Chapter 41; The siege begins;

Characters of the chapter

Alexander de Rozien, Chevalier of Orlais, Marshal of the Grand Army of Orlais, Supreme commander of the Orlesian invasion of Westeros

Deniel Fabre, Master Engineer of the Orlesian military, head of the field engineering corps assigned to the Grand Army of Orlais

Edmond Brahms, Knight of Nevarra, Military advisor to the court of King Jon

Hannah of Starkhaven, Ambassador on behalf of the College of Magi

Jerome Evander mage-healer in the service of Jon Snow

Jon Snow, also known as Aegon Targaryen and Jon Stark, King of the North Kingdom of the Twin Kingdoms

Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell and the Eyrie, Wardeness of the North

Ynessa des Montagnes, Chevalier of Orlais, Duelling Champion to de Rozien, Chosen Sword of Orlais.

Wolkan, Maester assigned to Winterfell

Cursive/Bold text is in Orlesian

At the edge of the Orlesian camp Ynessa was seated on the ground, leaning against the body of one of the watchtowers, staring at Winterfell morosely while taking the occasional sip from the wineskin in her hand. That was were Michel found her, walking to her from deeper inside the camp.

"You seem rather drunk." He said to her.

"Did I misstate my intentions?" She countered with a slight slur in her voice, turning her eyes to him. "But I made good on my promise to you. Haven't picked any fights. Just been here like a good girl, watching, brooding."

"Good to hear. Thank you." Michel said, then turned his attention to the field outside the camp, where Orlesian soldiers were gathering. "I have to go now. My unit has been called to order."

"Then good luck to you my friend." She said, raising her wineskin in a toast. "Don't get killed." She added sympathetically.

Michel nodded and went on his way. Ynessa turned her gaze back towards Winterfell. "Blast it." She muttered to herself, then took another sip of wine.

Back at the walls of Winterfell the defenders had gathered, waiting for the commencement of the assault in silence. Some of them were the made up of the soldiers that had gone to war with Jon and Winterfell's standing garrison. The rest were men and women who had volunteered to fight to the last to protect the heart of the North. Perhaps a thousand had been added to their numbers that way. Some more if you counted healers, cooks, runners and others who were doing important work for the defense but who would not be fighting unless the enemy found them or if truly dire circumstances arose. They had been equipped from Winterfell's armory, given as much training as there had been time for, then dispersed among more regular soldier so they could benefit from their experience.

The bulk of the defenders were gathered on the section of the wall where they believed the brunt of the enemy would be coming. To try to defend the entire length of the wall would have spread their forces too thin, so at other sections of the wall the defenses had been concentrated on the towers and stairs leading down from the wall. Those chokepoints were critical. Each tower was like a small fortress unto itself, and the staircases were too narrow to fit more than one soldier at a time, negating any advantage in numbers the enemy might have. So long as they held on to those positions one defender would be enough to hold back a hundred attackers or more. If the enemy managed to circle around the main positions of the northern defense, hopefully those positions would hold on long enough for reinforcement to be broken off the main battle and drive the imperials back. The godswood had a small number of defenders as well, although that had Jon worrying that his people were overextended. But the ground of their gods could not simply be abandoned to the enemy. Winterfell's inner walls and the heart of the castle were unmanned for now, but the defenders would retreat to them should the imperials manage to break through. Perhaps it would have been wiser to abandon the outer defenses and focus on defending a smaller area, but he and Edmond had agreed that it was necessary to oppose the enemy every step of the way while that was still a valid option. Abandoning defensive layers to the enemy would only hasten the end.

Every defender that could carried a bow now to give them more firepower. The only ones excluded were those like Davos who could not use a bow on the account of missing body parts or other physical limitations. Not everyone was skilled in the use of such weapons of course, but Jon was hoping that massed numbers would make up for that. Fortunately, thanks to the efforts of Sansa and Davos, ammunition was plentiful. To that were added piles of stones, mostly collected when the trench was being dug deeper, as well as cauldrons of boiling oil, dispersed along the length of the wall, ready to be used when the enemy reached the base of the wall. Should the enemy still reach the top of the walls it would come down to swords, their final means to drive this enemy back.

