The water caused the Silence to bob slightly. A tilt and then a correction. There was no noise on the galley, hence its name. Euron Greyjoy, commander of the Silence, had ensured that none of his crew had the ability to speak. He'd cut their tongues when they'd entered his service. Jon had shivered upon being told that. Well, that and from the beating he'd received from Greyjoy. The man had attacked him with his fists because of something Jon had said.
The man had only stopped when Ser Oswell had forced Greyjoy off him and held a dagger to his throat. Greyjoy had laughed and asked Ser Oswell if Jon was his son. Ser Oswell had shook his head and said that Jon was his lord, and he a sworn sword. What House was he from, that was what Euron had asked next. Jon had answered that. He'd chosen the most obscure northern house he could think of, Whitehill-sworn to the Boltons-and Greyjoy had gone with it.
Now, Jon didn't do any of the manual labour. Oh no, Greyjoy insisted that such work was not fit for a Lord. Instead, Ser Oswell did the work and Jon watched from the seat that Greyjoy had had brought out for him. Ser Oswell was currently scrubbing the deck, and Jon felt terrible. The lie was eating away at him. It was not honourable to lie. Not at all, his father-his real father, not the man who'd helped bring him into this world-had told him that. And yet Lord Eddard had lied to him, had lied to the whole world about who Jon was.
"So, tell me, Lord Whitehill, what is your land like?" Greyjoy asked, piercing into Jon's thoughts.
Jon glanced to his left, where Greyjoy was sat. The man wore loose shirt and trousers, his left leg slung lazily over the side of his chair. "Cold, barren, like much of the north." Jon answered.
"And is that why you left?" Greyjoy asked. "To seek adventure?"
"Yes." Jon answered, that wasn't a lie, not really.
"And?" Greyjoy asked. "How have you found your adventure thus far?"
Jon hesitated. If he gave an honest answer he was afraid of what Greyjoy would do. The man was perfectly capable of harming Ser Oswell for the wrong answer.
Eventually, he answered. "I have found it most intriguing."
Greyjoy quirked an eyebrow. "Intriguing?"
"Yes." Jon said, deciding to test his luck. "I have never known a ship's captain to be so scared of his crew that he removes their tongues."
The moment the words left his mouth, he regretted saying them. Greyjoy's face didn't change, nor did his tone. "Sometimes it is necessary to remove the tongues of those who might cause you difficulty."
Jon frowned. "Why?"
"Because dissent can breed fear and rebellion. And there is nothing half as dangerous on a ship." Greyjoy replied.
"But surely you would want to know why your crew feels the way they do?" Jon asked. "Any good commander would want to know that." That was what his father had always told him.
Greyjoy laughed then, but not the sort of laugh that would make one think that Jon had made a joke. Rather, this was a laugh that to Jon at least, reminded him of the times when Lady Stark would laugh when she saw him. It filled him with dread.
"You are young yet, Lord Whitehill, and if you want to keep your men in order, you will listen to what I say." Greyjoy said, his voice dangerously soft.
"And what might that be?" Jon asked, worried.
Greyjoy fully turned to face him then. "Never allow your soldiers to speak against you in the open. If they do that, they will encourage dissent and chaos. Never allow them the freedom to think for themselves. Always tell them what they must think and what they must do. Never give them room to breathe, for breath gives way to dissension."
Jon felt his frown deepen. "That sounds like paranoia to me."
Greyjoy laughed and rose, coming to tower over Jon. "You surprise me, Lord Whitehill."
Jon looked up at the man. "Why?"
"You northmen are usually far stronger and hardier than you have shown yourself to be." Greyjoy said, his voice dangerously soft.
Jon stood up, he came up to Greyjoy's chin. "I am a new sort of Northman."
"And what sort is that?" Greyjoy asked, his voice mocking.
"The sort who will rule by example and command respect, not fear." Jon answered, remembering something his father had said once.
His father had always said that a man who had to resort to fear to command his men had failed in his duty. Fear would only get you so far, after all.
Greyjoy laughed, a deep laugh that caused the hairs on Jon's back to stand up.
"You are naïve, Lord Whitehill, and completely different to what I would expect from a bannerman of Lord Bolton."
Jon's breath caught, so Greyjoy did know who Whitehill was sworn to.
"I know a thing or two about the north, you see." Greyjoy said, his voice dangerously soft.
"I know that Lord Bolton does not tolerate weakness in his bannermen." Greyjoy said.
"And what you are espousing is weakness, something that Bolton would have sniffed out many years ago." Greyjoy said.
Jon opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, Greyjoy clapped his hands. Jon watched as three of the mutes appeared and grabbed Ser Oswell, dragging him toward where Jon and Greyjoy were. They threw Ser Oswell down before Greyjoy, and Greyjoy looked at Ser Oswell, then back at Jon.
"Now, tell me who you really are." Greyjoy said.
"Or what?" Jon asked, his heart hammering.
Greyjoy pulled out a dagger from somewhere and pressed it against Ser Oswell's throat. "Or your dog gets killed."
Jon looked at Ser Oswell, who looked back at him, and he swallowed. This wasn't how it was supposed to go.
