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Chapter Text

Imbeciles

It was stupid, really. When he awoke in this world, he had every intention of taking a back seat and letting things playout so that he was a non-factor. He had it decent enough for a child of his standing, even in the modern world that he was familiar with bastards were not treated that great. Then again, the world he was in was full of imbeciles, the only non-imbecilic person there was himself and those he came to care about. So, no he was done taking everyone else’s shit. He’d just let this new life be a breather where he can relax and say “responsibility? Never heard of it.”
Sadly, that notion was destroyed when Jon, who is Jon and yet so much more than just Jon, reached his eighth nameday.

It all started the day the imbeciles, what Jon lovingly calls every single person living in Westeros, came to his father for advice. Normally, Jon would not sit in on the hearings that the Warden of the North would have with the extremely uneducated, though by means their own fault, smallfolk. However, Robb had been taken by Lady Catelyn to the Riverlands to visit with her family. For this reason, Eddard Stark decided to allow his only other son to sit in on the hearings of the smallfolk, a tradition that the Warden of the North had for a few years now. Every month, he would take two days of the third week to hear the concerns of the smallfolk to ensure that Winterfell and Wintertown were properly functioning. In Jon’ s mind it didn’t even matter because these weren’t really “important” people. So, in the end he was still not contributing much in these hearings.

It was sad, really, education was a gift. How can people go through their lives without knowing the joy of reading and writing? In this, Jon was always upset. There were no churches to teach the people reading and writing, nothing to teach the plebeians of the world how to make their own lives better. The septs and septas are useless, only blathering about this religion and never actually teaching. Honestly, how are people supposed to evolve in their thought process and religion if they aren’t even allowed the basic human right of self-determinism? If a man is not educated, then how should he grow? It angered Jon simply because he was an educated man before he ever came to this world. He had a master’s degree in Industrial and Computer Engineering and this lack of education that the “government” of this world let continue was frankly appalling and offensive.

Robb, Jon’s half-brother, could sit in on the more “important” meetings. In a way, Jon was jealous. It was hard, having made himself one of the smartest men in a world just to be shoved into a lower station in another. Not unbearable, but still difficult. Even so, it hurt not being able to contribute to conversations that “adults” had, a word used liberally due to the majority of adults in this world having the mental maturity of a two-year-old. The “Bastard of Winterfell” couldn’t possibly be intelligent enough to help in any way, was the common thought that many people had. If only the adage “don’t judge a book by its cover,” could be applied in this world.
Jon, for all his admittedly slight jealousy of Robb, couldn’t find it within himself to make a fuss about it. Robb was his brother, and even though he lived a life before this one, he still loved the tyke. He was a hellion, but Jon would do anything for that hellion. There wasn’t a bad bone in Robb’s body, and so Jon would admit that he didn’t really mind that Robb was preferred over Jon in literally everything. Jon was a big boy; he could handle it.
Over time, Jon came to love Robb. Who wouldn’t? From his messy brown hair to his curly blue eyes, the kid was lovely. He was kind, and Jon was fiercely proud of him. If he had to, he’d burn the world to the ground for him. Even though Jon knew a life before this, he’d never felt the kind of brotherly affection he felt for Robb, the kid who stole his blackened heart.

For Jon, his siblings were his chance to create intelligent individuals. When Robb didn’t know something, Jon was there to fill in the blanks. Jon was always there to impart wisdom to Robb. He’d be damned if he didn’t turn his siblings into the smartest people Westeros has ever seen. He’d so it for all his siblings if he’d had access to them.
That’s not to say that he didn’t love his other siblings. He loved Arya and Sansa fiercely, but he hadn’t built the connection with Sansa yet that he had with Robb. How could he? He was Arya’s best friend and always there to help her. She had him wrapped around her finger, but Sansa was kept away from him by Lady Catelyn. He loved Sansa, but he wasn’t allowed to play with her. Even so, he tried to make her laugh and have fun. It wouldn’t do for there to be another stick in the mud like “prim and proper” Lady Catelyn. Even now, he missed his brother and the adventures they would have.
“Next!” the voice of Eddard Stark rang out as the next plaintiff came into the main hall to plead his case. The man was small, and scraggly. A farmer, by the looks of him. Jon knew the type; he’d grown up on a farm himself in his old life. He even participated in multiple environmental competitions growing up. God, he missed the cattle and the good ole’ days.
“m’lord,” the man began as his weaselly voice began to speak of his, admittedly, important issue. “The fields of my farm ‘ave been growing more and more critters that attack the crops. All I ‘ave been my ‘ole life is a farmer, but I don’ know ‘ow to deal with these critters.”

To Jon, it was simple. To the plebeians in the room, it wasn’t so simple.

“A question for the maester, I’m sure,” spoke Eddard Stark as he motioned for maester Luwin to speak on the issue.

“My Lord, I have never been well read in the dealings of farms. Even so, I could send word to the Citadel and ask for their view on the situations,” Luwin said as he began to motion for a servant to bring a piece of parchment.

Jon couldn’t help the frown that appeared on his face; the solution was simple. Yet, again, the imbeciles of Westeros were trying to make it more complicated than it was. Goodness, he missed Robb. He was never this dull.
As he watched in amusement as Luwin went about trying to write a letter to the Citadel, he couldn’t help but deepen his frown. By the time the raven, and why in the seven levels of Hell they ever decided on ravens for message couriers he’d never know, returned the crops would be eaten through. It wasn’t fair to this man to have to wait that long. Hmm… He’d have to invent a form of long-range communication. That’s a thought for another time.

“I see your frown Jon,” Eddard began, “do you have thoughts on this matter?”

Jon raised an eyebrow in silent contemplation. If he spoke then his father would know his intelligence, but if he didn’t then this man’s crop would be destroyed. Jon wanted this life to be carefree, but it never was. He always found himself hurting on behalf of the smallfolk, he wanted to help them. With his knowledge he could do that. Maybe… maybe it was time for Westeros to have its own changes brought to it. Mayhap it was time for a revolution. Yes, that would be what Jon could do in this new world. Revolutionize it. Change it, mold it, make this world better. Who knows, maybe he could reach industrialization by the time he died? A more worthy goal would be the age of technology, but he wasn’t sure If the materials even existed for that.

With his new goal in mind, he crafted his response to his father.

“Well, the solution seems simple, really,” Jon began, not bothered by the raised eyebrow of Eddard, nor the incredulous look on maester Luwin’s face. “The fields are being taken by pestilence, so something new must be added to reduce the control of pests.”

“And how would this work? Why would adding something new cause the fields to be safer for harvest?” asked Luwin in a pensive pose.

“Well,” Jon began after he had paused to gather his thoughts. “Think of it in this way. If I drink ale the first time, it hurts going down. It is painful, yet after years of drinking it I become accustomed to the taste and the sensation. In other words, it fails to bother me. Do you understand?”

“Yes, but how does that apply…” Luwin trailed off as he began to understand the thoughts of Jon. He looked impressed, that a child could know such advanced practices. Really, they weren’t advanced. It was just that everyone on this planet wasn’t well educated.

“I see you begin to understand,” Jon said. He tried to pull off a serious expression, but on his face it just made him look more of a child than he already was. “It is this way too with the critters of the forests and fields. As time continues, they adapt and eat what they must to survive. It becomes their nature to feast upon the familiar, but the familiar must be kept as the familiar. Tell me,” he then turned to the farmer, “what crops do you plant? Do you rotate any crops so that you can force the creatures to suffer a change in the environment?”
“Rotate m’lord?” The farmer said in a confused voice. “I… I don’t rotate any crop m’lord.”

At this Jon blanched. Not rotating crops? What kind of heathens surrounded him?
“Jon, you seem appalled. Rotation of crops? It sounds peculiar, why should we do it here, when I haven’t even heard of this happening?” Eddard said as he looked at his son.

Jon looked at Eddard and Luwin with a deadpan expression. How could two men show such dullardness?

“Father, what do crops take from the soil?” Jon asked in a polite voice.
“Water, and life wherewith to grow,” Eddard responded in kind.“And what do they give back?” Jon continued in the same voice as if he were speaking to a child.
“I… Something is given back?” Eddard responded sounding confused.

“Life, m’lord, it’s well known by farmers that they must give and return. The Old Gods ‘ave shown us this much.” The farmer cut in still looking confused as to why a child would be giving counsel to the Lord Stark.
“Exactly,” Jon began in a superior voice, “they give, and they take away. However, if I ate mutton, would I taste the same flavor as that of steamed carrots?” Jon asked rhetorically. “No, I wouldn’t. The plants are fundamentally different. Therefore, the life given back to the soil is fundamentally different. If you do not rotate crops between plots of land, then the fields must lay fallow, or the crops fail to grow. If you do not rotate crops then the pestilence will grow, and if you do not rotate crops then the soil is carried away by the water when it flows down the hills. That, father, is why crop rotation is important. If it is carried out, then fields never need to lay fallow, and yields will be more bountiful than ever before,” Jon finished looking pointedly at Luwin and Eddard.

‘He speaks well my Lord,” Luwin began as he turned from Jon to Eddard. “It might be best to try this. It is a new line of thought, but it has merit. Mayhaps we can get a few to try this new technique and compare to the current way of farming?”
“Aye, it has merit,” Eddard said as he stroked his beard in contemplation.

Jon tried to keep from rolling his eyes. Of course the idea had merit, it was his idea!
“Write the Citadel, it’ll take time for them to respond. While we wait for their response,” which Jon knew would take months, seriously maesters were lazy except for Luwin. “We will try the idea that Jon has presented us.” Eddard said looking at both Jon and Luwin.

Jon was surprised, it wasn’t like his father had to listen to him. He could have dismissed his ideas as the foolish ramblings of a child. Yet he hadn’t. Maybe there was hope for him after all.
“I would like it If Jon were given a few plots around Winterfell to test this,” Eddard began. “Send out the word, maester.”
“Of course, my Lord,” Luwin said as he began to arise. He stopped for a second and looked back at Jon, “It’s a good idea Jon, do you have anything else to add?”
Jon blanched as a thought went through his mind. He forgot the extra fertilizer!

“Well,” he began, “it would behoove us to start to compile much more of the manure of the cattle. I know that the manure of the cattle is used already in the planting process, I’ve spent enough time in the glass gardens to understand the need for it. Notwithstanding, the manure will be lacking if we don’t have enough. If needs must, then we can resort to the waste of the horses.”
Luwin seemed pensive for a moment. He looked as if he would say something, but then Lord Stark spoke first.
“This interests me Luwin, I wouldst like to see if his assumptions bear fruit,” he said as he began to rise. “I’ll allow him this harvest to prove that his ideas have merit, and if so, then we may continue to have need of your council Jon.” He dismissed the farmer and walked to where Jon was sitting. “I know it can be difficult feeling like a child around adults when we have these meetings with the smallfolk, but you carry yourself with the poise of someone well beyond your years,” at this Jon nearly snorted. If only Lord Stark knew. Maybe, in time he could persuade him. He would need people to trust him if he were to take this backwater country into a new age.
“Jon, no matter what happens this growing season, I am most proud of you being willing to give voice to your thoughts. It takes a man grown to do that,” he said proudly as he ruffled Jon’s hair. Jon pouted; it was so easy for his hair to become disheveled.

“Thank you, father,” Jon began as he dodged another hair-ruffling to the amusement of his father, “I won’t err in this. Trust in me, and the yield will be three time as plentiful as they normally would be,” Jon said with a haughty sniff.

Eddard smiled. “I shall wait and see then,” he said.

It turned out that Jon was wrong. The next growing season, the crops weren’t three times as plentiful. No, his plots of land yielded six times the normal amount when compared to all the other lands. Due to this, the next season Lord Stark and Luwin sent out letters to all the lords of the North informing them of the new way they were to tend to their fields. The North, while not being anywhere near as rich as the Reach even with the new techniques, now had a surplus of food that they could trade away for other supplies. Needless to say, Eddard and Luwin began taking Jon’s counsel more seriously and frequently.

Chapter Text

Eddard always knew that Jon was an odd child. Ever since he took the boy from his mother’s arms, he knew the child was different from any he had ever met. He was calm. That was the first thing that the Stark who was never meant to be Lord of Winterfell noticed when he first laid eyes on Jon. The babe was altogether too calm. He looked around with a sort of awareness that caused Eddard to think a man grown was taking in the world around him.

Eddard was further proven correct on his view of Jon when maester Luwin started to teach Jon and Robb their letters and numbers. Robb found them difficult, as he should. He was only five when the teachings began. Jon, on the other hand, took to them like a natural. No, more than that. Jon knew them before he was even taught them. It was frightening. Had someone been teaching him secretly?
Lord Stark knew that wasn’t the case. If someone had been teaching the child, then he would have known. It was rare for the smallfolk of Westeros to be literate, so it was most definitely not them. His household lacked people who could read or make sense of numbers, and it definitely was not his lady wife. Lady Catelyn wanted nothing to do with the child. It wasn’t her fault, how could he expect her to take the child in and shower him with love when he was, in the eyes of the world, the proof of his broken vows?

Lord Stark sighed. At times it was hard to keep up this charade. He’d seen the way Cat had treated Jon, how she scorned him, the hateful things she’d say. To her, he didn’t belong. And yet, she never went beyond words.
Ned would be worried for Jon’s temperament if it weren’t for how the boy reacted. He knew the child did not allow the words of his lady wife to affect him. Whenever she ranted and raved at him Jon would simply bear it. Some would have thought him to have a will of iron, yet Lord Stark saw through the blank face to the expression that lay beneath.

Ned never understood why, but Jon seemed to find amusement in the harsh words that Cat bequeathed him with. It was peculiar. Eddard found himself paying close attention to Jon when the child, most likely, thought no one was looking. He gazed at Lady Catelyn with a sort of pity. As if she were being fooled and only Jon knew it.

Eddard was scared of his nephew-son at times. There was an intelligence in his eyes that caused Lord Stark to think there was more to him than met the eye. Jon would play often with Robb; they were practically inseparable. In fact, when Catelyn tried to put a wedge between the two, Robb all but threw a tantrum to keep Jon beside him. The entire time, Jon watched with a quiet amusement in his eyes as if the world were his plaything, and Robb was his playmate.