Jon turned his attention to the enemy force outside. There were a lot of them gathered, thirty, maybe forty thousand preparing for an assault. A hammer poised to smash through their defenses and swarm all over the castle like a horde of ants. Besides the multitudes of troops he thought he could make out ladders and pavise shields intended to protect the enemy troops and siege crews from arrow fire as they approached. He was glad to note that there were no siege towers present, not that the imperials would have had much of a chance of assembling such a thing in such a short time. That would make it easier to keep the enemy from overwhelming them, since they could only reach the top of the wall with ladders. There was a ram though, being maneuvered into position. Jon was surprised that the enemy had manage to build one so quickly. But Edmond had told him of how the Orlesian siege engineers built their machines through consistent, practiced procedures, using as many pre-made components as possible to speed up the process. Edmond had even talked about how their trebuchets were all built from identical parts, so parts from one could be used to fix another. It was all ingenious really. No doubt these people could have taught his people many things, had they not been enemies. But they were. The ram did not appear finished though, seeing as men swarmed all over it as soon as they were finished moving it.

The machine would not be an immediate problem, Jon knew. The first thing they had ordered done when they had returned from their talks with the Orlesians had been to demolish the bridge spanning the trench. That meant that even after the Imperials had finished the work on their machine they could not bring it across, not yet. Once they managed that though… he would have to think some way to destroy it, before the thing battered down Winterfell's gate. But as Edmond had said earlier, one thing at a time.

"We do have a chance of holding." Jon told himself, as he had done several times already. This assault force might outnumber them more than ten to one, the enemy army as a whole many more times than that, but even a million against one odds would not matter so long as they were on the outside of these walls. Only the ones that made it inside their defenses counted. The defenders of Winterfell had done everything in their power to reduce the number of enemies that would have a chance of doing so in a short amount of time. If they played this carefully, if they succeeded in moving their troops where they were needed when they were needed they had a chance of keeping those enemy numbers from becoming too overwhelming, and hold this castle. Then this would be a battle of attrition, just as the northern defenders had intended. They would buy as much time as possible, inflicting as many casualties on the enemy in that time as possible.

"That of course *if* Kieran's efforts to protect them from enemy magic were successful." Jon thought to himself. If that wasn't the case the enemy would likely wipe out their defenses inside fifteen minutes, then stroll in here without losing a drop of their blood.

"To have come so far and to have worked so hard to be ready, and to still be dependent on the actions of one man." He contemplated. If his methods worked and they actually made it through this he would have to think of some way to thank him for his service. If there was to be resistance here this day, it would happen because their mage advisor allowed it to be so.

In the end there was no way for them to kill all of their enemies, no matter what they did. Nor was that an objective they were aiming for. Without help from the outside, they were doomed to be overwhelmed eventually. For themselves there was no hope. This was their final act to buy their allies time. Time to end this foe that marshalled before them.

Perhaps at a time like this there was wisdom in accepting that they were already dead, as some warriors did in war. When you did that you stopped fearing death, and then you were able to function as you needed to, without fear or hesitation. Paradoxically that attitude was something that allowed one's survival.

"For as long as I live I will fight them. So will us all. How long that ends up being is inconsequential now." Jon promised himself.

"On the other hand by our current definition of victory we have already won. We will keep winning with every minute we delay the enemy, with every foe we manage to kill." Jon thought grimly. The thought gave him some comfort.

De Rozien was observing Winterfell and the gathering of his troops. Finally he concluded that they were ready to begin.

"Let's get started. You may commence your attack when ready." He said to enchanter Hannah beside him.

Hannah nodded and walked forward. Standing in front of the gathered Orlesian forces, she was soon joined by other mages.

"Mages! Do your worst!" She shouted, taking her staff into her hands and igniting a fire to its tip. The other mages began calling up different kinds of magic as well. She raised her staff towards the sky and flaming orbs materialized above Winterfell, falling towards the walls. At the same time the defenders of Winterfell noted how faint blue marks flared into existence all over the castle. Just before the barrage of fire reached the soldiers on the wall the orbs seemed to enter a field of haze. There the orbs rippled, distorted and disappeared, as if they had never been. Before anyone at the walls had a chance of processing what had just happened the rest of the Orlesian mages began attacking as well, sending a cascade of different magical attacks against them. Fire, ice, lightning, pure energy, fade crafted rocks, just about every kind of magical attack conceivable. While the defenders of Winterfell huddled behind their wall, each of those spells distorted and vanished just as the first one had, the marks all over the castle glowing with ever more intensity as they worked to absorb incoming attacks. Even as no one was dying as of yet, it didn't make the experience any less terrifying. The world was shaking, filled with a cacophony of noise that could be heard in every corner of the castle. Even inside the infirmary people paused in their preparations and listened to the thunderous noise of the ceaseless magical assault.

