he could squeeze some more men from some of the larger holds within The North but he was reluctant to do so, mainly because he knew those Lords would be reluctant to do so as well. What was left when The Realm went to war was only the bare minimum that would be needed to defend from bandits and to keep the King's Peace. As was shown at Deepwood Motte, those soldiers were not enough to deter an invading force such as the Ironborn.
Jon was snapped out of his thoughts by the sound of Asha Greyjoy cursing. He turned, spotting her being pushed back into her cage and Domeric gesturing for Jon to follow him back into the 'command' tent. Jon followed, his head still full of thoughts of how to defend The North from such a massive threat as an Ironborn invasion. When he was in the tent he noticed that Domeric went straight for the alcohol,
"I apologise for you having to do that Domeric."
The other young knight just shook his head as he drank greedily. It had always been like this. Whenever they needed to break a tough prisoner with a demonstration of flaying, the Bolton heir demanded that it not be spoken of again and drank heavily. Jon understood it to mean that the heir hated the practice even deeper than his words had made clear in the past. Jon stared at the map of The North, suddenly seeing phantom markers for phantom armies of Ironborn wherever he looked across the map.
"There was more."
Jon blinked a little bit before still stared at the map,
"The Triarchy of the Three Fucking Daughters seems to have reformed. A King of the Stepstones of all fucking places has united them in common cause – a cause that seems to fit with invading the lands of Westeros to the South. The Ironborn, ever the fucking opportunists, have invaded The North." He scoffed, "As if they had any hope of keeping it once the banners of The North come thundering back up the Neck. But there's more? More than all of that?"
There was silence for a moment,
"That sounds like it would fit with the kind of luck the gods have blessed us with recently." He admitted begrudgingly as he took a drink himself, "What more did the Squid have to say?"
Domeric picked up one of the flag markers for the map and hesitated for a moment before placing it outside the walls of Winterfell itself. Jon's blood ran cold as he stared at the black flag stuck on the map right beside his home, the home of the Stark family for generations, the centre of The North itself. And where his siblings would no doubt be.
Ayra.
Bran.
Sansa.
Rickon.
Perhaps even Robb! Though Jon found it actually more likely that Robb had been taken South with their father. He would have to learn how to command the Northern host and the experience of such a campaign could not be ignored. And besides all of that, Bran had shown himself to be a capable young man, with a head for construction and numbers. He would be more than capable of being the Stark in Winterfell with the council of wise elders within Winterfell itself. So Robb would not be there to mount a defence – Bran would be.
Bran – a child even if he would rapidly approach manhood within the next few years.
And there was an Ironborn host making for them right now, perhaps already there even. He took a deep breath as he forced his more analytical mind to take over. There would be a time for the white hot rage he felt inside at the mere thought of someone threatening his family – no doubt he would unleash said anger against the foes he would soon be facing. The men, his own men, were already whispering that he was now the Bloody Wolf. When he got his hands on the commander of the Ironborn attacking his home however they may well just make it his 'official' title instead. But the cooler part of his mind pushed forwards on the most important questions,
"Did she know when the attack was due to take place?" he asked with a small scowl, "The strength of their forces? The commander in charge of the assault?"
Jon took up a quill and ink to make relevant notes on the map, close at hand to the black flag of the Ironborn force at his home. Domeric hesitated for merely a second before relaying the information he had,
"She says they should be a day's march ahead of us. So likely they have reached the walls of Winterfell itself." He reported, "Numbering around one thousand men, just as her force at Deepwood Motte was."
A thousand men to take Winterfell? Ridiculous. Beyond ridiculous, it was absolute madness. Even if only the barest minimum number of guards were there, somewhere around the five hundred mark, there was no way that one thousand men would breach the walls of the ancient Stark fortress. They would dash themselves against walls too high for hastily made siege towers and gates sturdy enough to withstand days of battering rams.
No.
A thousand men didn't make sense – it would be a waste of fighting men. They'd die in the attempt to take the castle. Unless… unless they believed that they had an ace in the hole. A way into the castle that bypassed the need for a siege. Without needing to be told, Jon knew who the Ironborn commander was,
"Theon Greyjoy." He growled as he scribbled the name down by the expected troop numbers of the Ironborn, "The gutless craven fostered at Winterfell… it likely believes he knows the defences well enough to get around them. What the cunt doesn't know is that the defences were improved because of just such a fear."
The moat, for example, had always been just a moat before. The swim would be no challenge to the Squids and a grappling hook and the cover of night could then have men over the walls and opening the gates in no time. But with that in mind dozens of spikes had been laid in the moat since Theon's escape from Winterfell. Not only that, but the patrols along the walls been tripled, even during the night. Along with more pitch being readily available for dumping at any time, Winterfell was more protected than it had ever been.
It wouldn't even matter if the squids had attempted a diversion – the minimum garrison of six hundred men had been made law by Lord Eddard Stark. Even if Bran, or Robb, were to command the men to ride out, for whatever reason, they would not. So Winterfell would not fall to trickery – of that much Jon was comfortable in allowing himself to put faith in. A siege though? With almost no chance of reinforcements?
He doubted his younger brother had the stomach for a long siege. Jon himself had never been besieged but he had heard the tales from older knights who had fought in the previous wars. And everyone had heard the stories of Stannis during the siege of Storm's End. He didn't doubt for a second that Bran would surrender Winterfell if it meant he didn't have to watch any of the children of elders starving to death.
Jon stared at the map for a long time before nodding to himself,
"The majority of the force will be camped in Wintertown, no doubt taking everything and anything they please." He muttered to himself, "Because of this they will likely focus on the East gate. The others will be covered, of course, but they wouldn't attempt to take them, they'll focus on the East gate because of the cover and comfort Wintertown provides them."
Domeric moved closer to the map, frowning,
"But the East gate connects to the Kingsroad and is the most heavily fortified of the gates is it not?" he continued at Jon's nod, "I've seen that Winterfell has at least one ballista, even if it was an old thing the last time I saw it, and it's posted near the East gate. Why would the Ironborn set up their camp in front of such a weapon?"
Jon sighed, rubbing his chin with his hand,
"Because Theon knows Bran well enough to know that my brother won't order the firing of the siege weapons against Wintertown, for fear of harming the townsfolk." He argued with Domeric, "And he's right. Bran won't fire on the people House Stark is sworn to protect, even if they are harbouring the enemy of House Stark."
Doubtlessly they would have no say in their 'support' of the Greyjoys.
Jon mentally began calculating his remaining forces in his mind. Some 180 cavalry, 90 archers and 120 foot. So just shy of four hundred men in total and he needed to take on a force of one thousand Ironborn, who likely would be waiting for some form of attack to break their siege. He would have to use his men with cunning and, although adept at leading men while in the thick of the fighting, Jon was no master tactician. Thankfully, however, there was one man amongst the host who could be counted as a master tactician,
"Fetch me Samwell Tarly. We have a battle to plan."