Even so, Ned knew that Jon didn’t really care to play. Mayhaps that was incorrect. Jon enjoyed playing, but he only enjoyed it with Robb or his siblings. Eddard was always busy, but he did his best to be there with his children so as to entertain them every so often. From his few interactions with Jon when the child would play, he quickly grew to realize a startling fact about his dark, curly haired son. Jon never suggested what they should play. He always, always, deferred to his siblings.

It was so small an interaction that Lord Stark didn’t understand why his mind pointed it out. Jon’s behavior was strange around his siblings. He indulged them; Ned realized. Jon never played with them for his own enjoyment. Instead, it seemed that Jon took enjoyment in his siblings finding enjoyment.

For that, Ned felt a strange mixture of pride, love, and sadness. Pride, because his son put others that he loved above himself. He was selfless, and any fear that Catelyn had about him usurping his siblings was locked away under a thousand locks. Jon could never do that. He loved them too fiercely. Love, because Jon was so much like Lyanna who loved her family deeply. Jon proved that he was his mother’s child when he indulged Robb, Arya, Sansa, and Bran. Yet he felt sadness, because so many had mistreated him simply because he had to live under the falsity of being a bastard.

This lie, this mummer’s farce that he lived with for years would forever haunt him. No one so good should have to endure what Jon had faced. Yet, every day the child grew older and showed as much of Rhaegar as he did Lyanna. As much as he hated this lie, he’d carry it with him to his grave if it meant keeping Jon safe.

Ned knew that Jon was intelligent. He always seemed to know how to do even the most complex tasks before he was even told what the task would accomplish. Again, in times like this, Ned knew that Jon was special. Blessed by the Gods, Luwin had told him when he was perplexed by the vast intelligence that Jon held.

Lord Stark was a staunch follower of the Old Gods, yet even he didn’t know if they were able to impart such wisdom on a child of only eight namedays. Even so, this development concerning Jon had changed his plans dramatically for the boy. Such intelligence would be wasted at the Wall. Perhaps the child should receive his own holdfast and be a bannerman for Robb? He had always wanted to repair Moat Cailin.

Over time Eddard came to accept the strange intelligence Jon had. When he heard the complaints of the smallfolk, he expected Jon to remain silent, keeping his own counsel within his mind. He noticed the frown on his face and knew that Jon had something to say. He knew that Jon had frequented the glass gardens often, so maybe the child could offer some insight? It would be amusing, at least, to see what his son had to say.

At first, Ned wanted to dismiss what Jon said. He was a child, how could a boy of only eight namedays think to know more than the Lord and maester of Winterfell? Yet… he knew that Jon was a smart lad. The contemplative expression that Luwin wore when Jon spoke was enough for him to let the boy speak his thoughts.

If it wasn’t for Luwin agreeing, even slightly, with Jon, then he might not have given any thought to Jon’s idea. Yet he did. And Ned was glad that he listened to Jon on this. Going forward, he made an effort to see what the boy thought. Jon made for an interesting conversationalist when speaking about serious issues. He had a sort of starved look when he had conversations of substance with Lord Stark. It made Ned wonder if anyone had ever asked the boy for his opinion on any important matter.

The council that Jon gave was a boon to house Stark and the North. For the first time in its history, the North was able to sell part of the surplus of food gleaned from the growing season. While not much, the added income meant more security for the future.

Even so, Ned wasn’t foolish. The North could never rival the Reach in terms of food growth, but the North could now be less reliant on them. This, more than anything, brought a sense of comfort to the Lord of Winterfell.
The North was a peculiar member of the seven kingdoms. They were easily the most prideful, yet the ones who most definitely couldn’t stand on their own when winter came. It was necessity, not a want for open relations, that forced the North to join more closely with the other kingdoms. If the North could become more equipped for whenever winter came, then Ned would always welcome such actions.

Recently, Eddard had begun to take Robb along with him to more and more meetings. Mayhaps it was time to start teaching Robb and Jon, together, how to manage a castle? Lady Catelyn would certainly be upset, but Ned couldn’t help but want to see if Jon had any new insights that might lead to improvements for the North. After all, even though Jon was his son and he loved him dearly, Eddard Stark was first and foremost Lord Stark of Winterfell, Warden of the North. If he was Warden of all the North, then it was his duty to make sure that the North was as well-equipped as it could be. If Jon had more insights, then, Ned promised himself, the North would listen.

It was peculiar. After Jon had given his lord father and Luwin his first nugget of knowledge, they almost hounded him for more. Well, that isn’t really the correct description. They didn’t ask directly for his thoughts, but they made an obvious effort to listen when he spoke. It was… refreshing.
Most recently, Lord Stark had begun to take Robb and Jon into his solar for lessons twice every sennight. He talked of managing keeps and castles, how to ensure the smallfolk are cared for, and many other topics. Of course, Jon knew much about logistics and supply chains, so these discussions felt archaic when compared to the techniques that he had been accustomed with. Jon felt his interest rise though, when the talk turned to the levvies and how many troops the houses of the North could raise.
“House Manderly is one of the more populated houses in the North. They could, if required, field over 4,000-foot soldiers, more than 1,000 horse, nearly 1,300 pikeman, and more than 100 knights. ” Eddard said as he lectured both Robb and Jon on the levvies that the North could call upon.
“Do they not also have war galleys, Father?” asked Robb as he scrunched his face up in a thoughtful expression. It was adorable to Jon; Robb was a smart boy (he should be if Jon had been the one to train him) but he always had the queerest facial expressions.

Eddard smiled at his first-born son, “aye, a total of 23 war galleys.”
Jon sat in contemplation. He had been training with the sword and bow since he had attained six namedays, but he knew that in the North archery was viewed as a lesser pursuit in comparison to the art of the sword. Even so, he couldn’t help but notice how his father said foot soldiers, not men-at-arms or archers. Why would they be lumped together? They were night and day, and in Jon’s humble opinion, well trained archers could destroy a larger force if the conditions were correct. A good case study was Agincourt where the British routed the French.
“Father,” Jon began, “you spoke of foot soldiers, but a distinction between their type was never made. Are they men-at-arms, archers, or a mixture of the two?”
Eddard turned his attention to Jon and said, “the larger part of the force would be men-at-arms. The Northern houses often see archery as a craven’s path. The way of the blade is much more common, which is apparent when the bannerman are called.”

Jon couldn’t help the snort that he let loose.

“Are you amused Jon?” Lord Stark asked with a raised eyebrow.

Jon looked at his father and brother with an incredulous look and said, “it’s just that archers can be deadly on the field. Think of the longbowman that are commonly found in the North. A typical draw is close to an estimated 120 pounds. If men could be trained up to the draw that I am training towards, 160 pounds, then chain mail would prove useless. Only plate could possibly stop an arrow that is shot with such force.”
Eddard had a pensive look on his face. If this proved true, then perhaps the lords of the North would need to train their men in a different way? This investigation would be an interesting one. Jon obviously would not be able to fire such a bow currently, but perhaps a strong worker in Winterfell could?

“It seems sound father, “ Robb began to say, looking from Jon to Eddard, “to at the least investigate if what Jon said is true.”

Lord Stark nodded, “you make a fine point Jon, but few men could ever pull a bow so taxing.”

Jon knew this, but with enough training, anyone could do it.

“Train them,” Jon began, “if it is made compulsory that every archer must be strong and able to pull back such a bow, then the Northern forces would wax much stronger. Mayhaps, the archers could be made to meet once a sennight to ensure that able archers are ready for when war inevitably comes. Because war is always coming, and it harms the least prepared the most. When it finds the North, let it meet a sky blotted out by the thousands of arrows seeking the blood of those who dare to harm us.”

Eddard nodded, but he made a note to check if such a bow could indeed make chainmail nigh arbitrary. If this proved feasible, then the North could better deal with the Iron Islanders who continued to attack and raid the coasts of the kingdoms, most notably the North. Balon Greyjoy swore that the attacks were carried out by deserters, but Ned was not sure of the truth of Balon’s words.
“We shall test it. If it is true, then an edict will be written,” Lord Stark acquiesced.

Jon’s idea, again, was proven. The longbow with a draw of 160 pounds, or what was assumed to be 160 pounds due to the lack of proper scales wherewith to check the draw weight, was able to pierce the mail and gambeson. Such a weapon would prove deadly in a skilled archer’s hands. With the new longbow tested, the edict was promptly sent out to each of the houses in the North.

It was a late night when Eddard approached the crypts of Winterfell. When he found sleep to allude him, he would often go down to the crypts and visit Lyanna, Brandon, and his father. He was surprised to find the path alight as he grabbed a torch and continued on his path. He was more than a little surprised to see Jon standing in front of a statue with a torch in his hand. As he stopped and looked to where Jon was looking, he felt his pulse quicken.

“She was more beautiful in person,” Jon began, “they failed to capture her beauty,” he finished in a pained tone.
Ned was more than confused, how could Jon know what Lyanna looked like?

“And how, Jon, could you know the looks of my dead sister?” Eddard asked as he shuffled up next to him.

Jon fixed him with a hollow, mirthless stare. “I know them because I see them every time I look at my reflection.”

“I…” Lord Stark began to say, but he couldn’t say anything. The only thought going through his mind was ‘how.’

“Uncle,” Jon began, and Eddard knew in that moment a dread like none other. If a child of nearly nine namedays was able to piece it together, who else could? There was no point in even denying it now, his hesitation to speak gave Jon the answer if he didn’t already know. “I know. I’ve always known,” Jon said as he confided in Ned, “ever since I awoke in this world I’ve remembered. My first memory was the day that you held me, and my mother died. The mother I never knew in this world. I knew because I remember.”

“You… you must hate me, “ Lord Stark said as he deflated. How could Jon ever forgive something as dark as this? He’d passed him off as a bastard. Yes, it was for his protection, but it surely still hurt the child in different ways.

Jon laughed, “hate you? Why would I ever hate you?”

“Because of the life my inaction and failure has caused you to live. I meant to take the secret to my grave. At first, I was scared for you, then I loved you so I kept the secret longer. I thought ‘maybe it doesn’t matter, maybe he really can be mine own.’ I loved you dearly, and now I cannot accept the pain of not being your father,” Jon’s uncle said as he let the guilt sink into his very being, allowing tears to come to his eyes.

Jon turned to his uncle, and in an expressive action of love hugged him tightly. It was rare for Jon to be so close to his uncle, rarer to have a hug returned in this life.

“Uncle, father, does it matter? You did what you did to protect me. My siblings were slaughtered, and you would not let me be slaughtered with them. I’ve never held animosity towards you because I’ve known you were my uncle from the beginning. Yet, you are also my father. You were the one who raised me and kept me safe. You are the one who is here, you are my father as much as you are my uncle,” Jon said as his eyes glazed over with unshed tears.

Ned nearly sighed in relief. His boy was still his boy. Yet…

“You say that you’ve known from the start,” Eddard began as he pulled away from his nephew-son. “How is that possible? I have never met a person that can claim such a thing.” Was Jon truly blessed by the Gods?
“Father,” and it nearly made Ned weep that Jon still called him that. “I have a confession. I am more than who you see before you. Aye, I am Jon, but I am also so much more than just the bastard boy, Jon Snow…” and so Jon told his tale to Lord Stark.

“You mean to say that you remember being born because you had the mind of a man grown when you were still a child?” Ned asked incredulously as he looked at Jon. “And that the knowledge you have regarding everything is due to this old world being much more advanced?”

Jon shivered when he remembered the experience. It was the weirdest moment of his life. One moment he was on his death bed, the next he knew only darkness until he saw a great brightness and a younger Eddard hovering over Lyanna. It was… it was terrifying.

“Aye and be thankful you cannot remember your own birth. It is… creepy,” Jon said as he gave off another shiver.

“Aye, I suppose it would be,” Ned said as he chuckled slightly. “It’s a fantastic tale you weave, Jon. More than fantastic, it seems magical in its entirety.”

That caused Jon to pause. Magic? Sure it couldn’t be proven false, but Jon never believed in the hocus pocus magical ninjutsu that was claimed to be authentic even when he was on Earth. It seemed much more likely that a cosmic event had caused some sort of anomaly to carry throughout the multiverse and force baby Jon to produce the exact chemical pattern of old Jon. But he couldn’t exactly tell his father that.
“Mayhaps, mayhaps,” Jon said as he stroked the non-existent beard on his chin. “Whether that is the truth or not, do you believe me?”

Ned took a moment to respond. It was a fantastic tale. It gave credence to why Jon knew much more than he let on, but was it true? “I… I don’t know Jon. Your tale is fantasy, yet it explains much.”
“Well,” Jon began, “let me prove it to you.”

“Oh,” Lord Stark began as he raised an eyebrow in unbelief. “How would you do that?”

“Father,” Jon said as he looked up at Ned so as to look him in the eye. “I was content in this world to just be stagnant. If I could have, I would have done nothing but play with Robb as much as I could. Yet, when there was a chance to help the smallfolk, I couldn’t find it within me to resist. I want to take the North forward in technology, in warfare, in wealth. If you’d let me use my knowledge, I’d do my best to make this the most prosperous kingdom and the safest for our families.”

“And how would you begin this quest Jon?” Eddard asked as he looked at his nephew.

“I already have, Father,” Jon said. “If the current way of doing things were to continue, then it’s likely that crop rotation would have been discovered in the next one or two-hundred years. I’m just moving these things along. Remember when I said that archers could prove deadly to any army when used correctly?”

“Aye,” Eddard said, “you seemed insistent on having the archers train regularly.”

“Father, there was a kingdom in my old world that had its primary soldier as longbowmen. They were formidable, and in time they shoved back their enemies and even went on to influence the entire world. There were stories of how archers from this kingdom could sometimes even pierce plate armor. Do you wander the draw on those war bows?” Jon asked as he started to pace slightly around the crypts.
“In order to pierce plate armor? I haven’t a clue, Jon,” Eddard said in disbelief.

Jon smiled at his father, “160 pounds. The stories said that plate could be pierced with such a bow. Now,” at this Jon raised his hands in a placating manner, “is that proven? No, but that is not the point. The point is, with such war bows only plate armor can stop our arrows. Raiders will never be able to harm us if we have such fierce archers at our command. A volley would be able to tear apart the men-at-arms, and could injure even knights if the arrows find themselves in the unprotected areas or in the visors of the helms. With archers like that kingdom, we could hold off armies twice our size, and even have a chance at victory. The British, the kingdom made of archers, was able to decimate knights when in the right terrain. I hope to bring more advancements, however small to our homeland.”
Ned took a moment to think. More advancements would be great, but it would be hard to explain the newfound interest in warfare. How could he explain the new technology if the southron kingdoms accused the North of preparing for war?