After a torturous long while things finally began to quiet down as the magical assault tapered to a halt. As soon as the assaults stopped the wards faded and disappeared from view once again. At once Kieran went to work redrawing the marks, focusing on the ones that had been weakened the most. On the Orlesian side of the battlefield Hannah stared at Winterfell with a frown on her face, utterly puzzled.

"Well... that's… unexpected. How?" She said to herself.

"What happened?" De Rozien asked.

"Forgive me My Lord. Our attacks seem to have been stopped somehow. I don't understand it. The Westerosi should not be able to do anything like this." She said. "It felt a little like…" She added, but did not finish her sentence.

"Felt like what?" The Marshal insisted.

"Well this might sound a little crazy, but it felt a bit like it feels when Templars are blocking magic." She explained.

"…How could that be? The Templar order has been disbanded for many years now. Even if there was some remnant group out there why would they be aiding the Westerosi of all people?" De Rozien said.

"I don't know My Lord. But I don't see the Westerosi managing this stunt on their own. I don't know who or how, but I believe someone from Thedas must have been aiding them." She said.

"We can figure that out later. The key point now is that your spells didn't work. An unexpected outcome to be certain, but fortunately we did not come entirely unprepared. I suppose we must do this the old fashioned way." The Marshal said.

"First wave! Make ready for an assault!" He shouted a command.

"Holy hells… it worked. It actually worked!" Jon said back at the wall."Is everyone alright?" He asked. His question was followed by a chorus of acknowledgements from the other northmen.

"Well, that was harrowing. But we're alive, thanks to Master Kieran." Davos said next to Jon.

"Yes. Thanks to him." Edmond said, equally as breathless from what he had witnessed as the others. "Well, that was challenge number one. The enemy troops are next." He said then.

"Way to ruin the moment Edmond." Jon said, but nonetheless nodded."Everybody make ready! Nock arrows!" He commanded. "Wait for my command." He ordered next. His people did as he had told them to, then waited for the enemy to come within range.

The enemy for their part were chanting the same chant they chant they had done at the start of every battle: "Orlais! Orlais! Orlais!"

Along with the others Jon listened to the enemy's war chant, gritting his teeth, feeling his anxiety rising with every passing moment. Finally he could not take it anymore.

"Winterfell! Winterfell!" He began shouting as loud as he could, over and over.

Davos picked up his shout "Winterfell! The North!"

"Nevarra! Nevarra!" Edmond joined in as well.

One by one more voices joined them until everyone at the wall were shouting their defiance at the invader. Some gave a shout for the North, some for their King while others shouted the names of the places they had come from. Some shouted the names of their loved ones, some their own names. A few just shouted. Those that carried horns blew them, filling the air with their mournful notes. While the Orlesians continued their chant the northmen responded in kind, countering them with every shred of air in their lungs.

Both sides kept that up for a while. Then, as if in response to the provocation the Orlesians surged forward, charging towards the castle.

"Archers! Draw!" He shouted a command over the noise. Those closest to him heard his command. The rest followed the example of their fellows. As they did the noise began to quiet down, his people focusing on the task at hand. Jon himself took aim at the mass of approaching enemies. After a few more moments of waiting the enemy entered their range.

"Loose!" Jon shouted, and thousands of arrows flew towards the enemy. Many were stopped by the shields carried by the imperials, but many others found their mark, and the Orlesian's began dropping. Archers among the attacking enemies began to shoot back, sending clouds of arrows to pepper the walls of Winterfell. Very few of the Imperial arrows managed to claim the life of a northerner, but the point of the barrage was more about suppression than killing, forcing the defenders to keep their head down and lessening the amount of fire being directed against the assaulting troops.

Despite the casualties they were receiving the Orlesians continued to advance. Very soon they reached the trench. Most of the enemy had the sense to stop close to the edge but a few had gotten too close in their rush and were pushed by their fellows that ended up impacting on them as they moved in behind them. As they had been digging it, the northerners had planted sharpened stakes to the bottom of the trench, so many of those that fell in were impaled. The rest found it very hard to climb out again due to the high and steep walls of the trench, particularly with all the commotion around them. But the trench was not deep enough to hide them from Winterfells archers firing from elevated positions so many of the survivors were shot in a manner of moments.

