Chapter 45; Until the end;

Characters of the chapter

Alexander de Rozien, Chevalier of Orlais, Marshall of the Grand Army of Orlais, supreme commander of the Orlesian invasion of Westeros

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

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

Kieran, Agent of the Inquisition, mage advisor to the court of King Jon

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

Cursive/Bold text is in Orlesian

Ynessa stared at the castle where the lights of the northern defenders still illuminated the night. By now she and the army had expected that castle to be theirs. But the enemy had proven resilient beyond all expectations. Each day that had passed she had been concerned that the King would manage to get himself killed before she could devise a way to get at him. But he too had managed to defy expectations by continuing to survive.

She had not yet dared to ask the Marshal to forgive her transgressions and permit her to take part in the battle. She would only get one shot at asking that, and if she messed that up then that would be her last chance to get what she wanted gone. Now the time had come. The passage of time and lack of progress in the siege would make him more amenable to her proposition. And she had a gut feeling this would be the last chance to ask, so she had nothing to lose at this point.

She watched the castle for a while longer, listening to some of the soldiers singing a lively but off note rendition of *Empress of fire* (adjusted to accommodate the current ruler of Orlais of course). It seemed that despite the setbacks in this siege morale remained high among the troops. And why not? The foe inside Winterfell could struggle all they wished. In the end it would change not a thing. Sooner or later the castle would be theirs, and with it the North. After that their attention would turn towards the South Kingdom, to put an end to this war for good.

She took a deep breath and departed towards the command tent. Along the way he exchanged a nod with Michel. She could see it in his eyes that he knew what she was up to. In some ways he disapproved that she was still insisting on this course of action even after being told no by her superiors. But he had not gotten in her way, for which she was pleased. He did not like it, but he understood that there was no way to stop her in the end. If her talk with the Marshal went poorly she would sulk and eventually move on to the next challenge somewhere else. This was her way of life, and she was lost to it. Even if she wished to, she could not help herself. There were none who could.

"…I'm afraid the situation is what it is." Gagnon said as she entered the tent. "Admiral Baudin has failed to capture White Harbor. Three major assaults were attempted, and each eventually failed. Now she is refusing to risk any more of her troops, making herself content with blockade duties and daily bombardments of the city. She believes that a naval reprisal on behalf of the Twin Kingdoms is inevitable and wishes to maintain the combat effectiveness of her fleet, so I'm afraid there is no way to convince her to change her mind about this."

"I suppose I should have not expected any differently. Never send a sailor to do a soldier's job." The Marshall grumbled. "I suppose that we must attend to the capture of that city ourselves, once the situation here is resolved. Maker take it all. We can only be grateful that our failure to capture that city has not yet compromised our ability to supply our army."

"If her instincts are correct I hope she is better in a naval engagement than she is in attacking a land target." He added.

"Indeed My Lord. Her concerns aren't entirely unfounded though. The only reason a naval threat has not materialized until now has been the time it has taken for the enemy to gather. By now they have had that time and for all we know might already be on their way to attack us. Indeed some pirates showed up carrying goods they had captured for our navy. From them we have heard unconfirmed rumors that a large enemy fleet is in fact making its way around Westeros." Gagnon said.

"I would prefer solid intelligence to rumors Gagnon." Alexander said dryly.

"I know. So would I. Unfortunately in my profession I have learned that rumors and information often end up being interchangeable terms." Gagnon said.

Alexander chuckled. "Yes. Military intelligence often has the same chronic issue. Unfortunate realities of both our professions I would say."

"But back to the matter at hand." He said, and only then became aware of Ynessa's presence.

"Ynessa. What are you doing here?" He asked.

"My Lord. There is a matter I need to discuss, if I am permitted to do so." She said. "It is my understanding that you intend to attempt one last assault before unleashing the trebuchets on the castle."

The Marshal sighed. "Not this again. I thought I had made myself clear."

"You did My Lord. But please, hear me out. Surely I can be permitted that much at least?" She said.

The Marshal considered, then nodded reluctantly.

