Westeros: Shadow Beyond the Wall
The blood of kings holds a great power within. The Others know this. They did not know just what power Jon Snow's held when it was spilt by his own brothers, accomplishing through blind idiocy what they had failed to do for so long. Winter is coming, carrying death with it.
I do not own Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. Nor do I own the Middle-Earth video game series or Lord of the Rings.
Review Responses will unfortunately be skipped this time. I apologize, but after weeks of being creatively burnt out I just want to get this up and done with so I can focus on the next chapter with a clear mind.
Xxx
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Drums of War
25th Day of the 11th Moon of 300 AC
The North, White Harbour
It had been a risk, bringing Ghost with him through the Weirwood web, but a worthwhile one. For too long he'd been parted from his companion by necessity or circumstance. To have him by his side as he stepped into the Godswood of the Wolf's Den was a welcome thing.
"Did it, boy." He rubbed Ghost's head, and looked up at the ancient Heartree, which had branches breaking through the godswood's outer wall, and through windows into the keep.
Gazing at the keep made him realize that the Wolf's Den was like some darker, neglected counterpart to Winterfell. The stones were dark, as opposed to the famously white washed stone which the seat of House Manderly was known for. The roots of the Heartree wound through the innards of the castle, growing between floors and walls, down into the cellars and even up into one of the nearby crumbling towers. But under that he could see similar design features chosen by this namesake to emulate the heart of the North and maintained by those who'd held it until it was relegated to being little more than a prison.
Is Winterfell this bad, under Roose Bolton's rule?
"Oi! Who goes there?"
The Godswood, being only a fraction as large as that of Winterfell's, had a wide, straight path between the Heartree and the entrance where two men in green cloaks stood, tridents at the ready. Ghost had already vanished among the few other trees that still stood.
"Name yourself!" One of the guardsmen called.
"My name's Jon Snow." Jon replied evenly. (1)
They stopped just out of the reach of their tridents. "Access to the Wolf's Den is restricted and I see no mark of the Guard on you." The same guardsman from before levelled his weapon at Jon. "How did you get here?"
"Magic." Jon replied bluntly, having no patience for entertaining mummery and even less care for whether they believed him. "I have come to speak with Lord Manderly. I would have appeared a little closer to him, but there's an understandable lack of Heartrees within New Castle."
The second guard snickered and gave his partner an incredulous look. "This one thinks he's the White Wolf."
"Perhaps my friend might convince you of my tale." Jon looked past them both. "Won't you, Ghost?"
The more senior guardsman glanced over his shoulder to see Ghost's fangs bared in a silent snarl. "Fuckin' shite!" He turned and held the trident between himself and the Direwolf.
"That 'shite' would be a direwolf." Jon informed them. "I think you'll agree that normal wolves don't grow nearly as big. Now, if you would show me to your commander I would like to get underway."
Xxx
The one eyed and one legged knight, Ser Bartimus, was one of those in Lord Manderly's service who worshipped the Old Gods. That Jon and a full grown Direwolf had appeared in the Godswood in the middle of a heavily patrolled fortress, again encompassed by a city without any sign of entering from any gate made the old knight willing to believe the rumours of Jon's reputation as a sorcerer. This was to his benefit, as it soon had him being escorted through the gates of New Castle.
Constructed from the same white washed stone as the rest of the city, it was another replica of a pre-existing castle: Dunstonbury, once held by House Manderly when they were lords in the Reach. It rested on a hill overlooking the city and was connected directly to the Wolf's Den by a broad street called the Castle Stair. In lieu of a carriage Jon accepted a cavalry escort while he rode atop Ghost, drawing the eyes of many smallfolk who were ushered aside by trident bearing guardsmen.
"A direwolf."
"Gods, what a beast."
"Look at the size of it, pa!"
"It's Jon Snow!"
"The White Wolf!"
As more recognized who was now among them banners of the Direwolf were waved.
"House Stark!"
"Winterfell!"
The Bright Stranger appeared, looking impressed for once. "A southern styled city in the North would be unheard of from the days I remember living…yet I can see that for their southron roots these Mermen have built and ruled their city competently."
"These people remember my father fondly." Jon said aloud.
"And your brother, Lord Snow." Ser Bartimus stifled a cough. "In death, many focus on Robb Stark's mistakes, but we remember him fondly here."
Robb's mistakes. His many mistakes that trickled in to the Wall overtime, each worse than the last until it became too much and collapsed upon him. Even some he'd been unaware of had leaked to him through his time with Ser Davos, who may not have been the spymaster that the Iron Throne would want but still had enough contacts in the Riverlands to learn some details.