The rest of the Imperials had come prepared for this obstacle. They laid down planks to let them cross, while others put down the ladders they had been carrying for the purposes of the same. The trench was doing a great job of slowing the imperial assault, but in many points the Orlesians were beginning to stream across, continuing their advance towards the walls. At another part of the battlefield Imperial Engineers were moving in under the cover of their Pavise shields and portable wooden roofs, carting in wheelbarrows of dirt to fill a section of the trench.

"Focus the fire to where they are crossing! Shoot at will!" Jon shouted. At the moment of the crossing the enemy was exposed, and as the fire was shifted many soldiers died trying to make it to the far side. As it happened the trench was not the only defense the northmen had prepared before the arrival of the Grand Army. One soldier managed to make it across and run a few meters towards the walls before the ground gave in under his feet and he fall into a hidden pit impaled like his fellows in the trench by a sharpened stake that lay at the bottom. The space between the trench and the walls was littered with such trap pits to further confound the enemy, dug in random places to make it that much harder for the enemy to find them. With all these obstacles the enemy was unable to advance in any semblance of organized formations, instead moving forward in a stream of individual soldiers, easy pickings for Winterfell's archers.

Even with all these measures the enemy continued their assault. More and more boards were laid across the trench, letting them cross in ever greater numbers. Soon a number of them began reaching the base of the walls.

"Oil and rocks! Oil and rocks! Trained archers, move to the towers! Everyone else, ready your weapons!" Jon shouted his next series of commands. He then picked up a heavy stone and hoisted it over the wall. With a clang it impacted the helmet of an imperial soldier, denting his helmet and causing him to fall over never to stand up again. There was a brief pause in the arrow fire as the northern archers ran to the towers continue their attack beyond the easy reach of the enemy. Other defenders were upending kettles of boiling oil upon the enemy, the Orlesians screaming as the liquid seeped through, blinding them and burning their skin.

The Imperials brought up their ladders, docking them against the walls. As soon as they were in place the imperial soldiers began their ascent. A number of them were still slain by arrows, rocks and oil. But not all of them…

Jon picked up a long stave with a V-shaped opening on one end. He placed the open end of it against the crossbeam. He was joined by Davos, Edmond and two others, and together they began to push. The ladder was a heavy thing, made that way to support the weight of many armed and armored soldiers without difficulty, and to make it harder to do what Jon and the others were trying to do. They could feel the resistance as the Orlesians struggled to keep the ladder upright. Despite this resistance they eventually managed to get it past its center of balance, and the ladder fell down, unfortunately for those that were on it or happened to be standing underneath it.

As soon as the ladder was down the team moved on to the next ladder. Before they could do to that ladder what they had done to the first one an Orlesian soldier reached the top, jumping down and slaying one of the northmen that had been helping Jon. Jon released his hold of the stave and drew Longclaw. The Orlesian soldier raised his weapon, about to strike at Jon, but the King in the North was quicker, cutting him down. No sooner had he done so when he was alerted by an angry shout from behind him, seeing another Imperial soldier charging at him. That one got a Valyrian steel blade through the chest. Jon and the others spread out, battling the Orlesians that were spilling to the walls. Now and then they helped knock down ladders, but much of their attention was taken battling the enemy that had already reached the top. Edmond was visibly pale and uncomfortable with all the blood being spilled, but nonetheless he was fighting as hard as anyone keeping his fears at bay. Davos had never been a swordsman of any significant note, but he too was doing what he could. Ghost brought down an Orlesian soldier about to stab Jon in the back, the first of many the direwolf would go on to kill in this battle.

As he was fighting, Jon noticed that some of the Orlesians were moving to the right as they reached the walls, circling around the castle. He fought his way to his military advisor.

"Edmond! The enemy is trying to flank us! Take every fifth soldier and reinforce our positions where the enemy are putting pressure!"

"Understood!" Edmond said and began to gather troops. Jon fought on and took down another Orlesian. And another. And another. And another, and another, and another...

Meanwhile in the infirmary another wounded soldier was brought in, carried on stretchers by two mages.

"Alright, what's the issue?" Asked Jerome Evander, the leader of the mage healers that had been hired to aid the people of the North. It was the same question that he had asked of every case of injured soldier that had been brought in so far.

"Major leg wound. Possibly a severed artery. Right thigh." Said one of the mages that had brought him in. They laid him on one of the tables in the hall, then departed through the door to look for more wounded. As they laid him down Sansa moved in to lend a hand.