“I like these ideas Jon, but we can’t start improving our military might without just cause. The longbowmen can be overlooked, but can you say the same about these other ideas you have dancing around in your mind?” Ned asked in a gentle tone.

“Father,” Jon began with a snort,”military growth is the last thing I care about. I simply saw an opportunity to give advice and I gave it. If the time came where I could improve our forces so that no threat could ever befall us, I would. But no,” here Jon shook his head,” I mean to turn the North into a self-sufficient kingdom. Then, perhaps the rest of Westeros will follow in our footsteps.”

The look of shock on Lord Stark’s face was amusing to Jon. But his incredulousness brought up a good counterpoint.

“How would you ever plan to do that Jon?” Ned asked with blatant disbelief in his voice

Jon smiled and shook his head. Oh, ye of little faith Eddard Stark.

“How else Father?” Jon asked rhetorically, “with food.”

“Food?” Ned parroted.

“Food,” Jon repeated. “More specifically, glass gardens.”

“Jon,” Eddard began in a hesitant voice, “you mean to build more glass gardens? Glass is an expensive commodity.”

Jon scoffed, “glass isn’t expensive. You just don’t know how to make it. If you let me, I’ll make enough glass gardens for there to be one in every household, keep, and holdfast in the North. I could even gift all of the Night’s Watch a glass garden as well.”

Eddard looked at Jon as if he had grown another head, “you know how to make glass?”

“Father,” Jon began as if he were speaking to a child. “Glass is just melted sand. Get a furnace hot enough, pour sand in, and the cooled substance is all glass.”

“What would you need to do this Jon?” Eddard asked. Let it not be said that he did not see an opportunity when it presented itself.

“Sand from Dorne or the nearest supply of sand, a windmill or watermill, men to help in the movement and creation, and a special furnace made to withstand extreme heat,” Jon listed off.

“A windmill? Why would you need something used for grain?” Eddard said, perplexed by this part of the list of items needed.

“A windmill has many more uses than just grain,” Jon began, seemingly frustrated by the complete lack of ingenuity he found in Westeros. “A windmill can be used to cause something to rotate. This energy created by rotation is a great help when producing products, glass or otherwise. The wind and water are perpetual resources if used correctly, and they can be a boon if used with creativity. A windmill can help manipulate the massive furnaces that produce large amounts of steel and, if made correctly, glass. A furnace cannot be exceedingly larger than the man wielding the stoker, but a furnace controlled by a windmill through the billows can cause fires much greater and hotter than thought possible. With these hot flames, the glass can be made, and steel can be more easily forged.”

“If this is possible, then the lives of all northerners could be bettered Jon,” Eddard said.

“Aye,” Jon began, “I will draw the diagrams needed so as to ensure that you and others can bring this to pass.”

“Would you not be helping?” Eddard said as he looked at Jon.

“Father,” Jon said as he raised an eyebrow, “look at me. I have eight namedays, nearly nine. What man grown would accept any order that I give? I can watch and offer advice to you, but this must be carried out by individuals much more capable than I am.”

“Well, we will see it carried out,” Eddard said as he placed his arm on Jon’s shoulder, patting it lightly. “I... I plan to give you Moat Cailin one day. I would have waited longer to inform you, but now I know you are much more a man grown than I knew.”

Jon was surprised. His own fortress would be a boon. He could revolutionize the world with every person under his command listening to him.

“The entrance to the North? You honor me Father,” Jon said as he smiled at his father. “It would not go over well with Lady Catelyn unless you give her the truth, Father, surely you see this?”
“Aye,” Eddard began with a solemn look. “It is time your aunt learned the truth.”

Leaving behind revolutions and secrets, both left the dark, cold crypts and made for their own chambers. One for sleep, the other to contemplate how to tell his lady wife a secret he has held close for years.

Chapter Text

Catelyn knew it was irrational. The boy was a child, why should he be treated with disdain? Yet, every time she looked at him she saw how much more of a Stark he was than her own children.

She feared him. More than that, she feared this mystery woman that was able to move her husband to break his vows. This child, this stain, was the proof of broken vows. How could she not hate him, then? He was the culmination of every broken word, every failed promise. Was it his fault? No. Did she still despise him for it? Yes.

She had tried, though not extensively, to at least be indifferent to the boy’s presence. It was taxing, having someone that you knew, logically, wasn’t to blame around you. Yet, they were the proof of everything that went wrong. And so, even though it was irrational, she hated the child.

In a way, his presence wasn’t… totally deplorable. Her children loved him, though she didn’t understand why. Robb had taken to him from the time they were in cribs, and they hadn’t separated since.
It was telling, she guessed, of the boy’s attitude, when she reflected on how his first movements had always been to teach Robb. The boy was unnatural. He had begun crawling at four moons and walking at six. Yet, for all of his unnaturalness, he had done it all to reach Robb. His only companion during those times, it was as if the boy, Jon, was trying to teach Robb how to crawl, walk, and do all of the things that Jon was doing.
It was these actions, not their ages, that caused the boys to be so close. Though Robb was older, he admired his younger half-brother. This closeness, though it should have been a balm to her nerves, only caused her fears to deepen.

‘They are close now, but what will happen in the future when you aren’t present?’ whispered an insidious voice that Catelyn knew was wrong. Yet, what if it was right? Could she really allow Jon to get close to her children if he was going to turn on them? Would the pain of not knowing their brother be more than the pain of feeling an impending betrayal?

For this reason, Cat had tried to put a wedge between the children. Even so, Robb stoutly refused. How could she have expected anything different?

Robb and Jon were together most of the time. If Robb went exploring, Jon was behind him. If Jon stayed inside, Robb stayed with him. If Robb wanted to play a prank on his siblings? Jon would play whatever role to make all of them laugh. They were closer than any brothers Catelyn had ever seen. Certainly, they were closer than her and Edmure.

So, in a way, she knew her fears were unfounded. It didn’t stop her from bringing them to Eddard, but it did make those occurrences less prevalent. He was her husband, why shouldn’t she confide in him?
That’s why, when Eddard came to her in the night and told her the truth, she was shocked, relieved in a way, and fearful in a different way. Shocked and hurt because Ned, her Ned, had lied to her for years. How could she trust his word after this? Shocked, because honest Ned had pulled the wool over the eyes of the entire realm. Fearful, because if this secret were found then their entire family would be in danger. If King Robert were to know… well, they would just have to endeavor to never allow the information to be spread. The truth would stay with those affected, and no one else.
Guilty. That was the only thought that fleeted through Lady Catelyn’s mind. ‘Guilty, guilty, guilty,’ her mind screamed in betrayal. ‘How could you treat an innocent child, a boy without anything, so indifferently, with such disdain?’ she thought to herself in a self-deprecating manner.

Yet… if the child really were a bastard? She would have continued in the same manner, and she would have felt justified. But now… she needed to apologize to the boy, to Jon.
So, that was where she found herself now. She was stood outside of his door, waiting, building the courage to knock on the door to his room.
‘Gods,’ she thought to herself, ‘he is a child, just knock on the door, woman.’

As she reached up to knock on the door, she never had the chance to hit upon the dark wood to signal that someone stood without. Jon had opened it.
How… typical. She couldn’t even find the nerve within herself to have this conversation, to apologize to this child who acted so much a man grown around his peers. Instead, he opened the door to this conversation. He was the one allowing her to say what was needed to be said. Gods, how could she have done this to this boy?

“Lady Catelyn,” Jon began, obviously perplexed on why she was standing within his doorway, “is… is there something you need?”

“I…” Catelyn began in a voice that wavered slightly, “I have come to apologize.” At this Lady Catelyn swallowed the lump in her throat, “Ned has told me the truth. I… can’t say how sorry I am. Words, cannot excuse what I have done to you, but I will work to show how truly, deeply guilty I feel.”

Jon looked at her for a long moment. “When I was a child, you prayed a prayer when I fell sick. A prayer that stated that you would change… I know, Lady Stark, that you would have continued to treat me as a blight on this House if you were uninformed of the realities that be. Yet,” Jon paused as he smiled in a mirthless manner, “I find it exceedingly harsh to lay all fault at your feet. If it were that things revealed were not the reality, then you would have to some extent felt justified. After all, how could you go against the will of your lord husband? If I were made to stay here, then you would have to find some way to unleash the anger held within you. I do not fault you for your past deeds. And, in some manners, I hope your actions, publicly, do not change drastically. For, even in Lord Stark’s blatant disregard of your mental acumen, I find that my greatest defense yet from those that wish death upon this House is the disdain that has been bequeathed to me by actions outside the realm of my control. Thus, if the armor I currently wear shall be the means with which I shall keep myself and those precious to me safe, then this dreadful armor I shall bear. If, by divine will, I am called to shed this false skin for the skin of a higher calling, then I shall do so happily. All that I do, I do for my family. For surely, if realities were made known to those with less than honorable intentions, then this House, this family, our family wouldst surely suffer.”
Catelyn was, quite truthfully, pleased with Jon’s forgiveness. “Jon,” she began with a hopeful look on her face, “I hope, truly, I hope that this can be a new start. While I will continue to do what I must to keep all of us safe, I hope that you, in truth, understand that I hold no more ill will toward you. I know that I am a prideful woman,” she said with a reflective expression, “I have faults of mine own. Yet, I would hope, that in private and with your siblings, for truly they are still your siblings in everything but parentage, we could mend this divide and be the family that we ought to be,” Catelyn finished with a hopeful expression that showed how much she genuinely wanted the child to now be more included.

“Lady Catelyn,” Jon said, “ I would be happy to bridge this gap so that our family could, as the Tyrells are oft to say, grow stronger. I hold no ill will toward you, and for all that I love Robb and Father, I would be glad to start anew with you.”

Time passed, and changes within the family unit were indeed fortuitus. Robb, noticing the way that his mother now treated his brother, had expressed an even more exuberant attitude that had seemed to plaster a permanent smile on the child’s face. All of the children had noticed, but only Robb, who Jon could trust to be smart enough to not run his mouth to others, was informed as to why these changes had happened.
“So,” Robb said as Jon and he were laying in his room. It used to be that the two had shared rooms, but his mother had, when he reached the age of five, forced room changes upon both of them. Sadly, in her move of pettiness Jon was moved to outside of the family wing. Even with the recent changes in relationship between Cat and Jon, the two had decided that it would behoove them to keep it that way. If less people noticed any goodwill towards the Bastard of Winterfell, then all the better. “You mean to say that Father, the man who raised you, is not truly your father but your uncle? That we are, in truth, cousins?” This thought seemed unacceptable to Robb. In his mind, it was always Robb and Jon against the world. Jon was like a rock in his steadiness. Any questions Robb ever had? Jon had an answer. “Why do things truly fall Jon? Surely, it is more than a law given by the Gods.” “Gravity, Robb. A force that pulls everything downwards.” “Why does it really rain Jon?” “Water evaporates, or becomes a gas that can’t really be seen, as they come together and form clouds they become water droplets again. When those droplets get too heavy, they fall from the clouds, and thus it rains Robb.“ Jon always had an answer. Robb was convinced that no one was smarter than his brother. So, it seemed foreign, and like a terrible trick in Robb’s mind to consider Jon anything else than his brother that he loved.

“Aye,” Jon said as he sat up from Robb’s bedding area where the two young bows were sprawled out upon, “Father, for he is in truth the man that raised me, and I refuse to call him anything else, felt uncertain on whether or not to inform you of the truth. I insisted, I knew that it was something I could trust you with.”

“Aye,” Robb said as he sat up to look at Jon, “I’m no dullard, Jon. I speak for us both when I say that you’ve certainly seen to that.” Jon and Robb both gave a chuckle at that. It was common for Jon to try and make Robb to have a broad perspective and think creatively. It was one reason why Jon loved his siblings as he did, they were the masterpieces that he was creating in the North. People who were creative, could think multilaterally, and were well informed on what they should do. While not foreign to Westeros, it was certainly not common to find highborns who were able to be as multifaceted as Jon was shaping his siblings to be.
“A dullard you are not,” Jon said as he stopped chuckling. “I trust you Robb, you’re my brother. And, while we may not be brothers through our parents, you’re still the one I choose to be both my brother and future Lord.”
“A good decision by Father to grant you Moat Cailin,” Robb said with a thoughtful look. “With you at the Neck, the North would never have to worry about a prissy Southern army if the realm ever faced such a threat. You’re bloody smart, brother, and I know as my bannerman you might just be the most important of them all if even half of your ideas come to fruition.”
“Well said,” Jon said as he took on a thoughtful expression. He was always driven to put out more and more ideas for Lord Stark and Maester Luwin now that the crops had become more and more plentiful throughout the North. Lord Stark had even promised to allow the extra coin that Winterfell received, while not an exorbitant amount for all his many projects, to be, at least partially, set aside for Jon’s innovations. This was a boon for Jon, and it made his mind run with all of the things he planned to introduce.

“Together, brother,” Jon said as he stuck his arm out after raising himself up from. “We shall make the North prosper like no other realm has ever been able.”

Robb took Jon’s arm as he also rose up, “Aye, together we shall make the North more powerful, and strong than any other kingdom in all of Westeros.”

“Sand from the closest river, m’lord?” one of the workers in Winterfell that had a wagon that had pitched seams between the boards that made up the wagon asked as Eddard inquired of the man’s services.
“Yes,” Lord Stark said as he placed his hand on Jon’s shoulder who stood next to him in front of the man and his wagon. “This is something that needs to be done quietly. The sand will be useful in the plans that we have. You need only bring it to the location we give to you, and we will pay you for your trips.”

Jon and Ned had decided together that it would be prudent to ensure that the glass making remain secret. Unlike Myr, this glass would only be useful for the glasshouses that the North would be receiving. Skilled glass blowers weren’t needed to make panes of it, so that profession would take more time before it cropped up. However, it was decided that the project would remain secret until enough glass was made to create glass garden for each of the Northern houses so that the effects of it would be too widespread before the Myrish discovered that someone had uncovered how to make glass.

Thus, Ned and Jon had talked extensively about how such a project should be setup. After a few days of planning, the two decided on a course of action.