Some were obvious, others only apparent in hindsight. That there were those who delighted in picking apart his brother's campaign filled Jon with resentment, particularly when many were Northern and River Lords who groaned over what could have or should have been.
But seeing that the people still remembered where their loyalties lay assuaged that resentment. They wished only for lives without war, to watch their children grow up to form families of their own, to not be starved and left in the cold at the whims of their lords. They remembered that the Starks, for any mistakes they had made, kept peace in the North and made sure food was stockpiled instead of wasted on feasts and tourneys. It was never a paradise, but what kingdom was?
As they rode through the gates of New Castle, Jon was met with a row of soldiers to each side…but not all of them were Manderly men.
He saw the bear of House Mormont.
He saw the iron gauntlet of House Glover.
He saw the silver eagle of House Mallister.
And perhaps to his greatest shock: he saw the black lizard-lion of House Reed.
Rivermen and Northmen best their spears against the stones as Jon and his escort rode between them. A rotund man in plate mail with a walrus moustache greeted him as they dismounted.
"Lord Snow." He bowed his head, his tone formal and soft. "I am Ser Wylis Manderly. On behalf of my father, I welcome you to White Harbour. Pray, forgive the lack of ceremony, we knew not that you were here."
"There is naught to forgive, Ser Wylis." Jon answered, racking his mind as he climbed down from Ghost's back.
Wyman Manderly was the Lord of White Harbour, but had two sons the last Jon remembered. Wylis and…Wendel, he believed. The Manderly men sent south had been at the Red Wedding no doubt, boding ill for the health of Wendel if he had led his father's men south.
"That I arrived without notice was intended." Jon explained. "The Boltons and their new allies would sweep the countryside from here to Karhold if they knew I was coming here."
Not that they would catch him, but the knight didn't know that.
"Though I am surprised to see that you already host many guests." Jon nodded to the rows of men behind him.
"Yes, they have been kept hidden within our care for a while, but the knowledge of an invading army has rendered any concern of them being discovered moot." Wylis waddled up the steps to the doors of the New Keep. "Please, this way. My father awaits you within."
The Merman Court was almost deserted when Jon walked in. Save for a guard at each door and a few figures at the high table the hall was quiet and empty. Along the length of each wall he could see the artistic depictions of all manner of sea life from sharks to crabs and even a great kraken and leviathan clashing behind a great cushioned throne. The blue ceiling overhead depicted a great galleon upon a sunlit sea.
"Hail." A form even fatter than Ser Wylis somehow rose to stand from the throne. "Jon Snow, son of Eddard Stark. You are most welcome in my home!"
Ser Wyman Manderly was, according to Davos Seaworth, known as Lord Too-Fat-to-Sit-a-Horse by Stannis and others on the south. Seeing him now, Jon could not dispute that, but was surprised by the ease and grace with which the Lord of White Harbour made his way down from his throne, unassisted.
"Lord Manderly." Jon knelt down.
"Stand! A son of Ned Stark will not kneel to me." Wyman reaches the high table. "Join us, please. Your timing is most fortuitous and you will be most gladdened to see who else sits at my table."
As Jon reached the table, he beheld a feast the likes of which would never have been found in Winterfell. Truly, as the old saying went: the Lord of White Harbour was both as southern as a Northman could be, and as northern as a Southron could be. Most of the plates were filled with sea life: fish from the Narrow or Shivering Seas, lobsters from Skagos, lamprey, eel, clams, cod and even some multi-limbed creature reminiscent of the Greyjoy kraken. But amidst this could be found some poultry and even a single large pig as the centrepiece.
Jon came to an empty chair and looked to his most immediate neighbour…who he was shocked to find that he recognized. Not directly, but she shared enough features with Jeor Mormont that there could be no mistaking who she was even without the bear emblazoned on her clothes.
"Jon Snow." The stout, grey haired woman dressed in warrior's garb flashed him a smile missing several teeth. "Gods, did the Northern blood ever breed strong in you."
Two more women sat with her, both stout and strong of build. One of them gave him an appraising look.
"Looks prettier than our King was." She commented, and was elbowed by the other woman. "Ow! Lyra!"
"Manners, Jory." Lyra chastised, addressing Jon more formally. "Jon Snow. It's good to see you here."
"You're…Maege, Lyra and Jorelle Mormont!" Jon realized, having heard of their disappearance before the Red Wedding.
"That we are!" Maege Mormont laughed and raised a goblet of wine in toast. "Told we were dead, weren't you?"
"I was told you'd disappeared." Jon pulled out a seat for himself. "At the Red Wedding."