"Alright, we need to get the armor removed on his leg, get a look at his wound." He told her.

"Maester, give him milk of the poppy for pain so he remains still while we work." He then told Wolkan.

As Wolkan went to fetch the precious liquid Sansa and Jerome worked together to get the armor off the inured man's leg. At this time the hole in the armor was obvious enough that she knew at once which leg was in question. With some of the first ones brought in she had made a mistake, and the others had had to remind her that right always meant the patient's right, and left always the patient's left.

"Gods, I feel like such a bumbling idiot. I don't even know why they put up with me. It feels like I'm more in the way than being useful." She thought with some bitterness.

"Focus on the work, and learn as you do it. If you were really more trouble than you were worth, they'd tell you." She told herself firmly. While they had been polite to her they had certainly not been intimidated by her rank either. They knew that while they were working they outranked everyone, and their word was law.

They finally managed to get the soldier's armor off, exposing the long wound on his leg. Sansa turned her head away, looking a bit green in the face. The wails of the wounded and the smell of blood made this an unpleasant experience to go through, but in this regard she was doing better than she had thought she would. She had seen such sights before. After seeing the severed head of her own father, people killed right in front of her, a dead body that had been flayed, not to mention being trapped is a tomb full of dead people slaughtering the living… this was not so bad when you really thought about it. It was just a matter of adjusting yourself to it.

With that thought she turned her eyes back to the injured man. Jerome meanwhile was completely unfazed, leaning in closer to take a look at injury as Wolkan was helping the soldier drink milk of the poppy from a wooden cup.

"Hmm… a nasty wound. Straight to the bone. But thankfully it seems to have missed major veins." Jerome contemplated.

"Alright, you can handle this one. Clean his wound and stich him up. Once you are done have him moved to the side, this space will be needed for other wounded that are coming in." He said to the Maester.

"Lady Sansa, please assist him." He then told her.

"No healing magic?" The Maester asked.

"No. We could have many more wounded coming and there is only so much magic we can do without exhausting ourselves. So for now we will focus magical healing on life threatening cases where nothing else would work. Once there is a calmer point in the fighting and the rate of incoming wounded slows down we'll see what we can do with the rest of them. This one will be alright for now with basic treatment, so patching him up will suffice." Jerome explained.

"Understood." The Maester said. "In that case I will be needing more supplies. Bandages, thread for stiches, more milk of the poppy, that sort of thing. I have enough for him and a few more, but as you said there might be many more coming."

"Very well. Lady Sansa, if you would please fetch these things for the Maester, then return to help him. You remember where they are stored?" Jerome said.

"Yes. Bandages, thread, milk of the poppy. Got it. I'm on it." She said, then departed in the direction of the storage.

Meanwhile Edmond was quickly circling the walls to get where the Orlesian flanking force was going, northerners in tow. Gathering the troops had taken a few moments, particularly as they had had to fight Imperial soldiers the entire time. Even so he was confident he could get to the enemy before they managed to break through.

They were moving between two towers when they came across some dead northerner soldiers. The sight of them gave him pause. Many of them carried blade wounds, but that was not what bothered him. Their bodies seemed… melted. Their leather armor, clothes, their skin, flesh and bone, all of it. Only metal seemed to be unaffected by whatever had happened to them.

"Gods… what the fuck is this?" One of the soldiers gasped.

"I guess we are about to find out. The enemy has to be close. Come on." Edmond said. He was about to carry on when he noticed movement in the yard. There were about a dozen figures, heading towards the main gate and. Their equipment was unlike any Orlesian uniform Edmond had seen, but they were certainly not among Winterfell's defenders.

"There! We need to stop them!" Edmond shouted, pointing. "You find out where they came from and make sure no more get in after them!" He told a cluster of the northerners that were with him. Then he moved down the closest set of stairs, his weapon at the ready. A small group of soldiers moved on along the wall as he had ordered, the remaining northmen following after him.

As they got closer he got a better look at the enemy soldiers. And what a strange sight they were. They were all in a single seamless piece of dark fabric that was coated with what looked to be beeswax. A hood of the same covered the head and face completely. Two glass circles near the eyes allowed the wearer to see, while near the mouth the hood became a long trunk connecting to a pouch worn at the belt around their waist. The whole getup fastened to the body with a series of belts and straps. Every one enemy carried short triangular swords with a ball shaped handguard, metal vambraces as well as a leather vest lined with many glass vials.