The project would remain on a small scale until enough glass was made so as to diminish the possibility of the Myrish sending assassins into the North. Every day one wagon would go the nearest river and come back full of sand. The same trip was made three times daily. One cart could carry around one ton of sand, from one ton of sand, ten panes of glass could be made. Thus, there was enough sand for thirty panes daily.

Obviously, this needed to be kept out of sight, so Eddard and Jon decided to keep the glass making process closer to the nearest river, Acorn Water, which, luckily, was small so not many were near to it, but also had enough sand so as to be useful to the glass making endeavor. While close to the land of Lord Cerwyn, they were still within Lord Stark’s domain, so the operation began to run at a smooth rate.

Indeed, between 15-20 panes of glass were made each day, and Jon estimated based off of his measurements of the glass gardens in Winterfell, that around 150 panes of glass would be needed per house. It was a boon that the men that did the work required little to no gold due to how small the operation was. While not small in the vast need of the glass, the amount of people who actually worked were minimized due to the mechanical set up that ran the furnace. A boon indeed because Jon had plans for the coin at his disposal.

Spread out across the North, there were 20 houses, as well as the Night’s Watch, that Ned intended to receive these gifts. Thus, 3,000 panes of glass would be needed. Jon estimated that, provided that they maintained an area with sufficient space, they could have that amount within eight moons. It would be difficult to have such a vast space, so Eddard decided that, as the space within the buildings near the contraption they had set up to make the glass, the one made from the windmill doing more work than Eddard ever thought possible, it would begin to be taken to the nearby houses, silently, so as to begin construction on glass gardens for the nearest houses. From there, the glass would continue to go to the nearby houses until each house in the North had the sufficient materials to have a glass house that could help alleviate the burdens of the winters that would come in the future.

It was enough to make Eddard weep tears of joy. Jon, truly, was a blessing upon the realm. Already, he had impacted the North in a way that the rest of the realm would see in due time. It filled him with immeasurable pride to see his son, in all but blood, improve the lives of every man, woman, and child that lived in the North. He was from another world, and such knowledge could be the way that Ned’s people attained better lives. He vowed, again, to listen to all that his son had to say.

It was shortly after they had enough for the first glass house, the one that was meant to go to Lord Cerwyn, that Jon came to speak to Eddard. As he knocked on the solar and entered, Ned grew interested in the conversation to come. ‘If anything,’ Eddard thought wryly, ‘this will be a talk where much progress will be made.’

“Father,” Jon began with a serious expression on his face. “You have granted me part of the gold that was gained from the sale of the excess of grain that we had this last harvest, and I know exactly where I would like to begin to put this coin.”

“Oh?” Eddard asked with a raised eyebrow as he gestured for Jon to continue.

“Roads,” Jon said simply without any preamble.

“Roads?” Ned asked in slight confusion.

“Aye,” Jon began as his voice took on the tone of someone about to give a lecture. “Roads are pivotal to all trade within the North, and it is deeply concerning that there is a major lack of roads throughout the North. Roads, above all, will allow the North to have more mobility within its borders, and can cause great growth. Trade will blossom if roads were made that could connect the houses and major villages and “cities”, a term I use loosely, of the North to each other. While the coin from the harvest will, surely, not be enough to fund such a grand connection between the houses of the North, it would definitely be enough to begin construction.”
“A road of such a great length would be nice, but construction of that magnitude would take a long time Jon,” Eddard said as he sat in contemplation. “And what of the route and barriers we would have to go through?” Eddard asked as he tried to see how well Jon had thought this through.

Very well, it seemed as Jon pulled up a map that he had drawn on to show his thoughts. It was, in fact, a good idea, and the mapped-out road made Eddard feel more comfortable with the idea. “Well,” Jon began as he pointed at the barriers that would make the construction of the road difficult, the Wolfsroad, Jon had decided as the name. “Everyone knows that it is difficult to tunnel through mountains and the like, but that isn’t what we will do father. No, with the exception of the Wolfswood and bodies of water, we will go around,” Jon said as he traced around the line that visited each house in the North. “First, we will create the loop that causes travel to be much faster through the heart of the North, from there we will expand the road to reach each house by including the Kingsroad as an already made avenue for the east. The loop will circulate from outside Winterfell, through the Wolfswood and the Barrowlands, out towards Hornwood and the Last River near the Last Hearth. However,” Jon said as he looked up into Ned’s eyes. “By this point, the Lords will have seen that this is expedient to them, and we should expect them to help in this endeavor. By blunting the costs by using my own coin for the main road over the next few growing seasons, this main road should be able to be built. By that time, I find it highly appropriate to call upon the remaining Lords to pave their own pathways up to the Wolfsroad. When I am ruler of Moat Cailin, I will also help my neighbors in their construction in whichever ways I can. I would argue to make the main loop reach slightly passed the Neck to make this endeavor easy on the majority of the Lords including the Flints, but I fail to see the immediate need to go anywhere further than Moat Cailin. We will have to build bridges in places, but the construction will be worth it to have faster travel in the North. This road will make trade easier due to better transport conditions, help with the time it takes for the raised levies to come together, and allow for internal migration. In all,” he said. “Furthermore, I know that I can help in creating a cheaper stone so as to minimize cost. If my experiments prove fruitful, then I might just be able to make a substance that will be cheaper than stone but be nearly as strong. In all, this will be a complete boon for House Stark and the North.”

“Aye,” Eddard said as he agreed with Jon. “How much time do you estimate for it to take?”

“Well,” Jon said as he looked back at the map. “The North is the largest of all the kingdoms, and this road will be the second largest in all the kingdoms. By my calculations, it would near 2,600 miles of road. That’s without the added sections for the houses as well. Add those, and it would be nearing 3,100 miles. It will be an undertaking, but if the builders can lay one to two miles a day, as I know they can. Then, this can be done by my 14th nameday. Provided that the coin for this task is sufficient. It would be best,” Jon said as he stepped back from the table, “if you were to find workers who can work fast so that the profits can be more easily seen in an expedient manner.”

“Aye, you’ve the right of it,” Ned said as he stood up. “The coin will be quite a bit to do the entire road, but I agree in most areas on the importance of a more connected realm. You can use the extra coin that will come from the upcoming harvest. If the reapers, improved plows, and systems that you’ve helped set up for the smallfolk prove to bring an even greater yield this growing season, then you may yet find more coin to use for this project. Even so, the Northern coffers have never been fuller. I’ll wait to see how far you make the coin go before I add that of our House, but if you cannot fund it all through the sold excesses, then I’ll help pay for the continued construction of the Wolfsroad,” Ned said with a nod towards Jon as they both exited the solar towards the dining hall so that they could eat with the rest of the family. Gods, Ned had never been happier that he had told Catelyn the truth. While she was angry for a time and it was a risk, it was wonderful to have the family close without any lies or great tensions.

Two months later and Jon’s efforts in revolutionizing the agriculture system proved fruitful. There was much more coin than before due to the much greater amount of land being cultivated by the smallfolk thanks to recent introduction of improved plows, horse collars, horse-drawn reapers that harvested faster, and even better farming practices that Jon expounded upon to Maester Luwin. Thus Jon had plenty of coin to begin, through Maester Luwin and his father, the road. He had been able to create a rudimentary concrete, not as good as stone, but Jon estimated that it could last at least a lifetime before it broke down. The wagons would be unable to cause great issues, and only floods could truly displace it. This easily malleable building material allowed the brick layers to work faster than expected, and so they were laying the road at around a pace of two to three miles per day. It was a welcome thing to experience. It rankled Jon that he couldn’t make a better concrete, but he didn’t have everything he needed for a better cement. So, he was stuck with a lesser concrete than he would have wanted.
In that same month, Maester Luwin had come to Lord Eddard with a message. On it was a stag. The King had called for the North to answer to the rebelling Iron Born of whom Balon Greyjoy proclaimed himself the king of. And so, Ned was taken from his family to war. A war where one of Jon’s ideas could be tested. For truly, the Northern long-bowmen would taste war with the Iron Islanders who had plagued their shores for too long.

Chapter Text

It had been nine years since the war that destroyed the Targaryen dynasty. People had taken, secretly, to their plotting of restorations, but for some it wasn’t enough. Action was called for by the hearts of angry men, and none other wanted action like Mace Tyrell.

He had been humiliated, deeply humiliated, when the overly long siege of Storm’s End resulted in nothing. The beloved dynasty, the House that gave his family such prominence, had been reduced to nigh nothing. It didn’t sit right with him to have to bend to some usurper on the throne.

Yet, what was Mace to do? He couldn’t outright rebel, otherwise the might of the other Six Kingdoms would rip apart his house and the Reach. It would be bloody if the king found his plots and brought his hammer down upon him. No, Mace was stuck in the never-ending struggle that was being unable to do anything. So, when an opportunity came knocking, he took it.

How the Greyjoys even concocted this scheme, he’d never know. However, when they came looking for someone to stand aside, he saw something. He saw opportunity. Surely, the Iron Born would fail. Even so, their rebellion could potentially drain the resources of the Seven Kingdoms, thus allowing for an easier restoration. All he had to do was nothing, and Mace Tyrell was the master of the art of doing nothing.

The terms were atrocious, really. The Iron Born offered nothing except that they wouldn’t raid the shores of the Reach anymore if the Tyrells and the Reach would not join the war. He should have denied them, but Lord Tyrell, in his infinite stupidity, accepted the deal.

It was sad really; how terrible Mace was at the Game. He thought himself intelligent, crafty, and wise. Yet, he was anything but those attributes. Thus, through his actions his family would lose any chance at Margaery sitting on the Iron Throne in the Baratheon dynasty. Though, in another way, his actions would unknowingly be the saving grace for his family and the Reach.

Olenna knew that something was happening when she returned from her visit to House Fossoway. She had gone there in order to take stock of the surrounding areas and keep check of the political climate in the Reach. She had returned from this routine trip, and she took notice of how her son, Mace, had yet to greet her.

This was worrying. Her son being busy enough to not come meet his mother? That must mean he was either in an important meeting, likely one that she should have been notified of, or he was scheming. Both were terrible, absolutely horrific possibilities. Her son, in all of his inability to play the Game, was one of the greatest dangers to this family. For this reason, she was the one that handled most of the true political discussions that had to do with the Reach. Well, she didn’t always do it openly, but she ensured that Mace said what she wanted him to say.

As she went to the gardens to sit for a while and gather her thoughts, she noticed a man leaving from the direction of Mace’s solar. Curious, he didn’t have the look of a Reachman. In fact, he looked more like… more like an Iron Born. They had a certain arrogance and swagger that was hard to place on any other subject of the Seven Kingdoms.

This was quite suspicious. The Reach had many issues with the Iron Islands, so why would her son have someone of such a deplorable realm in her, ahem, their home of Highgarden? She would need to speak with her grandchildren that had been present these past few weeks, Willas and Margaery. Willas was observant, unlike his father, and Margaery, well, she was her pupil, the apple of Olenna’s eye. More than that, Margaery had a certain maturity about her. She had only reached her tenth nameday, yet she carried herself as a woman grown. At times, Olenna could see the obvious pain in her eyes, as if she thought that only terrible tragedy awaited her.

It would be the right course of action, she decided, to call them to the gardens so that they could speak of what had occurred during her absence. With that in mind, Olenna moved from the courtyard towards the gardens. Along the way, she had a servant call her grandchildren to her. It was time to see what Mace had done to her family.

Before she had awakened in her young body, all that Lady Margaery of House Tyrell could see was a disgusting, unnatural Green.

All she knew was Green.

That sickening color, the pain that lasted an instant. The realization, wildfire. What distasteful fool would stoop to such a terrible substance? Even now, she knew the answer. Cersei Lannister.

Cersei was a fool, a dangerous idiotic fool that would burn the world for her own selfish desires. Hers was the type of madness that would see the commoner and the highborn alike destroyed by the wheel of oppression.

When she awakened in this new world on the day of her seventh nameday, she had been frightened. How was she supposed to reconcile the fact that she had been murdered? How could she stomach the realization that she had died in a fiery grave, with those of her family, her family, with her, and she could do nothing about it? For days she had been distraught and withdrawn, yet she never told her family of the tale that was her first life, the culmination of their House playing the deadly Game of Thrones. For three years, her memories plagued her constantly.

It seemed as if the Gods had given her another chance in this new life. Yet, if the Gods were real would they have allowed their sept to burn? Would they have allowed their followers, commoners and highborns, to be burned in something as diabolical as Cersei destroying the Sept of Baelor with wildfire? Such thoughts nearly drove her mad.

Even so, Margaery had decided that Cersei would rue the day that she dared to manifest weapons against her and her family. No, in this new world, Cersei would not win. She would not have the satisfaction of murdering her family.

In this new life, Margaery knew that she had undergone change. Some things were different, and others were the same. Her thirst for dead Lannisters was proof of her change.

Yet, even with these hardships, Margaery still cared for the common people, not just because they were the voice of the mob and could be swayed ever so easily, but because they were people. Everyone needed someone to treat them with compassion. If the world had more people with her mindset, then maybe such vicious creatures, for they could not be human with their lack of love for anyone other than themselves, as Joffery and Cersei wouldn’t exist?

Gods, the thought of Joffery being alive left a bad taste in her mouth. The disgusting little prick would get his comeuppance again, in due time.

Yet, Margaery noticed things in this reset that were strange. For one, the Greyjoy Rebellion had begun much later than she remembered. Was her presence, her miniscule change in the way she treated her family, as if they would one day die and she be unable to stop it, so large that it radiated out towards even such large events as rebellions and wars?

Margaery liked to think she wasn’t arrogant. Well, not exactly that she wasn’t arrogant, because everyone has a dash of arrogance at some point, and her being told repeatedly, even now, that she would be Queen had caused her to think more highly of herself than she ought to think. However, unlike Cersei, she knew that she couldn’t control everything.

So, the idea that her presence had caused this shift? It was too much of a stretch to be true. Yet, if her presence was not the main difference, then what was?

Of one thing Margaery was certain, Cersei was still a bitch that needed to die. Yet how could one Rose of Highgarden be able to do such a thing when the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms still had the King as her shield? The rumors of the relationship between the Queen and her twin, which Margaery strongly suspected were true, were, at least, grounds for a war if the circumstances play out correctly. If such a thing played out again, then she would have to push her family into joining with the correct side. Maybe, in this new life, she could aid Sansa’s brother? Sansa did speak much of her family, more specifically her brother Robb. Mayhaps it would be a beneficial arrangement?