The smile melted off of Maege's face. "We left before that." She said. "But my Dacey didn't. Those rats butchered her and their day will come, but the Boltons come first. They'll learn that just like killing part of a wolf's pack, when you leave a she-bear alive after taking one of her cubs, she'll hunt you to the ends of the world." She set her goblet down. "And now that you're here, we can get started."
"Not so hasty, Lady Mormont." A man in Glover finery with a thick beard held up a hand. "Let the lad sit and gather himself. There will be time enough for sword-work in the days to come."
Galbart Glover!
The master and steward of Deepwood Motte had disappeared at the same time as the Mormonts in the south. The man next to him, of similar age and bearing, wore the same sigil but remained silent with his sunken and weary eyes on his food.
"Galbart Glover?" Jon asked.
"Aye, and this is my brother Robett." Galbart nodded.
The massacre at Duskendale had been one of the last blows before the killing stroke of the Red Wedding. Three thousand Northmen marched under Robett Glover in an ill conceived attempt to seize the city only to be driven away by Randyll Tarly, losing many loyal men in the ensuing rout.
Jon didn't let himself betray any feelings he may have had over this.
"I never imagined to find you both here." He confessed, turning to a man in Mallister colours. "Much less with a Riverlord."
"I am no Lord." The man, handsome with a neatly trimmed moustache and short cut brown hair with a few streaks of grey, smiled humbly. "Ser Edric Mallister. Jason Mallister, my lord-brother, remains a prisoner at Seaguard with my nephew Patrek. He bade me to bring Lady Maege and Master Galbart north to help arrange his planned retaking of Moat Cailin. By the time we'd found who we were looking for news of the Red Wedding had spread and all we could do was make our way here…with help from Lord Reed."
Jon almost jumped out of his seat as he looked around the table. Howland Reed had only been a figure in his father's stories, a young lord who had befriended the Starks of the previous generation and rode all the way to Dorne to rescue Lyanna Stark.
But no one else sat at the table.
"Here…" A whispery voice alerted Jon to a presence that had slipped beneath his notice…a hunched figure near one of the hearths off to the side, covered by a tattered green cloak.
He stood up and straightened his posture, still coming up only to about Jon's shoulder.
"Jon Snow…" The man approached, tilting his head as if examining Jon's face. "A lifetime it has been, yet it feels like yesterday…"
Howland Reed's hair was a tangled mess of red with streaks of grey and combined with his beard, which looked like it had been roughly cut to keep it at bay, partly concealing a haggard, weathered face. He wore a bronze scaled shirt and leathers under the green cloak and his hands were thin yet callused.
"…when your father and I carried you through this very hall." The Warden of the Neck smiled fondly.
Jon hadn't known he'd been to White Harbour as a child, but assumed that the Crannogman referred to Ned Stark's return trip from Robert's Rebellion.
"You look just like him." Howland commented. "I could swear I'm seeing ghosts."
"Lord Reed." Jon stood and offered him a hand. "My father always spoke fondly of you. I can't say how grateful I am to see you here."
"I remained behind once to guard the Neck and my king died, cut off from home." Howland Reed's eyes twinkled a little as he grasped Jon's forearm in a surprising display of strength. "Me and mine have always been loyal to the Starks and that shall never change. That you stand here renews my hope that the Direwolf may fly over Winterfell soon."
"Gods willing." Jon agreed. "But I'm sure you all know of the threat this city faces."
"Thousands have flooded in each day." Wyman Manderly plopped himself down into a chair made specifically for his size. "This Company of the Axe is driving an exodus from the east. Some say seven thousand, or ten thousand or even twenty thousand strong on the march, butchering and burning all they can reach. But we shall do all we can to prepare for them, that they may smash themselves upon our walls!"
"And with a Stark to lead us again, morale shall soar." Ser Edric paused as Maege and Galbart gave him pointed looks. "My apologies, I got ahead of myself."
"That you did," Galbart grumbled, and the river knight bowed his head.
"I'm afraid you're mistaken, I'm not a Stark." Jon shook his head and politely declined and offered drink.
"Yes, we know, but…" Galbart sighed and nodded to Maege. "There was another mission that your brother gave us before his death. We did not think we would have the opportunity to reach you with the renewed conflict, but now that you are here…"
Maege Mormont unrolled a parchment upon the table and slid it over to Jon. "Your brother's final will." She told him. "A king's final will."
Jon's hand trembled as he picked up the parchment and read its contents.
I, Robert of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and King in the North, being of sound mind do dictate the following terms to be fulfilled in the event of mine own death without issue.