"I... my past actions in pursuing the King were in error. It was a grave display of arrogance that others paid for with their lives. I am sorry for that, and for my reaction to the penalty you issued. The punishment you ordered was just, and merciful considering the circumstances. I see that now." She said, trying her best to sound as humble as possible. Now if ever it was a time to swallow her pride.

"Do you honestly believe it so easy? Are you such a child that you think that you think you can just say you're sorry after a regiment has been destroyed under your command and expect all to be well?" The Marshal demanded.

"No ser, I do not. What I do believe is that I owe a blood debt to those I got killed. I wish to atone for them, beginning now. And blood can only be repaid in blood. In the blood of the Empire's enemies, or my own. And in the blood of our fellow soldiers being kept in their veins, where it belongs." She said.

"I think we both know that is not why you ask this. You still want to fight the King, and you think I will now permit you to do so. That is what you are truly after." He said.

"You do not intend to let the King live. Not after everything that he has put you through. Not after he turned down your offer. He will die, regardless whether or not it is I that kills him." She pointed out calmly.

"You do not care about him. What you do care about is getting that castle intact. You care about sparing the lives of as many of your soldiers as you can. I can give you those things. My involvement can tilt the balance, give our troops a foothold inside their defense and deliver Winterfell to you without demolishing it with siege weapons. And my efforts will save lives, to begin atoning for the lives I lost in my pride. So if you get what you want, do you care about my motivations?" She said.

"I do care. You need to have learned your lesson." The Marshal said.

"I have. I do not ask to be placed in command ever again. I ask only to serve my Empire in the only way I know how. I will never again risk any lives but my own." She said.

"Let me go there My Lord, please. Let me go there and I will win this fight for you. Or if you truly will not do so, then send me home, because clearly I am not serving any useful purpose sitting in your camp." She finished.

There was a long pause as the Marshall considered.

"Ynessa des Montagnes, will you from this moment henceforth swear to obey my commands in everything, to only slay the enemies you are directed to slay, and to never again disobey my orders to you, whether they be delivered directly or indirectly through other superior officers?" He then asked.

"I swear this My Lord." She said at once.

"By what do you swear this?" De Rozien demanded.

"By the Maker. On my honor. On my life. And he" -She pointed at Gagnon- "will be my witness of this vow. By the virtue of his trade he will know with certainty if I break my word."

"Remember what I told King Jon at the beginning of this siege? A Chevalier's word is their honor, and their honor is their life. You are a Chevalier, bound by our code, so I will only ask this once: Do you understand the severity of your vow? Do you respect it?" He asked.

"I understand, and I respect this oath." Ynessa said firmly.

Alexander nodded. "Then participate in the next assault. Maker watch over you. But now I am very busy, so out."

Ynessa bowed quickly and departed. Once outside she waited until she was far enough away that she was sure that the Marshall could not hear her.

"YEEEEES!" She then shouted to the skies.

Edmond walked the wall around Winterfell, coming across a northern soldier sitting near the entrance to one of the towers, leaning against the stones of the tower's body. His spear lay at his feet and he was snoring.

"Hey! Don't sleep on guard duty." Edmond said to him in a hushed tone, shaking him awake. The soldier slowly stood back on his feet, leaning on his spear for support, staring at him with bleary eyes.

"Sorry, ser. I'm just… so tired. It's been so long." The soldier mumbled, lowering his gaze to the ground, sounding absolutely exhausted.

"I know, I know. None of us are getting enough sleep. The Orlesian fucks won't let us." Edmond admitted. "It's the fifth day now, and I think I've gotten less than seven hours of sleep in total that whole time."

"It's Millet, right? Your name?" He asked of the soldier.

"Yes ser. Jim Millet, ser." The soldier replied.

"Thought so. Listen, Jim. I know you are tired, but if the Orlesians come over the walls and find you sleeping on watch they'll kill you, and then the rest of us. So for the sake of everyone, you must do whatever you have to do to remain awake and alert." Edmond said, placing a reassuring hand on Millet's shoulder.

"Do you think you can do this? I need an honest answer now. There's no shame in saying you can't." He asked.