In the moment he spent observing the enemy some of the northerners moved past him, heading straight for the imperial troops. As they charged forward one of the Orlesians spotted them. Without hesitation he shouted a warning to his fellows and they reached for the the vials in on their vest, throwing them to the ground. On impact the vials shattered, the liquid inside transforming into a white mist. The closest northern soldiers were caught in the cloud, and almost instantly they began screaming. They fell writhing to the ground, clawing at their faces and trying to tear their armor off. Edmond and the others that had been spared from the cloud were momentarily paralyzed by the horrifying spectacle they were witnessing. The Orlesians, apparently unaffected by the gas, set to work on the screaming soldiers, finishing them off with quick stabs of their swords.

The gas lingered only a few seconds before dissipating, and one of the northmen took the opportunity to close the distance between him and one of the enemy, managing to get to him before any more vials were thrown. The soldier smashed his sword on the chest of the Orlesian, cleaving through the fabric of his outfit. Unfortunately in the process several vials were shattered, resulting in a new eruption of gas. The brave northern soldier began howling like his fellows, dropping his weapon. The Orlesian soldier gave a shout muffled by his mask as well, trying to cover the wound on his chest with his hands.

"Watch out! Avoid hitting the vials!" Edmond shouted. Then he remembered that he and most of the others were still carrying their bows.

"Take them out at range! Shoot! Shoot!" He shouted a command. A number of others had already had the same idea and began sending arrows at the enemy. The enemy moved to get in close, knowing that they had an advantage there. Edmond had just taken his bow into his hands when he saw of the enemy troopers charging at him, raising up his arm and the vial inside his fist. Thinking fast Edmond dropped his bow and, deciding drawing his sword would take too long, pulled out his knife and stabbed his opponent between his glass eyes. As the trooper died Edmond could see the vial slipping from his grasp. He quickly reached out and managed to catch it just before it struck the ground. Unwilling to have such a fragile thing on him in the middle of a battle he placed the vial back on the dead man's vest, then retrieved his bow and made ready to fire on the nearest enemy.

Most of the enemy were shot before they could get close enough to use their gas weapons, but a few made it through. Vials tossed or broken during the fighting took their toll then. When the fight in the yard came to an end there were many more fallen defenders of Winterfell for each enemy. But at least they were now defeated.

"Well, seems our enemy has yet another trick up their sleeves. And this one rather vicious." He contemplated as he studied the dead enemies.

"Ser!" A new voice snapped him back to reality.

"Ser, we brought down the enemy ladders. It seems no more are trying to get through from this side." A northern soldier coming down from the walls reported, looking around himself with some shock at the carnage which had unfolded in the yard.

Edmond nodded, deciding to leave the mystery of these new enemy troops until later. "Very good. Then we should return to the main battle on the double. They will need us. Let's go!"

He and the rest headed back to where the battle was still raging on the wall.

Jon meanwhile was busy slaying yet another Imperial soldier. He had lost count long ago how many he had already managed to take down. The bodies of the imperials were everywhere, accompanied by dead defenders of Winterfell. The floor they were standing on was drenched in blood and gore, making friend and foe alike slip and stumble as they fought. He felt exhausted, his arms leaden. For every Imperial he killed another one appeared to challenge him. There was no end to them! It was never going to end!

Then, suddenly, without warning, it did. He slew his last opponent and realized there was no one else there to take his place. The enemy attackers had had enough, retreating back towards the Orlesian encampment while the defenders continued to pour fire at them killing as many as they could.

Panting, Jon leaned heavily on the stones of a nearby tower. For all his tiredness he was also elated. He could scarcely believe it. They had done it. They had held! They had beaten back the Orlesians! Some part of him had already resigned to the possibility of the first enemy assault also being the last one. But it had not been.

He saw Davos approaching and nodded to him and gave a tired smile, pleased to see that he was still alive as well. Neither of them had the energy to say much to each other. After a while Edmond joined them as well.

"Ser Brahms. Good to see you alive. How did it go dealing with the flanking attack?" Jon said to him.

"We won, obviously. But you should come and see what we came across. Both of you." Edmond replied.

Jon and Davos exchanged looks, then followed Edmond to the yard. Along the way Jon was stopped in his tracks by a dead body.

It was Malcom, the soldier he had spoken to just before the battle had started. He lay on his back at the top of the wall, his dead eyes staring at the sky. His throat had been cut, his bow was at his side and his sword halfway out of its sheath, giving clues as to what had happened to him.