In the name of protecting the North from usurpation and control by the hated Lannisters and their allies, I have, prior to writing this, disowned my sister Sansa Stark from the line of succession. I do so with a heavy heart, but am certain that if their plot to marry her and beget a lannister child from her succeeds they will place themselves as the new rulers of the North. Such an outcome can not be permitted.
In the name of ensuring that the North will have continued leadership, in the absence of any valid and living heirs, I hereby decree that Jon Snow shall be released from his oaths to the Night's Watch. While I understand that such an act is without precedent, I empower my representatives to negotiate for his release by way of offering a number of men to voluntarily replace him in the ranks of the Watch. I beseech the Lord-Commander to recognize that a united and strong North is paramount to supporting the Watch in holding the Wall.
Finally, by my right as King I do strip Jon Snow of the taint of bastardry and bequeath to him the name of our ancestors. He shall henceforth be known as Jon Stark and be appointed as my rightful heir, to take my place as King in the North. I would trust no other living man to rule better than he.
If my death has come and these actions are executed in my name, then I would leave the following words for my successor.
Jon, our father told us that when the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives. I once thought he spoke of our family as the pack, but I know now that he spoke of every Northman from the highest lord to the lowest peasant. For when winter comes and the lands are buried in snow and ice it will only be in unity that our kingdom may survive. Jon, care for our people and watch over them in the days to come, for I sense they will become darker yet even if I were to survive the coming battles. For as long as I have remembered you have always rightfully deserved to bear the name of our House, to be recognized as a son of Ned Stark and seen as more than simply a bastard,
You have always been my brother and I have always loved you. I only hope that you can forgive me for leaving you alone in this world, and that you prove to be a better ruler than me. For while I may have won every battle to date, I know in my heart that I am losing this war. I have tried to act with honour, yet at each turn I find that for each oath I seek to uphold and each injustice I seek to punish I have only pushed my allies further away while our enemies conspire to take all we hold dear.
Rule fairly yet firmly, do not relent or doubt yourself, do whatever must be done to save the North. Should either of our sisters still live, find them and bring them home if you can. Tell Sansa how sorry I am for what I have done, tell Arya to become the warrior she always wished to be, and remember that winter is coming.
With love, always your brother, Robb.
Jon didn't realize how long he'd gone without breathing before a hand on his shoulder made him inhale and twist about, finding Howland Reed looking down at him empathetically. Everything he'd read swam in his head, consuming every thought as he tried to say…something, anything!
Robb had named him King.
He had named him a Stark.
Everything he had once wanted, and more, given to him at the stroke of a quill.
And all it cost was the death of his brother and so many others, only for it to be meaningless in the end.
"I…can't." Jon shook his head, sensing the surprise and unease in those at the table.
"That is King Robb's final wish." Ser Mallister pointed at the parchment. "He wanted you to be King after him."
"And I can't be." Jon insisted. "Things have changed since he wrote this will, things he never could have known."
"It doesn't change what he wanted." Maege glowered. "Are you so willing to disregard your own brother's final gift to you-"
"I can't rule the North!" Jon barked, bringing silence. "…firstly, because my brother Rickon lives, and I won't steal his birth right. Secondly…"
I am no living man and cannot be crowned.
"…I've sworn my loyalty to Stannis Baratheon." Jon looked around the table. "Robb declaring himself king alienated him from potential allies, and in the long run it would starve the North because for all the Targaryens did at the end of their dynasty they also brought us free trade and lasting peace with the south. Even if every Bolton, Baratheon, Frey and Lannister man keeled over and died this second we could not afford to remain independent unless we are willing to return to the days when elders would go out hunting in the snow, never to return. When mothers would suffocate their babes rather than watch them freeze and starve…when dead things walked freely under the sun."
"We had…heard of the Wights." Wyman Manderly cleared his throat. "I sent men north to confirm it, what they told me was…concerning."
"Concerning? It sounds unbelievable." Ser Mallister shuddered. "Dead men walking? Ice demons from legends of yore just beyond the Wall?"
"It's even worse than it sounds." Jon told him. "Out of one hundred-hundred thousand men, women and children little more than one in every five have escaped south of the Wall. The rest march day and night, preparing for the next Long Night, and here you stand proposing that I betray the man who reclaimed Deepwood Motte, who marches now to restore my brother to our family seat and has answered the call of the Watch."
He saw shame in Galbart Glover's eyes and disappointment in Ser Jon Mallister's, but strangely he found expressions that were more relieved worn by the others gathered.
"…I agree." Wyman Manderly sighed. "I am a Lord first, but I am also a merchant. My family struggled to build this city, to create a bastion of order when these surrounding lands were harsh, wild and consumed by pirate marauders and bandit lords. We struggled to feed ourselves, fend off invasions and maintain trade. Then the dragons came, and while we felt the sting of humiliation…we also saw something we'd long forgotten: prosperity."