Millet considered for a moment. "I can handle it ser. I promise." He said then, straightening his back.

Edmond smiled. "That's good enough for me."

"I'll send someone to share the watch with you as soon as I can. It's easier to remain awake when you have someone to talk to." He said walking past Millet to continue his rounds, to which the soldier nodded.

Edmond passed through the tower's entrance, greeting some of the soldiers inside. He exchanged smiles with Lisa, one of the handful of women to volunteer to defend Winterfell. She was an able fighter, and also one of the prettiest women among the defenders. She was always prone to wide toothy smiles and laughter, helping to keep all their spirits up. Even when she had caught an Orlesian spear in her mouth that had dislodged half the teeth on the left side of her face it seemed to have done nothing to dampen her sunny disposition. If anything she seemed amused by the disquiet she could cause when she smiled now and the gap in her mouth showed.

He nodded to Bors. He was a man who wetted himself before every battle but fought like a demon when he was in the moment. A one man berserk charge on his part had once routed an entire squad of Orlesians that had managed to gain the walls. Two imperial soldiers had been killed in that ruckus, and the rest were scared back to their camp, frightened out of their wits. The Orlesians had to have thought that an entire enemy platoon was descending upon them instead of a single madman, so swift had been their departure.

Emerging from the tower he suddenly had violent fit of coughing. Dark rainclouds had gathered overhead during the previous day and night, finally bringing the promise of rain to the dried grasslands outside and making the air chilly, but this was not the reason for his cough. For the last few days a fever had been bothering him more and more, slowing his gait and making his every move slow and clumsy. He had been advised to seek treatment, but he knew there were soldiers in far greater need than he was, and so he had declined.

He briefly stopped to look over the battlements at the Orlesian encampment. On the outskirts of the camp trebuchets were being assembled. Meanwhile several ballistae had already been brought to the field and were in the process of being angled towards the walls. Clearly the imperials were starting to run out of patience. They would not allow this situation to drag on for very much longer.

"Fifth day." He thought to himself. After the all-out assault on the first day had failed, the imperials had settled to slowly squeezing them to death. They had organized a rotation among their soldiers, so each time they launched an assault they were able to do so with fresh troops. Winterfell's defenders were too few to do so on their part, so little by little they were getting exhausted to submission. Even during the nights Orlesian marksmen preyed on anyone who carelessly showed their heads above the battlements. Surprise attacks were common, depriving them of sleep or any other relief from stress.

Although each such attack had been repulsed thus far, each time the Imperials had chipped away at the defenders, leaving their ranks a little bit thinner. At this time they numbered around third of their original strength of three thousand, the best and luckiest of them left alive. Yet for every one of the defenders that had been slain, the enemy had lost two. They lay on the fields surrounding the castle, those that had managed to gain the walls tossed back down at the end of the day. The Imperials had made attempts to retrieve their fallen, only to lose more lives to northerner arrows. Neither Edmond nor the King had made any comment on this behavior on behalf of their soldiers except to advice them to conserve ammunition, to only take shots that were sure to result in a kill. It appeared that even Jon's famous sense of honor was running thin in the face of this endless battery of assaults they had been subjected to. The enemy was treating them like cornered rats, so it was only natural that they fought like them. And the pragmatists among them saw that every kill they made was one more the enemy would not be sending against them in the next attack.

The specialist assault troops dubbed bag-heads by the defenders were perhaps the worst of their opponents. Every encounter they had with them seemed guaranteed to result in heavy casualties, even after they had started to counter them with teams using their captured equipment to protect themselves from the gas they employed. Fortunately they did not seem to number very many, seeing as how sparingly the enemy was deploying them. And on the upside their gas grenades had proven to be very effective in aiding their defense during difficult moments in their struggle for survival, of which there had been many.

