The Revolution of Westeros: How an Engineer Views Plebeians

Author Note: This is my story, in case anyone was wondering. I am bringing it over here as I lost my account on AO3. I am posting chapters 7 and 8 today as well, but I have to reformat them to fit what I wanted. Soon, I'm going to go back and rework the beginning chapters of this story since I think they are, quite frankly, awful. I'll also be working on Similfuturus when I can.

I have fun with both these stories, and today's chapter (chapter 8) was pretty fun to write. I'm writing more for myself than anything, and eventually I'm going to move on to my own works of fiction. I've found that fanfiction has brought me a lot of fun though, and it has definitely improved my skill as a writer.

I have another story as well that I may post tomorrow, but it's not GOT. It's a DC Universe fanfiction. If you're interested in that, I may drop it tomorrow after classes.

I know I promised multiple chapters before the weekend, but I ended up catching the flu. So, I only have up to chapter 8 prepared tonight.

Also, this week is going to be very busy for me. I'm not sure if I will post again before next weekend.

That being said, I hope everyone is enjoying the comeback and will stick with me until these stories are finished.

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 of 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.