He motioned to the painted ceiling. "Our ships could travel the Narrow Sea to bring back food when we could not grow enough. We could import glass for glass gardens, animals when our cattle died, workers willing to work for less so we could build shelters and everything we needed. Not all Manderlies were so…well fed as I am." He patted his bulging stomach. "But when Robb Stark was named King, I kept my oath to follow him and his family. I remembered the debt that we still owe for the wolves taking us in when we were cast out. So I did everything I could to help make the dream of a free kingdom work."
The Lord of White Harbour smiled ruefully. "I minted northern silver. I built the first fleet of warships the North has seen since the days of Brandon the Burner. I entertained guests from the Iron Bank and cartels in every Free City to secure loans in preparation of a long winter. I paid for surveyors from Braavos to be shipped here so they could identify valuable veins of ore in the mountains, for merchants who had travelled as far as the Shadowlands near Asshai to seek out new crops that could better endure the northern chill. I summoned smiths from Qohor and engaged Magisters from Lorath, hired stone workers and shipwrights, secured trade deals with men and women in each of the Free Cities who would recognize the North as its own kingdom."
He sighed heavily, his face a little red. "There were plans to make this work." He jabbed one sausage finger against the table. "All we needed was for our king and his army to return to the North, put it to rights, rebuild our numbers and fortify against southern aggression until winter would dissuade them from looking towards us for a generation. But now that can't happen and my work was for naught."
Wyman Manderly chuckled heartily. "And ironically I'm glad for it, despite the deaths that accompanied that crushed dream- including my own son and my king. Even taking the first steps towards maintaining a lone kingdom so large and barren is exorbitantly stressful on this old heart of mine. But one kingdom that can trade and seek aid from six others? That: I've handled my entire life."
He picked up his goblet and held it high. "So if kneeling to Stannis Baratheon will see us through the coming winter, then House Manderly will kneel no matter how harsh it is on our knees." He laughed.
"A crown is a most heavy burden and not all are born to wear one." Howland Reed, staying by Jon's side, nodded. "And as the dead walk, unity is more important than ever. House Reed shall bend the knee."
"My daughter lays dead for the dream of a free North." Maege's wrinkled hands curled into fists before she exhaled. "But…if it means the rest of them might live and Dacey's murderers die, then House Mormont shall bend the knee."
"I'm glad for this." Robett Glover said, raising his goblet. "Independence is a sweet dream, but not if the North is bled dry on the verge of the Long Night."
"Aye." Galbart nodded and followed his younger brother. "We had our chance, we lost it and there's nothing to be done for it in this lifetime. Stannis reclaimed my home, so he'll have my fealty."
Ser Jon Mallister pushed his chair back and stood up. "I cannot speak for my brother or nephew, and if I could I'd want it very differently…but if Stannis would see them freed and the Red Wedding avenged then he will have my sword in his service." He picked up his goblet. "To Stannis Baratheon, King on the Iron Throne!"
"To Stannis!" Jon picked up the earlier offered goblet and joined in the toast, and the guards cracked their tridents against the floor once.
"Will you still take the Stark name?" Jorelle asked.
"Nay. Stannis would not recognize it, and to accept one term of this will would be to accept them all in his eyes." Jon took the will in hand. "My brother was a good man, a good king, but he's dead now and we must face the reality that his word means less than nothing." He tossed it into the hearth previously tended by Howland, who looked glad to see the parchment burn. "Rickon Stark is the new Warden of the North, now we must fight to keep it for him."
It would seem, later in hindsight, that the Northern Lords had been prepared no matter how Jon decided to react to Robb's will. He'd found out that a new crown had been forged, but without any defining features until Lord Wyman could be sure which king he was to kneel to. They had all been willing to try and honour Robb's final wish and resume the fight for an independent North, albeit reluctantly and only if there was a grown and battle hardened Stark ready to lead them that day.
Instead that crown would go to Stannis, a symbol of Northern recognition in his right to rule, but only after the Boltons were dealt with.
And before that, the Company of the Axe had to be dealt with.
The forces of White Harbour were augmented by the bannermen of Houses Manderly and Flint, some twenty five hundred. The city guard, a thousand strong, had been training since the onset of war in the south in the use of siege weapons mounted on the outer walls. Fixed heavy ballistae, versatile scorpions and catapults lined the inland facing walls and the fortifications overlooking the harbour, ready to repel an assault from both directions.