Of one thing Margaery was not certain. Did she still want to be Queen? It had cost her life and the lives of her family in another time. Was it still worth it? Deep down she could say yes, but she felt as if the Lannisters and Baratheons would always lead to death for any who followed them. How could she be Queen if there were none who held a claim? The Starks could give her the revenge she craved, the revenge she desperately needed, yet what claim could they hold? If only a secret heir was hidden in the frozen lands of the North, yet it would be too much to wish for. She was not a fool. If the North held an heir to the Iron Throne, the entire Seven Kingdoms would have known. Their honor was too stifling of their ability to play the Game. It was one of the reasons why Robb Stark had died in her first life.

That was one thing Margaery would seek to change. She owed it to Sansa. The poor girl didn’t deserve the hand she was dealt.

But now, Margaery had to deal with the fact that her revenge may be much harder to gain. Her father, though she loved him dearly, had been found to be colluding with the Greyjoys behind Grandmother’s back. It was dangerous, even more so because Margaery knew the Greyjoys would fail. That avenue was a terrible one that her father had decided to travel. She knew that nothing could come of this rebellion, it would only bring the remaining realms closer together. It angered her that her father had quite literally diminished, drastically, her chances at revenge on the Queen.

Part of her found it insane that she was plotting the downfall of the Queen when she had yet to attack House Tyrell, but she knew that the madness was still present in Cersei’s heart. Even now people talked of how cruel the prince is, and how Queen Cersei took every word as an insult to her and her children.

No, Margaery knew that she was justified in her path. Even so, now she would have to live with what came from her father’s blunder. She would plot. She was always plotting, and she would tear Cersei apart. If she couldn’t do it herself, then she’d find others that could help her. But now, her priority was being the little Rose of Highgarden and hoping that her father hadn’t created the ruin of her family.

Olenna was angry. No, she was furious. Her lackwitted son had gone and done the unthinkable. In his shortsightedness he had agreed with the damn Greyjoys to be non-aggressive in this rebellion. Well, they couldn’t outright be caught. It was true that they could raise a number of excuses for their slowness to assemble, but the potential for the Throne to catch on and punish their House was quite high. With the Reach being so close to the Iron Islands, it wouldn’t be hard for those snakes on the small council to figure out what was at play. Olenna knew that the King would find out after the rebellion failed.

She knew it would fail. One kingdom against six, or really one against five? The Iron Born would fail. They would go as lambs to the slaughter. Hopefully, when the crown found out, the Tyrells could avoid the worst of the ramifications. It was a dangerous thing that her son had done, and Olenna didn’t know if they would be safe.

It wasn’t like the Reach could even stop it anymore. The Greyjoys would certainly oust them for all that the Reach had agreed to do if they didn’t uphold their end of the bargain. Now, her House was stuck between a rock island and an Iron Throne. Her son’s actions shamed their House.

All she could do now was berate Mace. That, and pray that the Gods were kind to their family. Poor Margaery, this would drastically hurt her chances to be Queen. Many plans would have to be redrafted. All because her son could be bloody stupid when Olenna wasn’t present.

Euron Greyjoy was in a pleasant mood when he returned to Pyke. The fat Tyrell had agreed to all of his terms, and it was a boon to the budding Rebellion that was just now underway. Even so, Euron knew that they would need more than a non-aggression pact from the Reach if they wanted to win this rebellion.

What they needed was a deep strike to the heartland of one of the kingdoms. Somewhere that no one would think could ever fall. He had a plan in mind, but he would first need to converse with his brother.

It left a bad taste in Euron’s mouth. He never wanted to stoop to offer to not raid the shores of the Reach, but Balon had given him his word that after the war, the pact would be forgotten. They needed the Reach fleets to be complacent. That was their only chance at destroying the Royal Fleet. Afterwards, the Reach would be ripe for the Iron Born, and they would have all the plunder they wanted after the Throne was pushed back.

He was skeptical. The other kingdoms would be happy to rally around the King and come attack Pyke. He knew the Reach would join the fighting if the Iron Throne were to appear to be close to winning. They had to if they wanted the king to be lenient of their inaction, and that inevitability proved that this rebellion would most likely fail. So, he had approached his brother after informing him of his success at Highgarden with the Reach with a daring, nigh reckless plan.

“Wintefell?” Balon asked skeptically.

“Aye,” Euron said with a slightly manic glint in his eye. The North would be the first to feel the Iron Born carve out their homelands and destroy all that they loved.

“You said that you have a plan that could potentially cause the North to falter in their war efforts? I fail to see how Winterfell could be included,” Balon said as he stared at his brother with an incredulous look on his face.

“With the North calling their levvies to come here,” Euron began, “it would seem suicide for Iron Born to go on the offensive. So,” Euron said as he grinned a grin that showed how clearly insane he was to even suggest such an idea. “That is exactly what we will do. I’ll lead a force of 600 men to Winterfell after the armies have left their centralized positions, and we will capture it.”

Balon sat in contemplation for a few moments. “I see some promise in it, but how could we take it? We are Iron Born, we rule the seas, not land like the Greenlanders,” Balon said as he pointed out one of the flaws in Euron’s scheme.

“Aye,” Euron said with a knowing look in his eye, ”but we know enough. Climb walls, build engines to reach the gates. Easy shit. All of that is simple, yet it’s the numbers that would be important. With 600 men marching fast to Winterfell after we make land in the northwest of the North, we can outnumber them completely."

"And what if they leave more men than you expect?” Balon asks, obviously doubting if Euron could pull something so outlandish off.

Euron scoffed, “leave more than I expect? How could they leave more than 100 men? What justification would be given for leaving so many resources behind? No, the Northerners are proud, they wouldn’t take more than their best into this war. 600 men will be what takes Winterfell when the Northern army comes southward towards Pyke.”

“The idea has merit,” Balon said after spending time contemplating this scheme. “I’ll give you leave to lead, but you will take my son, Maron, as your second in command.” Euron nearly laughed at the obvious show of Balon not trusting him. Why else would he send Maron?

Euron grinned. This was shaping up to be an excellent time to be alive. The chance to stick it to the proud northerners? He lived for this type of action. “Of course brother,” Euron said, “I’ll be happy to take him along.” ‘All the easier to kill him with the rest of the fodder that will take Winterfell. Who needs him when Balon has another son?’ Euron thought in perverse glee.

“Good,” Balon said, seemingly unaware of his brother’s thoughts. “Now, lets move on to discuss the fleet.”

And so, the two brothers lost themselves in setting further into motion a scheme that would tear their House apart. Oh, how we pay for our avarice.

Jon Snow knew that war would eventually come in his lifetime. It was common for mankind to war with each other, so why should he expect anything other than a life full of war in this new world that he was in? War was a constant. It never changed whether he was on Earth or in Westeros. This was one reason why he had given his father the improved longbow regime to begin with.

To be fair, it would normally take years for longbowmen to train, but men grown being forced to pull a bow that could be used in a war? They trained hard because they knew their life might depend on it. So, as the levies were called, it was with great satisfaction that Jon knew all of the archers in this Northern host would be the best equipped in the Seven Kingdoms. The armor that the Iron Born wore? It would be useless when a volley of Northern arrows punched through it. The North would be the terror on the field, and oh, how Jon wished he had time to implement more training regimes to create an even more fearsome army.

Sadly, the Wolfsroad would be taking longer than Jon had expected. They had only just gotten to the edge of the Wolfswood, and he knew that they were behind schedule. The clearing that was required for the forest had taken longer than Jon thought it would, so only a few of the levies could use the road. The few that could, though, were much faster in their march. It would seem, then, that Jon’s logistical foresight would be a welcome boon in years to come. This war, it seemed, would be the proving ground for some of his fledgling ideas.

Lord Stark having to join the battle caused Jon some worry. He knew that, likely, his father would survive due to his great ability at warfare, but how could he not be worried about him? It was war. A time to live and a time to die, that was what Eddard Stark was going towards. Jon prayed that this was the time for Eddard Stark to live. Not only because the man was his avenue to a better North, but because he had become a very trusted figure in Jon’s life. The man was his greatest supporter, so it would be a major blow if he were to be taken too early from Jon’s life.

As Lord Stark said his goodbyes to each of his children, Jon couldn’t help but reflect on the potential the North would have if Eddard Stark remained Warden of the North and Jon could continue to shape this part of the Seven Kingdoms. First, and most importantly, was the fact that there was likely a goldmine near the river, Acorn Water. Jon knew this, yet he and his father had not been able to do anything yet. The fact that the sand had enough silica for the glass to be good enough for glass gardens proved that there was likely quartz nearby. Especially due to the painstaking efforts that they took to ensure that erosion wasn’t a concern. They took sand starting in the smallest section and moving backwards along the river. This way of doing things allowed for them to continue in their glass making, and it ensured that erosion would be minimized from their activities. Yet, this brought up an interesting discovery. The further back they went, the better-quality sand they received. Jon was sure that a quartz deposit was nearby. And, if quartz was somewhere close, then the chances of gold were also high. So, Jon planned to soon begin sending out people to search along Acorn Water to see if his suspicions were true.

It seemed likely that there were pockets of gold hidden throughout the North. Winterfell had natural hot springs, natural hot springs, how lucky could Jon be to be living in such a castle? There was definitely a history of volcanoes in the North, so why had they yet to find large pockets of gold that they could mine? Iron and other metals were common, and sulfur, thank God, was a ready resource at Winterfell, but gold was nearly unheard of in the North.

It was strange, because on Earth one of the greatest gold rich areas was Alaska. A state that resembled the North in terms of the geographical similarities had an abundance of gold in places. How then had the North gone so long without their own mine? For these reasons, Jon heavily suspected that a gold mine would be something that the North would see in the not too distant future.

“I leave Winterfell in your and Robb’s capable hands, Jon,” Ned said as he patted Jon on the shoulder. Jon nearly snorted. Leaving a vast castle such as Winterfell to two children that only had nine namedays? If Jon weren’t older than he seemed then he would have thought Lord Stark mad. At least Maester Luwin would be able to help in the administration side of things for Robb. Jon knew that he’d have to also bear more burdens so as to keep the family safe during the time his father was away.

“It’ll be in perfect condition when you return then, father,” Jon said with a haughty tone and an easy smile on his face.

Ned chuckled as he ruffled Jon’s hair. “Aye, I expect you and Robb will please me with how you handle things here.”

“Of course we will,” Jon said, “I’ve taught Robb to think critically. With Maester Luwin and I, Robb will be the best acting Lord Stark that he can be.”

Ned smiled as he turned and hugged Jon to his side. “I’ll miss you son,” Eddard said, “stay safe, and look after your siblings as I know you will.”

“I’ll miss you too father,” Jon said honestly, “and I shall endeavor to do as you ask. For if I don’t, I fear Lady Stark would bring righteous justice upon my head.”

Eddard smiled, let Jon out of his hug, and moved on to the gate. He refused to promise that he would return, for war was always dangerous, and it was never certain if a man who walked the path of a warrior would come home. So, Eddard left his family and met the host that had formed outside the castle walls. His host was ready to march southward towards Flint’s Finger. From there, the North would repel the Iron Born. Ned would make sure of it.

Now, if only he could find out why he felt like he should have left more than 100 men to man Winterfell in his absence.

‘Oh, well,’ Lord Stark thought to himself. ‘Jon is a smart lad, Robb too. I know that they’ll be fine.’

Weeks later, Ned would curse himself for tempting fate.

He couldn’t have known that this war would leave no one unscathed, and that Jon and Robb would be forced to become killers before they had reached their tenth nameday.

Jon though, he knew that war took from everyone and left no one untouched. War was no respecter of persons. It cared not if you were wealthy or poor, child or grown, frail or strong. War took everything, and it left behind enough ashes for civilizations to rebuild so that war could come again and burn it all to the ground. It was a perpetual cycle that wouldn’t, couldn’t be broken. Because war… war never changes.

Chapter Text

The Revolution of Westeros: How an Engineer Views Plebeians

Remember where Winterfell

Euron Greyjoy had been grinning in manic glee ever since his ships left Pyke a week ago, carrying the 600 men that would help him lay siege to Winterfell. The Northern host should now be nearing the shores of Cape Kraken, and he was beside himself with the task before him. Unbeknownst to his brother, he had struck a deal even greater than non-aggression with the fat Tyrell in the South. No, it wouldn’t just be the Iron Born that would ravage the North. Sellswords from the East would land in the North and travel to Winterfell. The Starks would know what it was to be brought low by a Greyjoy.

They had faced little resistance since they landed in Stony Shore, the west of the North was vast and much of it was underutilized. It grated Euron to not rape and reave the way the Iron Born should, but he had a much greater mission. He knew his lust for destruction and misery would be satiated, for a time, when he reached Winterfell. So, he only allowed himself and his troops to kill the occasional workers they ran across. It would be a terrible blow if Winterfell knew of his impending wrath before the Iron Born had sufficiently set up camp.

There was another thing grating on Euron’s nerves: Maron. His nephew, the little shit, didn’t know anything about anything. He was a thorn in his side, constantly asking questions in private yet acting superior to all the other men, with the exception of Euron, because of his position. Euron decided, again, to be rid of him as soon as possible. Maybe an “accident” within a siege tower would be enough to convince Balon that Euron wasn’t the mastermind of his death?

Time would tell. In only a couple days time, his army would reach Winterfell. It was surprising, it seems the Northerners were trying to build a road before he came along and murdered the workers. Oh well, it would be a shame if he didn’t use it to get to Winterfell faster. Balon would laugh at the irony of a tool of the North being used against them. Who knows, maybe it would soften the blow of Maron dying a tragically pitiful death?

Maron had a feeling of foreboding ever since he left the Iron Islands. What his uncle planned was unnatural, Iron Born sieging a castle? It was so rare in their history that he wasn’t even sure if it had happened before. Sure, they had taken castles before, but often times they would just use ladders and rush their way through the enemy. What Euron proposed was completely out of his character, Iron Born don’t wait and siege, they fight and die. So then, why was his uncle acting this way?

It was more than the way he now thought of warfare, Balon’s brother seemed  to always have a crazed, glazed over look in his eyes. He was insane before, yes, but he seemed to be… radically different than what he was. While it may have seemed juvenile to others, Maron had only shared his thoughts with a couple of the men in the 600 Iron Born contingent and they laughed his concerns off as him being a “greenie,” he knew that something was amiss. Even so, he would follow his uncle. Maron was beginning to wonder if his father had sent him here because he too had seen a change in Euron. He’d have to speak with him when he returned.