Jon closed his eyes, drawing a shuddering breath, feeling his heart sink. Then he forced himself to move forward from the scene.

"Forgive me." He thought as descended the stairs leading to the yard. "Forgive my deception that led you here. You deserved better that what you got. You and all others like you. You all deserved to survive this and live your lives in peace, far away from the wars of lords and kings. Sorry I could not give you that."

Seeing her people on the retreat, Ynessa perked up from her drunken stupor. This outcome was a surprise, and it filled her with a mixture of emotions. She was not glad to see her people on the run, of course. And she dreaded the possibility of learning that some of her friends were now gone. Yet there was a part of her that was… hopeful. She had been so sure that the first assault would capture the castle, that the chance to fight the King would be stolen from her thanks to the Marshal's orders. But the castle was still untaken. Perhaps the King was still alive as well. Maybe there was still a chance…¨

She was ashamed at feeling that hopefulness. If felt like she was hoping for her people to fail, which could not be further from the truth. But still, there that feeling of hope was…

Her eyes spotted Michel among the crowds of retreating Orlesians, smiled at seeing him still alive and went to him.

"Michel! You're okay? W-what happened?" She said.

"Are you really so drunk I need to spell it out for you?" Michel asked in response. "We got beaten back. For my part I didn't even get to the walls. Too many people in my way. And to answer the question you are yet to ask, I have reason to believe the enemy King is still alive."

"I wasn't going to…" She tried to say.

"Not in so many words, but you have never been very good at hiding what you want. If you ever get involved in court intrigue that is the first thing you will need to fix. I can see you still haven't given up on the notion of fighting the King in person." He said.

"We'll… no." She admitted. "But not to worry, I was serious when I promised that I won't go against the Marshal's orders, for as long as those orders stand. Should De Rozien have a change of heart later on though…"

Michel sighed. "Ynessa, you are as stubborn as an ox. I don't think I have ever met anyone quite like you. No one I have ever seen has a singular focus like that."

"Why thank you. That is very kind of you." She said with a smirk.

"Not sure that as a compliment, but whatever." He said, which made her laugh out loud. Michel didn't laugh though, and she soon quieted realizing that the number of casualties sustained in this failed assault made levity improper for now. An unspoken apology was offered, and accepted.

Meanwhile Jon, Davos, Edmond and a bunch of other Northerners were gathered around the dead enemy troops in the yard.

"Well, these are certainly strange looking. It's like they have bags on their heads. Have you ever seen anything remotely like this?" Jon asked.

"Never." Edmond said. "But from the look of their kit they are especially suited to be used in siege battles. The offhand vambrace looks to be made unusually wide and thick, so it can be used as a buckler of sorts. Meanwhile the short sword is easier to use in confined spaces, and the ball shaped handguard won't get as easily stuck as a crossguard would. But without a doubt the vials they use are the worst part about them."

"You said that once the vials were broken the liquid became a sort of mist?" Jon asked.

"Yes. I saw firsthand the carnage they can do with them. The mist could burn through just about everything save metal and stone."

"And it's a nasty defense for them too. You dare not try to kill them." Davos commented.

"Indeed. Not at sword fighting ranges anyway." Edmond said.

"But how is it that they were not affected by their own weapon? It seems rather indiscriminate." Jon asked.

"I think the suits they are wearing are the key. The material looks to be immune to the gas, whatever it is. They also appear to be made airtight, with beeswax used to seal even openings between the threads." Edmond said.

Edmond then reached for one of the pouches the dead enemies had on their belts, slicing it open with his dagger. Out came a fine white powder.

He contemplated for a moment. "Hmm. These pouches are connected to the bags on their heads. And there is no beeswax on the pouch. I'd guess this is here so the wearer can breathe. I wonder if this powder is somehow able to neutralize the mist they are using."

"Bring a sample of the powder to the healers, and a few of the vials. See what they can make of it. Collect the rest as well, but be careful with them. I don't want an incident." Jon ordered.

"We could have a few of our people dressed in their gear. If the Orlesians send more of these bag-heads, they would be best suited to stopping them." Davos suggested.

"Good thinking. We will do that." Jon said.