The bannermen of House Manderly however posed a problem: almost four hundred came from houses whose loyalty were in doubt. Houses Bell, Rook and Emon were chief amongst them with the rest the retinues of landed knights. Most of their forces had been sent over to the Boltons under the guise of answering the call to arms against Stannis, but Lord Wyman had taken precaution against treachery on their part by diluting them among his ranks to the point that they would be lucky if more than a handful were assigned to the same area.
None of them being near any gates, larders or siege weapons.
House Manderly had its own levies to contribute in the form of almost a hundred knights with thrice as many retainers. When put together the near four thousand strong host could offer nine hundred cavalry and a mix of pikemen, bowmen and dismounted knights.
And then there were what could be considered the city's reinforcements: a mess of two hundred and forty Crannogmen, Glovers, Mormonts and Mallisters. Lord Reed was quick to admit that his hundred-some men were not built for frontline warfare, but were some of the finest archers outside of the Dornish marchers and were put to work on training recruits in the use of bows and tridents. The rest were armed escorts and crews from the Mallister longships dispatched before the Red Wedding.
With over two thousand recruits (mostly armed with farming implements and hunting bows) and several hundred sellswords thrown in the defenders' numbers rested somewhere between six and seven thousand. While the issue of the recruits' paltry arsenal couldn't be ignored, the mass training of bowmen being a regular tradition allowed Lord Manderly to focus them atop the walls where they would be of most use. While a man with several weeks of training with a trident might break and route easily, a man atop a wall with a bow needed only enough training to shoot in the right direction to be worth several below.
After taking stock of the loyalist forces, Jon moved on to the next most pertinent question. "Where is the enemy army and how fast are they moving?"
"My kinsman at Ramsgate wrote as much as he could get from refugees crossing the Broken Branch." Wyman stifled a belch. "The enemy host moves west along the coast with best speed, but will still be over a week on the march before they reach the river. It is their outriders which are the true concern. They scour the countryside, killing and pillaging indiscriminately. The main host has sacked several places in their path but ignored anything too well guarded or out of their way."
"The true prize is this city." The Bright Stranger pointed to Ramsgate on a map. "And this is their fastest way to it."
The next bridge was over two days north along the river. Halfway there was a spot marked for its potential in fording the river.
Ramsgate would fall, it was just a matter of when. After that it would be another several weeks spent crossing almost eighty leagues before they could threaten White Harbour. But every day was another the city could prepare, another that more of the invaders could succumb to the cold. If they could be held at bay long enough the Northern chill would mow them down like wheat before a sickle and leave them broken before the gates.
"Do they bring siege weapons?" Jon moved on.
"Mostly scorpions mounted to carts, but one report speaks of what may be a larger ballistae." Ser Wylis provided.
Then Ramsgate may not hold as long as Jon would like…
"Lord Manderly, we have little time to prepare and much to do." Jon was already drawing up plans in his mind, visualizing the army that would encircle the city by land and the accompanying fleet by sea, picturing where and how they would attack. "I have a plan, but you know this city better than me. Can I count on you?"
The Lord of White Harbour grinned a wide, eager smile across his reddening face. "Always, Lord Snow."
Xxx
26th Day of the 11th Moon of 300 AC
Castle Cerwyn
"I thought Northmen were supposed to be more resilient to torture." Syronos Dirrin wiped Steelshanks Walton's blood from his hands as he left the castle dungeons. "That was the most disappointing attempt at resistance I've ever dealt with."
"He talked then." Jonelle Cerwyn scratched the ears of a hound, one of many that had been enjoying the remains of Walton's escort and was presently gnawing on a femur.
"Better: he sang. The cypher I found at Brandon's Home has nothing to do with the Company of the Axe." Syronos nodded. "It speaks of locations within Bolton lands which Walton was ordered to send men to…with shovels and picks. Also with specific numbers of wagons for each location."
"Fortifying settlements?" The Lady of Castle Cerwyn asked, whistling to get the hound to follow at her heels when she walked with the sellsword.
"Nay, digging." Syronos shook his head. "They dug up boxes. Coffins, if he was truthful. They are not on any current map of the North, as each location was once a keep, village or lichyard; all of them abandoned or burnt to the ground before either of our great grandfathers were twinkles in their own fathers' eyes. The coffins were brought to the Dreadfort and then sent to Winterfell when Walton received orders to move his host."
"That makes no sense!" Jonelle groaned in exasperation. "I know the Leech Lord has been rumoured to partake of morbid practices, but why waste time and men to dig up coffins?!"
"I am sorry that this does nothing to satisfy you, my lady." Syronos droned the same line he'd fed her perhaps a dozen times since being welcomed to her castle.