Jonas was a young boy of nine name-days who lived near the Wolfsroad that was cutting through the Wolfswood in between Deepwood Motte and Torrhen’s Square. His father had been blessed by the Starks to be chosen as one of the masons who worked on the road. Today, he was carrying a lunch that his father had forgotten at the house. Forward progress may be stalled by the clearing of the Godswood, which was nearly done for the time being, but there were still many things the masons could do while waiting. Sadly, Jonas would never forget this day, this horrible day.

Coming near to the construction site, Jonas was surprised by a terrible screaming. It sounded like tens of people were being attacked at once. He would have helped, Jonas was brave, but… Jonas knew his father was there. He was more important to Jonas than anything, ever since his mother passed a year ago from disease. So, Jonas did what he knew he had to do. He hid.

He ran away from the road towards the woods. He had always felt safer amongst nature, but he knew he had to get off the road so he wouldn’t be found. He started in the direction of the screaming, using the trees for cover. It was horrifying that the screaming continued, the people must have been in a great deal of pain.

He ran to a tree and stopped, his heart beating in his chest. He peaked out, nothing.

He ran to another and stopped, his heart beating faster and faster. He slowly looked past the tree… nothing.

For fifteen minutes he continued like this, for fifteen minutes the screaming, crying, and wailing didn’t end.

He came upon a small clearing where the road construction had stalled due to the need to call in more lumberjacks. He saw a large host. A hundred meters away, hundreds of men were gathered in the tents where he so often came and visited his father. He looked left behind the tents and saw something that made him want to hurl.

15 men, all of them the masons, and a woman and child who Jonas recognized as the family of one of the masons. Jonas had always been fond of these people, of the woman who would accompany him at times to visit her husband, of the boy he would at times play with, his friend, Artus.

They were beaten, bloodied, brutalized. Half of them lay dead, the woman, seemingly used by the Iron Born until she was a shell of a human. The boy, still alive, but crying hysterically. The men, defeated, and resigned to being nothing but husks of flesh to be tortured and murdered by the Iron Born.

Jonas was scared. Jonas was frightened. But, more than anything, Jonas was angry.

Who were these people, to come to his home, attack his friends, his family, and think they could get away with it?

They’re the Iron Born, Jonas, and these individuals care for nothing but to rape and reave.

Jonas knew that he, alone, was insignificant, that he couldn’t help these people. But, he needed to know if his father… if his father had gotten away. So, he made to slowly move to a different tree so he could get a better view. He wished that he hadn’t.

As he peaked around the tree, his heart leapt into his throat. A pair of eyes stared back at him.

Dead, soulless eyes. The eyes of his father stared directly into his soul. He had been beaten, carved with the swords of the Iron Born, and hanged for trying to fight back. Jonas’ heart shattered. He wanted to scream, to cry, but all he could do was remain silent as the tears trailed down his face.

For an entire minute, he stood there staring at his father. Grief turned to bitterness, bitterness to rage, rage to motivation. He couldn’t stay here. What more could he do? He was one boy against hundreds. He had to leave. He had to warn others. What happened to these people, Artus, his father, couldn’t happen again.

So, with a heavy heart, he turned to leave. As he turned around, a hand reached out and viciously grabbed his right arm.

“What do we have here?” an Iron Born lacking his armor said. “How’d you escape from the others? That won’ do, won’ do at all.” The man had a crazed expression on his face, he had just finished with the woman, only to run across this small boy near the corpse of the man he helped carve and kill. What a lucky day for him.

Jonas startled and tried to struggle, but the grip only grew tighter. He had a dagger in the left of his belt, it would never be good to walk through the Wolfswood unarmed, his father had always told him. It would be tricky, but he might be able to pull it on the unarmed Iron Born and get away.

“Beautiful piece of art isn’t it,” the Iron Born started. At this, Jonas’ struggles stopped, his eyes widened. “Carved it myself, I did,” the disgusting, filthy Iron islander said. “He just wouldn’t stop strugglin’, kept screaming about hav’n a son or somethin’, so we decided to cut out his tongue for him. He jus’ wouldn’ give us Iron Born the respec’ we deserve. Me and a couple of the others decided it’d be a good idea to carve him up for all the trouble he caused us. Don’ be shy boy, take a close lo-“

He was cut off. Jonas, fueled by rage, anger, and a thirst for vengeance, unclipped his dagger concealed by his jerkin and stabbed blindly upwards into the man while he was leaning down, speaking in Jonas’ ear. His dagger struck true, going through the man’s neck and silencing him.

Jonas broke free, ripped out the dagger from the neck of the man who had fallen to the ground clutching his throat, and stabbed again. He stabbed, and he stabbed, and he kept thrusting the blade into the corpse. For several minutes there was only the sound of crying, and of a knife entering skin while a dead man hanged there watching.

Jonas arose. He looked at his dagger, he looked at the man, and he looked at his father hanging from the tree. He had taken a life, but he wished he could have traded it instead.

For several minutes Jonas sat there, his mind a blur. Soon, his mind returned to him, and he remembered what he should do. Gathering his courage, he turned from his father and left. He knew the ones that could stop these terrible people. He could only hope he could make it to Winterfell in time for them to be brought to justice.

His health was failing. While he had always been holding onto life by a thread granted to him by the Old Gods and the Children, he knew that his time was coming. It was peculiar, this was much earlier than he thought it would be. The Raven was certain that this iteration was progressing slightly differently than times before. Mayhaps humanity would win, at last, and the cycle would be ended? He nearly scoffed at the thought. Planetos had been in this cycle since the end of the first True Long Night many eons ago, and he doubted that the small changes he had seen in the north would save humanity.

“Rest now,” he heard the harmonious voice that echoed through the threads of time from the weirwood he was entangled with. “An anomaly has arrived; he will be the one that brings the dawn. The Cycle waxes weak, and it must be ended once and for all. You are needed no more,” Rest? He hardly remembered the last time he allowed himself such a thing.

“Who would be there to guide him,” the Three-Eyed Raven began as he pondered if he would ever receive rest and see the end of his cycle of life and death.

“He holds more advantages, more knowledge, than you could fully understand, Raven. He needs none but that which we send him. Your part is finished, the cycle will end, the boy will grow strong and bring the golden age that arrives with the end of the fight between life and death. He is unbeholden to the prophesy, yet fulfill it he will. We have foreseen it.”

The skeletal figure on the weirwood throne could see it, the anomaly, the boy. He had seen this boy often, the boy Jon Snow. He was the one they spoke of? What was different this time? How would the dawn be brought when so little was different from the last incarnation of this world?

As if his thoughts were known to the voice, it spoke again, “You look outwardly when what has changed is the inside. The boy will grow stronger, fiercer, and already holds an intelligence greater than most. The trials set before him will give him the resolve needed to end this cycle. He is the King, the one that is destined yet lost to the sight of the Others due to the changes inside him.”

That was a boon, he was outside the view of the Night King. That, at least, gave the Three-Eyed-Raven more hope.

He was fading. Soon, he knew, he would join the aether.

His heart stopped.

His eyes closed.

‘Don’t fail, Jon Snow,’ the Three-Eyed Raven had as his last thought, ‘this is humanity’s last chance.’

And so, the Bloodraven was no more.

“Robb, recite to us the history of relations held between the North and the Reach,” Luwin stated during his lesson for Jon and Robb.
“Maester Luwin,” Robb started to complain, “I’ve done it some three times now.”

Luwin smiled at Robb’s annoyance. “Repetition forces these things to remain in your mind, my young Lord, and the Reach is a land that would be good for you to know more of as the future Lord of Winterfell.”

Robb sighed, closed his eyes, and began reciting all that he knew of the Reach and the North “the Lord Paramount of the Reach is Lord Mace Tyrell, it is a fertile land and the North often has need of the food produced there. Recently we’ve become less reliant due to…”

The lesson continued on as Jon tuned out the less important parts. The modern affairs and history of Westeros were important, yes, but Jon’s mind was occupied with different matters. Truly, many things were on his mind.

Recently, Robb had taken on a more administrative role. With Lord Stark’s absence due to the war, it was only natural for Robb to be forced to fill the vacant position as his heir. It wasn’t like he was alone; he had the help and advice of their maester, his mother and, of course, Jon.

In truth, if it wasn’t for the advanced critical thinking games Jon had put Robb through since they were five, then it would likely be Maester Luwin using Robb merely as a figurehead. With it, Robb was able to, for the most part, come up with good solutions to disputes. Even so, he would often turn to Jon before Luwin. Their bond, something much more important to a child thrust into a position that Robb was in, meant that Robb needed someone he held in high regard to help him. Jon was more than happy to advise him.

There were many trivial things that were hashed out each day, disputes between some of the larger farming families, tax collecting during war, filling the requests for more food from the Night’s Watch, and many other issues. Nothing life changing had happened yet, and Jon found himself thinking more and more about his own projects. He had several quasi-immediate concerns that needed to be addressed.

First, he knew that he needed more people with a mind like his. But, unless another engineer or alternate reality walker suddenly appeared, that would be hard to find. Instead, he would have to train followers and teach them the mindset of an engineer, the engineering process, the scientific method, and the Socrative method. It existed to an extent here, but not nearly as much as he would have liked. Even maesters were often set in their teachings that they received from the citadel, according to Maester Luwin. While Jon could do many things himself, it would be easier to have a corps of engineers that were dedicated to innovation, manufacturing, and research.

Another issue was the need for a better trained army. This war had shown him that war would be as ever present in this life as it was in his last life. More than just in terms of equipment, but the need for a more robust training regimen. Jon had plans to create a sort of “Special Operations” Force that could double as both combat engineers and clandestine operatives. While it may seem childish to any who knew where he got the idea from, he planned to institute a sort of “hidden blade” bracer that would allow for the troops to be more multifaceted than a regular soldier in that they would always have a back up weapon that could catch their enemy by surprise. Sure, soldiers could have daggers or a separate short sword, but he liked the idea of a bracer that doubled as something able to block a sword swing and then turn into a deadly weapon.

These changes and innovations would also allow for much easier infiltration into fortified areas. Oh yes, these men would definitely learn how to scale walls. He could already imagine the terror of soldiers awakening to well over 100 operatives in a castle in the middle of the night, or realizing in the morning that their commander had been… taken out.

He had pondered whether or not to introduce gunpowder through them, but he decided against it. Gunpowder, when it came about, would most definitely cause wars to be worse. The one that had it would hold the indisputable advantage over the enemy. He wasn’t against one day bringing in firearms, but he wanted to make sure that it was controlled on his terms where he and the North had the greatest benefit. After all, the Greyjoys proved that civil war was a very real possibility in Westeros. It wouldn’t be good to allow rival kingdoms to have access to what could be one of his greatest resources.

Notwithstanding, he would begin producing it soon. It would be good to have a stock that he could rely on if he ever had need of it. For the most part, though, it would be low on his list of things to do.

As their lesson came to a close, the two boys bade farewell to Maester Luwin. It had become part of their routine, in recent days, to meet with Lady Stark after their lesson. The woman, they had found shortly after Lord Stark left, was with child, and the boys had tried to lighten the load of work that she had forced upon herself with the absence of her husband. Jon had tried to take on some of her work of keeping the household well managed, but she stoutly refused. He understood why, of course he understood, in this world a woman was valued on beauty and their management of a house. Lady Stark felt like she needed to continue in her same duties to feel the value of her work, as society had instilled in her. So, if she wouldn’t let Jon help, then he would do it discreetly by asking the servants to bring the more trivial matters to him. It was the least he could do.

The Northern host was near the shores of Cape Kraken. His father would be in the midst of warfare soon, and it was always on his mind. He worried, but he knew that Eddard Stark was a very capable military leader. He would succeed.

Life was set in a routine for the Starks at Winterfell, but troubles came soon. The war had come to their doorstep.

“You’re sure of these numbers?” Jon asked the bloodied, frenzied boy that was standing in front of Robb and him. The boy, Jonas, had gotten to Winterfell as fast as he could. While certainly faster than an army could walk considering the boy nearly ran two marathons in one day to get here, he knew that the Iron Born would be approaching within two days, at the most, if this were true. He cursed. He needed more information. They would have to send scouts to find where they currently were.

“Less than a thousand, milord,” Jonas began, “but at least several hundred. I’m sorry that I couldn’t take a better count,” the boy said with a downcast look. He wished he could do more to help. He needed the Starks to win. He needed them to avenge his father and friends.

Jon shared a look with Robb, some unspoken conversation passing between them as they sat in silence for a moment.

“You did good to bring this to us,” Robb began as he spoke to Jonas. “Now that we can be prepared, we will most certainly have a better chance at foiling whatever plot they may have.”

Jonas nodded.

“You will be granted safety here at Winterfell,” Jon began as he looked at the boy with sympathy. “I know that we can find work for you so that you can stay. Everyone will have to play their part when the Iron Born show their hand.”

Only when the boy was ushered out did Robb turn to Jon and Luwin and express the concerns that he had tried, and failed, to hide.

“This is bad, very bad,” he began as he arose from his chair and began pacing. He may have been nine, nearly ten, but he held himself extremely well in this situation. Well, that may be an exaggeration. At least he wasn’t panicking. Mayhaps it was because he didn’t understand the full severity of the situation?

“Aye,” Jon began as he stood to walk to his brother and console him. “But now we know that they are coming, their trajectory in line towards Winterfell. The masons...” Here a flash of anger ran through Jon’s eyes. He had met many of these men. “The masons were nearing the end of the Wolfswood. The Iron Born will be here soon.” He paused, taking a breath, “they think we are weak. We are not. We are put at an advantage; we have time to prepare. They will come, and we will bury them for trying to harm the North in such a treacherous manner.”

Facing Robb, Jon placed his hand on his brother’s shoulder, “trust me and the men left to defend this castle, brother, and we will survive.” At this, his face hardened, Jon’s eyes seemed to become chips of ice and his lips were set in a firm line, it would have been much more intimidating if he weren’t a boy of nine namedays. “Nay,” he began, “we’ll more than survive. We’ll crush them, and teach them why the North is not to be trifled with.”

Hearing his brother’s words calmed Robb, slightly. With a resolved expression, he regarded both Jon and Luwin.

“We need to prepare, where shall we begin?” Robb stated the question to both of them.