They had lost the Godswood during the second day of the battle. The Orlesians had managed to scale the relatively low wall there and overwhelm their defenders in the woods. The defenders had beaten a swift retreat, sealing the gate between the Godswood and the castle proper. The gas grenades had proven their value there, keeping the enemy from exploiting their breakthrough to make it deeper into the castle. After the battle the Orlesians had, in a ruthless display of contempt, set fire to the godswood. The woods were now a mess of ash and blackened tree trunks, smoke rising to the sky even days after the event. The blow to the northerner morale had been heavy, since for the majority of them the forest had been sacred ground, the site of their gods, now violated by avowed worshippers of the Maker. Even Lord Brandon, never given over to emotions, had reacted with some distress, although for him his reason was more pragmatic, since Winterfell's godswood was his link to the weirwood network, the loss diminishing his powers to a degree.

Those among the defenders who had the misfortune to be confessed followers of the Chant had received their fair share of bitterness from the others because of the actions of the Imperials, particularly those like Edmond who where of Thedosian descent. Fortunately comradeship in arms and shared hardships had soon erased such feelings. Clearly the Orlesians had intended their actions to break the will of the defenders, but it was starting to look like the exact opposite had happened. Shock and dismay had been the first reactions to what had been done certainly, but it was followed by a grim determination to keep on fighting and make the enemy pay for their blasphemy.

King Jon had later suggested a counterattack to retake the godswood, but Edmond had advised against it. No doubt the Orlesians had already taken steps to remove the anti-magic wards that master Kieran had installed, so any attack to reclaim the Godswood would almost certainly result in heavy losses. Even if the Godswood was somehow retaken the defenders would be spread so thin that it could not be guaranteed that they would not lose it again in the next assault, alongside who knows what else with it? Realizing that to fight over the Godswood would cost lives without an adequate reason, King Jon had reluctantly accepted the council of his military advisor, and the Godswood had been abandoned, the only portion of Winterfell lost to the enemy thus far in this siege.

During the night between the fourth and fifth days of the siege disaster had almost struck. An enemy squad had managed to sneak past their night guards and make it to the gatehouse, killing the people stationed there and getting to work on opening Winterfell's gates. Only a last minute premonition from lord Brandon had saved them then, sending them scrambling to defend Winterfells gates. What followed was an intense, desperate struggle for control of the gatehouse, with the gates open for several frightening minutes, a column of Orlesian Chevaliers that had been waiting for this moment riding full tilt to get inside the castle. Once again the captured gas grenades had been invaluable. Dropped from the battlements they had bought just enough time to close the gates in front of the enemy's noses. The few enemies that had made it inside before the gates were closed were finished off in a bitter final action of the night, the Chevaliers fighting to the end, taking as many of the defenders with them as they could. Even as they were enemies Edmond had to admire their courage and loyalty to their nation.

After the attack Jon had ordered the watch to be doubled for the night, a necessary step to protect against further attacks all had agreed. Even so that order was a compounding factor in the exhaustion that plagued their ranks. But what else was there to do? With their backs against the wall and their manpower stretched to a breaking point, they had had no choice but to choose the lesser of two evils.

Moving on, descending from the walls to the courtyard, he briefly stopped to talk with Robert at the bottom of the stairs. Robert was a somewhat older man, an eager volunteer. Due to his age he was mostly kept out of direct frontline combat, given a post of protecting one of the staircases against enemies that tried to make it down from the wall. That did not mean that he had not seen his share of combat, far from it. Once, during a bad assault when the Orlesians had managed to briefly secure a bridgehead on the walls, he had protected the staircase alone, holding his ground long enough for the section of wall to be reinforced and beat the Orlesians back. During the fight he had killed four Orlesian soldiers, sustaining no fewer than twenty wounds of various severity. His courage in holding the line had earned him praise from King Jon and Lady Sansa both. Afterwards he had refused mage treatment on anything except the most severe injuries that he had sustained, stating that there were others who had greater needs than his. Unbelievably he had survived his injuries and had insisted on being put back on duty. So he continued to man his post at the base of the stairs, although now he had a very bad limp caused by a shattered kneecap and a nasty sounding wheeze due to a punctured lung, both injuries refusing to heal properly despite magic being involved.