"Satisfy? Do you know what would satisfy me? Truly?" Jonelle's nostrils flared and she spun on him. "Ramsay Bolton. Screaming. For mercy." She hissed. "That mad, up-jumped rapespawn of a bastard waltzed into this castle with my own brother's mutilated remains. He dared to smile at me and apologize for his death. Do you know the one thing that kept me from pulling this-" she reached beneath her skirts and briefly flashed a fleshy thigh before pulling a dagger for Syronos to see. "-and opening him from ear to ear?!"
She slid the dagger back into its concealed sheathe. "It wasn't that he had an army outside, or that he might have stopped and killed me. The only thing that kept me from ending him was the knowledge that he wouldn't suffer nearly enough for justice to be satisfied."
Syronos raised one brow by the end of her speech. "I see…you have my sympathies, Lady Cerwyn."
"I don't want platitudes, sympathies or apologies, Captain, I want an assurance that justice will be mine!" Jonelle raged.
"Very well then." Syronos crossed his arms. "Perhaps there is something I could do to give you that assurance."
"Now that you mention it…" Jonelle had him follow her to her solar and seal the door behind them.
"When a woman pulls me into a room alone, that is either reason for joy or reason for concern." Syronos mused as he swung a wooden bar down into place.
"Don't flatter yourself." Jonelle scoured her desk until she found what she was looking for. "Here."
She pulled out a battered book and handed it to Syronos, who read the faded title. "Records of White…wall?"
"It's a castle on the Whiteknife, or two halves of a castle with a boom chain." Jonelle explained. "And the Boltons had it garrisoned. The Leech tried to pass it off as preventing pirate reavers from sailing up from White Harbour, but I know he has them there so that my people cannot retreat to the city or call for help from it. Soon he will know that I've turned my cloak and will send an army to besiege my home. If you want to assure me that I made no mistake in dipping my banner to the Stag King, then see the river opened and every last man there slain or captured."
Syronos held her gaze for several increasingly tense moments before shrugging and opening the book, finding it filled with outlines of structural designs. "Very well."
"I will not-" Jonelle began to speak, but stopped as she processed his response. "Pardon?"
"I will do it." Syronos said, and held the book up. "I just need to borrow this. My father always told me that a mind is like a sword and must be sharpened."
"I…admit to being surprised, I would have thought you would demand something in turn." Jonelle admitted.
"Is this a way of telling me you wish me to some form of payment?" Syronos asked playfully, glancing up from the book.
"Careful." She patted her thigh. "A question isn't always an offer."
"You were prepared for any man in Stannis' army to leverage a marriage from you, now that you are the last of your line." Syronos stated. "But I am not any man, and I am not so shortsighted as to think that having a castle and keeping it are the same thing. I would make a poor lord even if your people accepted me. My place is on the battlefield, as it has ere been." He shut the book. "And as one who speaks from experience: a little generosity can make you something more valuable and lasting than good or stone walls."
"What might that be?" Jonelle inquired.
"Friends, even family." Syronos slid the book into his coat pocket. "For you see, without some generosity I would be long dead…or I'd be some eunuch priest shrieking at the skies and unmanning other boys in a far off land." He smiled pleasantly. "A most atrocious fate for which all the women from Yi-Ti to Braavos would weep."
As he turned and unlocked the door Jonelle asked. "So there is no woman you seek to marry waiting back in Essos? No dreams of fortune and leisure as payment for your years of fighting?"
Syronos flashed her a pearly grin over his shoulder. "I can think of a few women who I might marry, Lady Cerwyn, but it will hardly matter for I may very well die tomorrow anyways."
Xxx
Bay of Ice, near Deepwood Motte
The last time Ironborn visited Deepwood Motte, they had come as conquerors.
Now they came under the sights of hundreds of battle ready Northmen.
Some distant cousin of Lord Rodrik Harlaw disembarked from a longship and presented young Galen and Erena Glover, looking confused until they saw their mother, mounted and surrounded by Northmen.
"Mama!" Gawen called, holding his younger sister close as she wailed and tried to move towards Sybelle.
"Your children are alive and unharmed, Lady Sybelle!" The Harlaw man stated. "The Reader upholds his end of the deal. What say you?"
Sybelle looked the guardsman at her side. "Bring her." She commanded.
Asha Greyjoy was pulled to the front of the Northern column and smiled at the sight of the Harlaw longship. "Finally." She whispered.
As was agreed upon beforehand, two men from each side led their hostages to a point between the two parties. The Big Bucket and Beshka were trusted with this, and kept themselves guarded until they were given the Glover children and relieved of Asha, who walked back to the longship with the pride of a queen.