Maester Luwin, while he had never been in a situation where the castle he tended was under serious existential threat, knew the basic things that needed to be done. First, many of the surrounding people would need to be brought in. It was for more than just their protection, with the force left behind only numbering 100, it would be wise to take in the townsfolk and begin to assign them to positions.

Another thing that needed to be done is build up their food supplies for a potential siege. It would be a terrible thing for the people to starve. What also had to be done was the preparation of gear for those that would man the walls. Oil would have to be stripped from lamps, debris would have to be created to repel ladders, more things needed to be done than could be done with just the skeleton crew left behind by Lord Stark.

It was at the mention of oil, however, that a glimmer entered Jon’s eye. He had an idea.

“Order a few men to gather those too young to man the walls. I need a few hundred for a task that might grant us a boon in repelling these invaders,” Jon told Luwin as a chilling smile threatened to break out across his young face.

After Luwin sent out a few of the guards to gather the children, Jon, Lady Catelyn, and Robb were in Lord Stark’s solar. A letter had arrived. The maester read it, passed it to Jon, and then sat down. It seemed as if the weight of the world were upon them all.

“Well,” Jon began as he looked at each of the occupants of the room. “This certainly makes things much more difficult.” He sighed, “Really, where did the Greyjoys even get the gold to hire so many sellsword companies? Let alone finding enough of them willing to work together so that they number more than 3,000 men?”

The intent became clear to him. Really, it was clear to everyone, the Iron Born meant to take the North while it was weak. Strike at the home of one of the most powerful armies and force it away from the battle. By doing this, they would split the King’s army and force a war on two fronts. If they were successful, they may even push the King into a truce. Jon would not let this happen.

Three hundred, that was the number Jon had in front of him. Funny, he remembered a last stand with the same amount of numbers. If the Gods willed it, then his fate would be better than the King of Sparta.

They had more information now. The Iron Born were only a two day march away. His first battle in this new life was coming soon. Sadly, Jon wasn’t yet a master of the blade or bow, he was much too small. However, he did know a thing or two about destructive warfare.

Smallfolk children, that would be the force that would guarantee his victory. Not with swords or with arrows, but with what these three hundred would mine. They would enter into the hot springs, and they would bring out loads of sulfur. After that, the sulfur would be ground into a fine dust. Sure, the sulfur could be lit ablaze just with that, but he had other plans. Adding it to the oil, he intended to create a proto-Greek Fire that would burn the Iron Born alive. They come to him with their Drowned God, and he’ll make sure they drown in a sea of fire. First, though, he would have to rally these children into working for him.

He noticed, briefly, that Jonas was amongst the crowd. That was one that he could count on. The boy wanted vengeance, and Jon would be more than happy to let him have it.

“Alright lads!” Jon began as he spoke loudly. “You’ve likely heard the news. The Iron Born are coming,” at this he paused and looked at the grim faces of the boys and girls, most at the same age as him or older. Few faces showed fear, most showed resignation. They already believed the worst would happen. Jon wouldn’t let this attitude prevail.

“The Iron Born think we are weak. One hundred trained men, the rest women and children or men untrained.” Jon began.

“But do you know what I say to the Iron Born?” He continued in a condescending, mocking tone. “You come to me with your Drowned God, and I’ll let your blood be a sacrifice to the Old Gods. The Iron Born are weak, those of the North are strong. They may have more men, but each one of us, children included, are worth 10 Iron Born. Aye, we’ll put their skulls on a spike all across the western coast to send a clear message. If you trespass against the North, then you forfeit your life.” Jon finished with a harsh growl. His rage was infectious, and soon all of the children were ready to help in whatever way they could.

“Allow us to help!”

“Show us how to destroy our enemies!”

“Let us have our vengeance!”

The children were ready. Now, all Jon had to do was point them in the right direction.

“You will have a part in the skirmish to come!” Jon said as he lifted his voice above the crowd. “ As we speak, the untrained men and women, your fathers and mothers, our fathers and mothers, are being trained in what they can do to help in the siege that the Iron Born likely plan. We are all familiar with the bow, but we must have more than arrows to repel the savages that dare infest our lands.” Jon paused, took a deep breath, and continued.

“My brothers and sisters of the North, there is much work to be done! Will you help me in repelling the Iron Born? Will you help me in saving our land? Will you help me in crushing them, destroying them, and ending the lives of each and every miserable wretch that dared to step foot onto our land, and threaten our homes?” Jon’s cheeks had taken on a red hue, his blood boiling within his veins. The sentiments that he held were contagious. The crowd roared with approval.

Jon took a breath and allowed himself to regain control of his emotions. “Then help me prepare. If we have what I know we need, then we can drown the Iron Born in fire. Join me in this endeavor, do as I say, and we will have our triumphant victory.”

The thought was enticing to the crowd. Children they may be, but every one of them had felt the weight of the Iron Born. Their pillaging had gone on for too long. A father on the frontlines, a brother dead, children forced to lose a parent, parents forced to lose a son, a daughter, siblings losing a brother, a sister… This war had taken from them all. Finally, they had an outlet to take out their frustrations upon. In a way, they were thankful the Iron Born were coming. They finally had some form of vengeance that they could have for themselves, and vengeance gave them strength. Because love may be the most powerful emotion, but the thirst for vengeance is empowering and intoxicating.

It was only fitting, then, that after this skirmish the same crowd of adolescents that were empowered by the skirmish with the Iron Born became Jon’s new corps of engineers and warriors.

The preparations had gone along smoothly. An assembly line had been created shortly after Jon finished his speech. The children zipped back and forth between the Hot Springs and the mortar and pestles that were being used to grind it into fine powder.

This would be the most powerful form of defense, but Jon needed more than just this. He turned his attention to another quick innovation that would help in their defense.

As he entered the smithy, he knew exactly what would help the men who had crossbows on the walls. Sure, longbowmen were great in open combat, but crossbowmen ruled the battlements.

The main drawback for the crossbow was that it took too much time to reload. He had an idea for that, though. The crossbows had bars on them that specifically allowed for soldiers to place their feet on them and manually pull back the string. Now, all he needed was a way to make that process faster. That’s when the idea came to him. Why not have a metal hook attached to the belt that allowed for the archer to pull up with their body instead of pulling with their arms? That would allow the crossbowmen to reload much faster than normal. Now, all he needed were the hooks.

“Mikken,” Jon addressed the blacksmith. “Maester Luwin and I have a task for you and your apprentices…”

Ser Rodrik and Luwin had done well with their preparation of the other defenses. Bolts were gathered, pitch was made and added to the sulfur-oil mixture. This would help in the formation of the proto-Greek Fire. Now, Jon needed a good system of how to inflict it on the enemy. Luckily, he had an idea.

His first thought had been to use jars full of the concoction that he had made, and then use a catapult to launch it at the enemy. But that idea held too much room for error. The jars could easily burst in the catapults, and that would make it useless. No, he would use it for the walls. Able-bodied men would use the crossbows and longbows, children and women would be in charge of using the fire-concoction. There were braziers where the few longbowman archers that would accompany the women and children would set their arrows aflame and light the concoction once it was poured on the ladders and Iron Born climbing up. The Northerners would let the Iron Born begin their climb only to be drenched in flames.

For the potential battlefield? He would layer it with the excess sulfur dust. Barrels of sulfur powder would also be placed at strategic locations so that the area effected by the flames would ensure that the battlefield would be set ablaze. More than that, the fire would create a final component that would allow the Northerners to kill the Iron Born even more easily. When sulfur combusts it forms sulfur dioxide. A gas that is toxic. It would steal the breath from the Iron Born, and it would allow the Northerners to pump them full of arrows or ride them down once the gas began to lift. No Iron Born would make it further than the gate of the first wall.

If any survived the first battle? Then a portion of the skeleton crew would infiltrate the Iron Born camp and kill them in their sleep. Jon hoped, though, that few would survive.

They were here. All 700 of the Iron Born were set up outside of the walls. Ready to rape, reave, and kill. Euron could barely contain the excitement he felt.

Should he give them the chance to surrender or attack immediately? The decision came easily. Attack first, allow surrender later. Or not at all.

The siege engines were built. The ladders ready, all that he needed was to attack. Heh, he wouldn’t even need the sellswords. Take the castle outright, and he could use the sellswords to take other lands and force the Northern host to back out of this war. The Iron Born would win, and he would have all the glory.

Too bad, then, that there was one boy unwilling to surrender and oh so ready to turn this battle to the North’s advantage.

The day had come, Jon knew. It wouldn’t be easy, but his 300 had toiled these last two days the enemy gave them to ready his concoctions. Sulfur crushed into fine dust, added to the concoction for fire arrows, once set ablaze it would burn just a bit longer than regular oil. A rag dipped in this concoction and added behind the arrowheads was fitted for each archer. This, Gods willing, would stop any siege engines in their tracks and burn the Iron Born from inside out.

The barrels were not yet set in the fields. He didn’t have enough time to put them out, and the sellswords weren’t even here. It would be better to wait until the entire enemy was present and kill them then rather than tip his hand. So, with his fire arrows and concoctions made, he would let the Iron Born get close. Come into my parlor said the wolf to the kraken.

Their impatience would be their undoing.

It was becoming more real to Jon. This wasn’t just a game of numbers or a simple skirmish. This was war. People were going to die. His plans, the plans of Ser Rodrik, and the help of Maester Luwin would be all they had. If it was not enough, then they would die. So, Jon prayed it was, indeed, enough.

The fight began without warning. Oh, Jon had been prepared for that. Euron Greyjoy wasn’t known for holding anything as foolish as honor. Men were already at the walls, longbows ready, arrows dipped in oil, crossbows aimed, and bolts ready to punch through the chainmail of the Iron Born.

The Iron Born advanced.

Jon was at the walls with the men, ready to fight them off. Robb had protested, why should Jon go if he couldn’t? Jon very calmly explained that Robb was the acting Lord of Winterfell. He couldn’t be at the front of the fight, but someone had to be there for him. Jon couldn’t not be there. If he were absent, if the smallfolk and all the guards fought on their own, how would they feel if things went poorly? No, better to have an able-bodied representative that could hold things together.

Jon had already been familiarizing himself with the heads of the garrison. He had explained to them, quite bluntly, that the new practices when it came to archery had come from him. His expertise on war, though surprising, was welcome to the garrison. Though he was young, they listened. He had proven himself knowledgeable through their talks. Perhaps, even more knowledgeable than some of the higher-ranking officers. It was for this reason that Ser Rodrick (though in truth Ser Rodrick already knew of Jon’s proficient strategic thinking and sword hand. He did train the boy after all.) and the other officers included him. Truly, they recognized their need of him.

So, there Jon was. On the outer walls with the two hundred strong garrison made up of one hundred trained men and one hundred volunteers. This first wave, Jon knew, would test them all.

“Knock arrows!” Came the command. Jon raised up his crossbow, bolt covered in oil that was already set aflame.

The Iron Born advanced, and Jon saw the rest of the archers knock arrows. They weren’t yet within range, but soon, they would be. The siege engines steadily rolled forwards. Men carrying ladders ran towards the walls.

Just a little more. A few more yards.

“Loose!” Came the command. The sound of hundreds of arrows whistling through the air was the reply. Jon followed the trajectory of his bolt. He saw, with satisfaction, his bolt slam into one of the Iron Born carrying a ladder. He fell, but Iron Born continued forward.

“Knock!” Came the command. Archers and crossbowmen all around had already had their second volley ready.

“Loose!” the commander said once more. With every volley, tens of Iron Born fell. At least one hundred men had already found themselves felled by bolts or arrows. The Longbows doing just as much damage as the crossbows. Jon began to feel their victory. The siege engines, now covered in flaming arrows, began to smoke. Iron Born ran from their engines, abandoning them.

The volleys continued.

Jon couldn’t count how many men he had killed that day, but he was sure the Iron Born were feeling the  wrath of Northern archers. Many arrows had been covered in flaming oil, and every siege engine was now ablaze. Iron Born corpses filled the battlefield.

Men were sent to retrieve any still alive. Their executions would be a message. The North knew no conqueror but the Starks. Any who dared would be met with a swift and painful death.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way, Maron thought as he watched another man be put down by archers like a rabid dog.

No, they were meant to be victorious. But, alas, they were not. Euron had moved too quickly, thinking himself superior to the reportedly small garrison of Winterfell. His arrogance was his undoing.

‘Fucking Starks,’ Maron thought as he laid on the battlefield, crossbow bolt stuck in his side. He was put with the men running towards the walls hoping to scale them with ladders. Alas, he was felled quickly.

As he lay there, bleeding out, he thought of Euron. It became ever clearer to him that this was what he wanted. It wasn’t so much that Euron was impatient and wanted to take Winterfell (which was true, he really was impatient and desired Winterfell) but he also wanted to get rid of him. Maron was always seen as a lesser being by his uncle. For that, Euron sent him to his death.

In the end, Maron died as he lived. Pitifully. And few knew his name or ever remembered him. His was not a story that was sung. It was a story of insignificance. Truly, few mourned him.

Those wounded that were brought in from the outside were soon executed. The North had little mercy for invaders. Robb carried out the sentence for many himself. While he and Jon were still young, they were strong enough to play those sorts of roles.

Jon hated this. He hated that the war stole his brother’s innocence. He hated that Sansa, poor little Sansa, had come to him in tears and asked if the garrison failed whether she would die or not, whether the Iron Born would dishonor her and the other women. He hated that Bran and Arya couldn’t play in peace like they once did. He loathed that Lady Stark had to have this war influence her pregnancy. He only hoped that it would end soon.

Sadly, that seemed to not be possible. The men on the battlements gave him most troubling news. The first of the sellsword companies had arrived. By their counts, the enemy now had numbers of at least one thousand men. It seemed, surely, that they would need help.

Few had died in the first skirmish, but the Iron Born volleys that were shot in desperation at the wall had wounded some commanders. Indeed, Ser Rodrick had been wounded enough that it seemed he wouldn’t be able to command for some time. With so few truly experienced commanders, Jon took control. Though, he didn’t have to push too hard. They knew him and trusted him somewhat, yes, but their desperation for someone, anyone, to offer them hope is what likely led to them trusting a boy of nine namedays with any position of power.

The next day, Euron sent a letter demanding that the garrison surrender or that the men, women, and children would all be put to the sword.

Jon knew they were in a precarious position. His barrels couldn’t be used until all of the enemy had arrived, and without the men to hold the castle they would all surely die.