The last stop on his rounds was in the castle's kitchens, where he talked with Thomas, their resident cook. Despite not having taken part in the fighting directly, his contribution to their efforts could not be overstated. His soups, stews and gruels had kept them going where little else could, nourishing their bodies and lifting their spirits. How he managed to keep making such good quality food while battle raged all around was unclear, but he did. At least one warm meal each day for everyone within the castle. That had been his promise when the siege started. So far that had been a promise he had managed to keep.

Edmond asked Thomas about the state of his supplies (all good) and inquired what the castle would be having for their meal today (pea soup with cow's meat). After that he noticed Jon emerging from the direction of the main hall that had been serving as the infirmary during this conflict. After three days and nights of relentless fighting the King in the north was looking about as haggard as everyone else in the castle. Edmond went to talk to the king, and the two men met at the center of the courtyard.

"Just came back from checking on Sansa. She's not doing so well. She puts on a brave face, but with so many lost despite her efforts… the feeling of futility she must be feeling… If she has to help treat one more wounded person I'm worried she'll lose her mind for good." Jon said, shaking his head, his voice full of exhausted sorrow.

"How are the men doing?" He asked.

"Straight up?" Edmond asked.

"Straight up. Were past pretending." Jon said, suppressing an involuntary yawn.

Edmond nodded, giving a slight smile despite everything. Even in a situation like this Jon would not accept any kind of sugarcoating of the facts.

"We are at a breaking point. Our ranks have been so badly thinned its starting to get difficult to get our defenses adequately manned. A lot of us are wounded. A lot of us are sick. Even with magic the healers are overwhelmed, the sheer demand for their services is more than they can handle. And our people are so exhausted they are falling asleep at their guard posts." He said.

"I see. That's… unfortunate." Jon said, bowing his head.

"I think we should abandon the outer walls, move our defenses inside the castle proper, where we will be able to concentrate our troops better. Otherwise we risk the enemy breaking through in their next assault." Edmond said.

"If we do that it will be the beginning of the end for us." Jon replied.

"Unfortunately I think we're already at that threshold. This is the fifth day of our resistance. Considering the odds arranged against us that's beyond incredible. It's the stuff of legends. I would count myself fortunate if I ever showed half the courage your people showed me. I'm proud to have been part of it all, to have fought at your side. But I don't think there'll be a sixth day. Even if our troops hold I saw the Orlesians setting up trebuchets outside. Unless something changes they'll end this fight today. I'm sorry." Edmond said.

"As if it was you who laid siege to Winterfell." Jon joked dryly. "Has… has there been any word from Daenerys?" He asked in a more serious tone.

Edmond shook his head. "There has been no news at all since the siege began. We just can't get word out. We don't know where anyone is, save for the army outside our walls."

"Hmm… maybe Bran would know. Perhaps I should ask him." Jon contemplated.

"He won't have time for you. And you would do well not to disturb him." A new voice spoke up. The two turned and saw Kieran walking to them, leaning heavily on his staff.

"Damn. Trying to save the Orlesians some trouble? You look half dead already." Edmond commented upon seeing him.

"Appropriate, since that is more or less how I feel. Days of ceaseless magical endeavors will do that to you. Still, it's Lord Brandon who' getting the worse half of the deal." Kieran said.

"How so?" Jon asked.

"He's dying for you. Over and over and over. It's what he's been doing these past several days. He wargs into animals, sometimes wolves, sometimes a flock of ravens, sometimes other things. And he attacks the Orlesians until they manage to kill the creatures he warged into. He feels their wound on himself, their death as his own."

"Gods… I had no idea." Jon gasped.

"I'm sure that you did not, he has not been very public about it. But that is why you should not bother him. Don't put him under any more strain than he already has been."

A shout coming from the walls suddenly interrupted the trio: "My King! Movement in the enemy camp! Looks like another assault is coming!"

"Oh crap, here we go again." Jon cursed. "Battlestations! Hold the line!" He shouted, drawing Longclaw and charging towards the walls. Edmond followed in his heels, while Kieran quickly went back to work on reinforcing the wards. Edmond's words about abandoning the walls still echoed in Jon's mind, but right now there is no time to consider them. For the moment there was nothing for them to do except to fight on as they had these past five days.

Until the very end.