"Look at her." Lyanna Mormont scowled as she peered around Maraiya, seated behind her on a shared saddle. "That Ironborn bitch thinks herself some conquering hero even in defeat."
"She has what she wants: return to the sea." Maraiya watched the Ironborn board the longship and pull away from the shore. "Let her and her uncle fight it out for their islands. The North is free of them."
"And all the better for it." Lyanna agreed as Sybelle Glover sank to her knees, clutching both of her children to her front as their weeping broke through the sound of the tide and winds sweeping in from the bay.
Yet far out from shore, which quickly shrank in the distance behind her, Asha Greyjoy beheld something she had not expected: more Ironborn ships. Dozens of them were travelling west, making for Sea Dragon Point, and her vessel joined up alongside one which she remembered as the Sea Song.
"Nuncle!" She cried out, and was met with the familiar grey beard and brown hair of the Reader as he stepped into view to greet her.
"It is good to see you free at last, child!" He smiled fondly.
"Good to see your nose for once!" She taunted, and he laughed with her.
After arranging to have her transferred to his vessel, he gave her a counting of how many ships and men they had following them now and how many more were expected. With Euron in control of the Iron Fleet and a majority of the remaining longships it had been deemed wise to travel in numbers, dividing those loyal to Asha's claim or at least opposed to Euron's into two groups: one to retrieve her, and the other to regroup in Iron Man's Bay. With the Crow's Eye looking south to the Reach where he staked his claim, careful timing would permit the two halves to join within days of the second group's arrival.
But what then?
The Reader had done well, gathering those loyal to her without drawing Euron's attention, but it would change nothing if she acted the fool like her father or brother.
The Iron Islands were almost spent of ships, but lacked little for defenders who could hold long enough for word to be sent for aid. Even Ten Towers was lost to her, as the Reader's jealous elder sister had snatched it no sooner than he'd left for this very exchange- not that he hadn't expected it. Without a port of harbour she couldn't hope to resupply her men, repair her ships or take the fight to Euron.
Victarion had betrayed her and her father's memory, departing on some fool mission to Essos on Euron's command.
Aeron was held captive aboard the Silence to keep the pious in line.
Theon was lost to her.
Enemies to the north who hated her, enemies to the south who followed her father's murderer, enemies in the east- and with her run of luck even to the west. Part of her wanted to toss it all to the winds and sail away to some distant island where she could carve out a new kingdom, spend her days drinking and fucking exotic beauties to her heart's content…and yet something inside her howled.
Justice! Justice for my slain kin! Justice for Balon and Theon!
Euron's hold on the Iron Islands was too tight, his support base too strong. If he was dead her problems would shrivel in number, but she would never get close enough to stick a blade in his good eye…not alone.
"Nuncle, I've decided where we'll go." She said.
"We await your orders, niece." He said with a fatherly smile the likes of which had never graced Balon Greyjoy's face.
Once, at the kingsmoot, Asha had proposed an alliance with the Northmen in order to hold against the united might of the other kingdoms. No true Ironborn would consider consorting with Greenlanders, or doing anything against the Old Way…and yet the Old Way led her family closer to its end.
Times had changed, and she needed to change with them or be swept away in the tide.
"I've been told the Riverlands are held by Lions and Freys." She gazed out across the glittering, chilling waters as a pale sun rose higher in the northern sky.
"Yes, they have taken hostages from nearly every house and occupied the seats of many who followed the Young Wolf." Rodrik informed her.
"Even Seaguard?"
"Patrek and Jason Mallister are prisoners in their own home while Black Walder Frey commands it."
"Good." She nodded. "We're going to take it."
"Our recent conquests haven't gone well, niece." The Reader reminded her.
"It's a good thing that we aren't conquering it." Asha smirked. "We're going to do what no real Ironborn has ever done: give it back to its rightful ruler."
Xxx
End of Chapter
Macbeth, anyone?
As I try to factor in more of what went on in the books I find myself being given a headache to keep track of it. The Ironborn story arc is especially a pain which makes me curse Martin for making so many interwoven story threads and characters. Of course I could easily ignore most of them, but if you ever meet me you will agree that I'm too stubborn not to.
Originally I had planned for Jon to actually go to Ramsgate to first meet the Company of the Axe there, but I decided against it as it would be stretching this arc out much like I did with the Skagos/Skane arc. Instead Jon will remain in White Harbour and the battle will be coming much sooner than originally envisioned.
In fact thats one reason this took so long: I kept replanning how to execute it. I had all sorts of ideas that kept repeating the mistakes of the previous arc, and I promised to do better for you this time around.