"Yes, this substance is familiar to me." Evander said in the infirmary that evening, lifting up one of the vials, examining it against the light. "Fairly known in the field of alchemy. First time I've seen it weaponized though. On contact with the air it becomes a potent acid, powerful enough to melt flesh off a man's bones. Lighter than air, so it disspipates rather quickly though, unless it comes to contact with a surface it can melt."

Jon nodded gravely. "As we have discovered."

"The good thing is that there is a counter, in the powder you brought. Not even that difficult to make. I've already drawn up a list of ingredients for Maester Walkin to look for in his stores. And your mage advisor has dabbled in alchemy, so doubtless he has some of the ingredients as well. In the meantime you would do well to scavenge what you can from the enemy to give us a starting supply." Evander said.

"It's being attended to. So this powder will help to treat wounded affected by this weapon?" Jon said.

"Yes. We will use it to neutralize the acid, then use healing magic to repair any damage already done." Evander said. "The afflicted will need to be brought to us quickly though, before anyone else in fact. The acid acts quickly. If lives are to be saved every second will be precious." He added.

"I understand." Jon said. Then he turned his eyes to Sansa, who was busy working further away. "How has she been doing?"

"Well enough for a first-timer, Your Grace. She works well under pressure, and she has a strong spirit." Evander said.

Jon smiled. "A stronger spirit than you or I will ever truly understand. I would have it survive this siege."

A northern guardsman ran through the doors. "Your Grace, the Orlesians are back. They are bringing up the ram." He said, out of breath.

"Got it. Bring up torches and jars filled with oil. And have the vials we retrieved from the enemy brought up to the gate as well." Jon sprang into action, then departed through the door.

The Orlesian ram trundled forward, crossing the trench where it had been filled, over the boards that had been laid down to ease its passage. A company of soldiers were accompanying it, hiding under their shields against the arrows peppering them. The rest of the Orlesian host was standing further back, waiting to surge forward when the defenses were breached.

On the walls Edmond noted that a fair amount of arrows were hitting the ram, striking its wooden roof reinforced with soaked hides. "Shift fire! Don't shoot at the ram! Arrows won't get through. Aim for the troops! Take down as many as you can!"

The archers adjusted their targets, ignoring the ram. The siege engine moved on relentlessly, maneuvering past the trap pits beyond the trench, heading straight for the gate.

Behind said gate the King in the North was waiting along with some of his soldiers. He could hear the Orlesian machine getting closer. He reached into the sack in his hands, distributing the vials inside to his soldiers. He turned his gaze upwards, nodding to Davos, who was standing atop the gatehouse. The Onion knight returned the nod and turned to organize the troops in his charge.

"Steady." Jon said in a low voice. From the sounds of it the ram was now just outside the gates.

The noises of the approaching machine stopped briefly. Then the gates shook as something heavy impacted them.

"Now!" Jon shouted. The gates swung open, the Orlesian siege crews staring at them in surprise. Before the enemy had a chance to react Jon and the others threw their vials at them, then moved back to keep out of the reach of the gas. The effect was immediate, the Orlesians falling to the ground, screaming and trashing. The Orlesian company, that had been following just behind the ram, tried to surge through the sudden opening, but they were stopped when more vials were dropped on them from above. In under a minute the Imperial company was routed, fleeing back to their own lines.

"Burn it! Burn it!" Jon shouted, motioning at the ram. Jars filled to the brim with oil were dropped on the roof of the ram, followed by a lit torch. The thick boards and wet animal hides would have been enough to stop fire arrows, but this was more than it could take. The ram caught fire in an instant, the flames rising high, the soldiers atop the gatehouse retreating away from the heat.

Seeing the siege machine catch fire, a loud cheer arose amongst the ranks of the defenders.

"No! The crew…" Deniel Fabre exclaimed on the other side of the battlefield, having just borne witness to the same destruction.

"Those sons of bitches think they can win…" De Rozien said, realizing the Westerosi had just thrown back every attack he had thought to use against them. He continued to stare at the castle in disbelief for a time, then decided he had to reexamine his strategy.

"Begin working on a new ram. A better one this time. Use as much time and materials as you need." He told the Master Engineer.

"I… yes ser." Deniel said, still upset by what had happened.

De Rozien strode back towards his tent, deep in thought, stopping only long enough to tell his troops to return to camp for today.

And so the first day of siege came to an end. The remaining defenders of Winterfell rejoiced in their mutual survival, even as they knew that soon enough the enemy would attack again. In the Orlesian camp the mood was grim, as the Imperials realized they were in for a much harder fight than they had initially believed.