It became clear to Jon what needed to be done.

“Maester Luwin,” Jon said to the man, “write down what I have to say, and send outriders, volunteers from the smallfolk, with the message to every town in the North and every great house in the South.”

“In the year 292 AC, I, Jon Snow, brother to Lord Robb Stark and son of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell do write this letter.

To the people of the North, and all Westerosi in the World,”

A man read aloud at the town center of Torrhen’s Square. Around him, men gathered to hear what troubling news came from Winterfell.

“I am but a child in the eyes of the law, but I find that my age only makes my passion for my country, my fellow man, and my family burn that much hotter.”

Willas Tyrell read aloud to his family members gathered around him.

Olenna’s attention was more on Margaery than anyone at the moment. Her granddaughter, so full of fire, was glaring at her father. Margaery knew that whatever they read was likely only possible due to her father’s moronic deal with the Iron Born. That it hurt the Starks (her dear friend Sansa) only added to her anger.

“We have been besieged by more than a thousand men under the control of Euron Greyjoy. Most of the senior officers have perished. Command has fallen to me. A task which I do not take lightly.”

A man in the war tent of the King’s host reads as Ned’s face becomes ashen with worry.

The King’s brow was furrowed in both concern and anger.

“I, and the men with me, have sustained continuous attacks both day and night. Yet, we have not lost a battle.”

A man reads aloud to the men gathered at Riverrun.

In the back, Edmure Tully is seen testing the string of his longbow, his sword at his side.

“The enemy has demanded a full surrender, else the garrison, women, and children are to be put to the sword if the castle is to be taken.”

Doran reads aloud to his family in Dorne.

Oberyn’s eyebrows were raised. This letter has caught his attention.

Perhaps a trip to the North would give him the measure of this boy?

“I have answered the demands with a shot of a fire arrow and the execution of more Iron Born invaders. We shall never surrender. We shall never retreat.”

A group of fifty men can be seen riding from Deepwood Motte down towards Wintefell. A small force, all volunteers. However, with the wagons of food they scrounged for they intend to bring relief to Winterfell.

“Now, I call on you in the name of liberty, the honor you hold, and everything dear to the Westerosi Character to come to our aid with all haste.”

The knights of the vale rode out. A small force of 500 fielded. Many of their men with the King’s main host. However, their honor would not refuse a land in need.

“The enemy is receiving reinforcements every day, and will no doubt increase to four or five thousand within the sennight.”

The mountain clans of the North gathered themselves. They would go to Ned’s Children. They would protect their friends or die trying.

“If this call for help is neglected, I am determined to sustain myself and these men as long as the Gods will grant us, and die like a true Northman who never forgets what is due to his honor and that of his country.”

Even in the Westerlands and Stormlands, volunteers led by younger sons of lords gathered. Carrying with them swords, food, and all they could so as to help. So moved were they, that they would make the trek North.

“We will fight until the end.

     - Victory or Death.

Jon

Snow

Acting Commander of the Winterfell Garrison”

All across the kingdoms, volunteers marched towards Winterfell. Moved by their love for their country, the appeal to their honor, and the need to protect their fellow Westerosi.

This would be where they proved what Westerosi were made of. This would be where they were enshrined forever in the songs that would live on.

And so, they marched ever forwards towards the siege of Winterfell. The only words on their lips: “Victory or Death.”

Chapter Text

The Revolution of Westeros: How an Engineer Views Plebeians

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 13^th 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 and 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.

Chapter Text

The Revolution of Westeros: How an Engineer Views Plebeians

Rage, Rage Against the Inequities of this World

It had been an easy campaign until it wasn’t. Ned knew that the Iron Born were fated to lose, but that didn’t mean he took to the field of battle with any arrogance or anything other than strategies he had worked meticulously on. Caution paired with a resolve to end this foolish rebellion led him.

After the Northern host met with the royal fleet led by Stannis Baratheon, Lord Stark began to see their first battles of this war. It was on the sea, where their enemy was strongest, that they had their first loss.

“Archers, loose!” came the cry from the Greatjon.

His grizzled appearance clear at the front of the archer lines on the ship Ned was on. Their archers were making short work of the Iron Born on the enemy ships, but the Iron Born sailors were too fast, too elusive for the Royal Fleet to truly crush them. It was no surprise to Ned. The Iron Born were born to be on the sea. For them to have the upper hand on the open waters only made sense.

It was a battle of attrition. For every Iron Born that was felled, one to two of their own would be taken as well. It wasn’t like the Iron Born were using bows as powerful as the North, no, it was their ships that caused the damage. They rammed into the Royal Fleet, destroying ship after ship. Men had to jump off the boat, but having any type of armor on the open waters would prove to be their doom. The North, though largely in boiled rough leathers, had many a man drown. Ned wondered how the other armies faired, many of the men in other armies chose to forgo safety and still wear some plate armor to protect their vital areas. That would prove fatal for them.

They soon disengaged, and while it wasn’t a resounding victory for the Iron Born, Ned could tell this campaign would be harder than he thought.

It was several days later when the King’s army had their first success. The battle at Blacktyde proved that the Iron Born, though hardy people, couldn’t counter fighters when on land. For all their skill on the sea, it had little success on land.

The Northern archers easily pushed the Iron Born back. For every volley from the North, twenty to thirty would be killed. Their armor proved to fail time and again against the Northern army. It wasn’t long before the holding at Blacktyde was surrendered into Ned’s hands.

It was the first good news from this rebellion. The King, who was with the Northern host for the first inland battle, was overjoyed with their success. He spoke with Ned at length that night.

“Gods Ned!” Robert said with a massive grin splitting across his face. “Look at your Northmen, killing Iron Born left and right. Gutting them like the cowards they are!”

Ned wished he could share in his friend’s enthusiasm. He never liked war or killing. He just wished it would all end.

But for his King, he kept a small smile on his face, “aye, the Iron Born seem weaker than I ever remembered them. Mayhaps we’ll be done with one or two turns of the moon.”

The King let out a bark of laughter, “with the way your men fight, I think we might be done in two sennights!” He gave Ned a slightly puzzled look, “I keep hearing tells of the Iron Born armor failing after each shot from your archers. Have you any idea what caused such imperfections in their armor?”

“Perhaps they need better armorers?” Ned jested with a small grin. “Not much has changed with my archers, I only started asking them to use slightly stronger bows so that the men could be better trained in endurance. I know not what truly causes them to be felled so easily.” Ned said. Though, he did know why, but he wasn’t quite willing to give away Jon’s ideas so quickly.

That was something that weighed on him even now. When Jon first told him these fantastical things of him coming from another world, his first thought was that he was mad like his ancestors. He feared, still, that he was mad. But he had proved himself, to an extent.

The boy was arrogant, true, but he also could back up his words with results. As long as he continued to get results, he would support him. He would support Lya’s boy, even if it meant hiding some things from his friend.

That was another thing that had changed recently. After the first meeting with Robert, he seemed intent on rekindling their friendship that had dwindled from what Robert did at the height of the Rebellion. Ned still hadn’t forgiven him, but this was their start. It was a path forward for them.

Ned only wished it didn’t take the death of thousands for it to have happened.

Robert laughed aloud booming laugh, “Ha! That they do, Ned, that they do.”

They were interrupted when they heard a knock on the cabin’s door. A man came forward with a letter, he said it arrived from White Harbor. The King read the letter. He turned to Ned, his eyes full of quiet pity.

He told him the news. Ned gripped the table tightly. It was all he could do to not rage against the inequity of this world.

The Lords of the North were all gathered, at least, the Lords that were there. In fact, a representative of every House with the exception of House Bolton was present. It was understandable, Roose had recently lost a son. He couldn't, in good conscience, force him to the Iron Islands after he surely had to go through the grief of losing someone so important to both continuing his line and him personally.

It was Jorah Mormont and the Greatjon Umber that had the most visceral reactions to the letter. After it was read aloud, they demanded to return home to protect the North. It seemed even they were moved by Jon’s call for help. It was powerful, he couldn’t deny. It would pull at any man’s heart, he thought.

So, it was with great difficulty that he informed them of the King’s decision. The Northern army would stay. They would end the war as quickly as possible and return to Winterfell to liberate them if they had not already been liberated by then.

This didn’t sit well with the Northern Lords who hated even the thought of their own people being forced to live in fear. The thought of a child having to overcome such odds, Gods, even the Boltons, known for their evil acts, would have thought it cruel.

They each promised to themselves, they would take Pyke as soon as possible. From here the King’s host would split, and each army would begin hopping from island to island. This war would end, and then they could go home.

‘Home,’ Ned thought, ‘to Cat, Robb, Jon, Sansa, Arya, Bran, and my babe that I have not yet met.’

Yes, it was the sweet promise of home that gave Ned purpose. The faith that Jon (for Jon was much more than just a boy) would be able to overcome his struggles gave him hope. Things would have been much different, Ned realized, if Jon was not who he truly was.

It was then that Ned truly became thankful that the Gods saw fit to bring him into their lives. For better or worse, he was theirs, a Stark.

Robert sighed as he watched his friend leave the ship’s cabin. His face was ashen with worry, his shoulders slumped. He looked almost defeated.

He recalled the letter. Aye, he recalled it quite vividly. A boy able to scrounge up such emotions from him truly piqued his curiosity. He hoped, a bit childishly, that the boy was capable enough to give Euron Hell.

After all of this was over and the Gods were kind enough to keep Ned’s brood fully intact, he wanted to meet the boy. Perhaps he’d gift him something for his service, his passion for both his country and his people?

A sudden flash of thunder that accompanied the storm outside roused him from his musings. His mind quickly turned to something else. There was something quite suspicious with the Tyrells still not sending their full force to fight the Iron Islanders. Even if they went under the guise of protecting their own cities, he knew that they could spare plenty more men and ships.

He had no proof, but he had a suspicion from where the gold Euron used to buy sellswords came from. That said, even if he couldn’t prove it, their slow actions needed punishment after this war was over. Something clicked in his mind.

An idea had sparked, and it was just devious enough to be a slight to a great House and a reward to another all in one go. Oh yes, he hoped dearly that Jon Snow survived the coming battles and proved himself competent. The more his renown grew, the more he could gift the North.

He’d have the Reach dancing in the palm of Ned’s hand.

He awoke with a frown. The dream told him what was outside the walls before any servant or guard had told him. He knew. It was time for the real fight, soon.

The trained archers were the ones with the orders of lighting the barrels when the enemy had halfway scaled the first wall. While they could retreat to the second wall, Jon didn’t think it prudent. No, he would used the barrels to knock the ladders out from under the enemy while the gas incapacitated them. With luck, it would be strong enough to take their breath and knock them unconscious. If that was the case, then his men should have no issue surviving. Either way, he knew that what he planned would bring much death to either himself or the enemy. Likely both.

They numbered nearly 4,000. That was the last count Vargo Hoat had of the entire host. He thought, with some satisfaction, that this would be possible. They could win, have their gold, and take the women of the North for themselves. Any others left alive would be pressed into his service or sold to the masters of Slaver’s Bay. It was a chance for incredible profit. One he wouldn’t pass up.

So, when the sudden order to attack was given, he and his entire company advanced with the rest. They were to take the wall whether by siege engine, ladders, or by sheer numbers. Many would die, but they would have the castle.

It was going well. The men were climbing, volleys were being returned to the archers on the wall. The defenders, though, seemed more than happy to take ten of their enemies with them for each of the defenders that died. That was all and well. Even if they did that to the last man, Vargo would have his reward.

The key word to focus on is that it was going well. For when Vargo had arrived to the ladder that men were climbing up, he himself four to five feet off the ground, there was a loud and sudden bang. A strange rotten egg smell filled the air, fire scorched the ground. Everywhere he looked, men fell where they stood. His breath came in short gasps, and soon, he too fell to the ground.

The plan had worked perfectly, Jon saw with a strange mix of satisfaction and sadness. Even from here he saw how his enemies fell from the ladders all around the castle. The siege engines as well were stopped in their tracks, once again.

It wasn’t the small fire and explosion from the Hydrogen Sulfide that truly caused the destruction. It was the gas. The awful, rotten smelling gas. His enemies fell left and right.

The guards wanted to go down and kill them with the sword. Jon knew better. He refused them. If they went down there, they too would pass out from the toxic fumes.

Based on where it happened, he expected it to linger for a couple days. He had bought them some time, but that likely wouldn’t be enough. He needed another plan. Something to help them overcome the next wave. It wasn’t likely, though, that the Iron Born would come for some time. This gave him some respite.

“Continue to launch volleys at those that seem to be felled,” Jon said to a nearby commander. “I want an arrow in the heart or skull of every one of them. When the smell has lifted, we will go and behead each one. Keep the commoners away from the walls. Stay atop the walls until the enemy fully retreats back to their camp.”

The commander nodded and went to relay his orders.

Jon sighed. He had survived another battle through his knowledge. Was he doomed to add more and more to the warfare tactics of this world rather than progress society like he wished? He only hoped for this to end. He’d rather build up, not tear down.

As he looked at the destruction he had caused, the death that happened under his orders, he wanted to cry. He wanted to rage, scream, and demand that the world changed from its iniquitous ways. But he didn’t. How was it fair for such death and destruction to be necessary?

It wasn’t fair, he knew. But the hearts of men could be full of much evil. That, more than anything, told him that this world was no different from the old.

If that were the case, then he’d break the back of this evil. He’d beat back every enemy, and he would create a society where each person could find peace. Yes, that sounded quite inviting to Jon. He would love to live in such a nice world.

With one last look at all the dead both on the wall and down below, he turned away. He had much planning left to do.

After it was all said and done, they had counted more than 1,000 dead. Jon only lost 30 defenders, but even then that was too many for him. 370 could repel the enemy if necessary, but the Iron Born bolstered by sellswords by his last count still numbered nearly 2,700 men.

It had been one moon’s turn since that battle, the battle that gave him several new monikers. “The Trickster Wolf” some said, others were fond of “The Bloody Wolf,” and a few had even given him the name “The Weeping Wolf,” for when he looked at the destruction he had wrought, there were reports that he cried.

Still, there was no true sign of help. There was hope, but he couldn’t be sure that anyone was truly coming.

Euron still continued his daily pestering. The enemy’s forces were quickly whittled down from 3,000 to a more manageable 2,700. It seemed that the Iron Born were wary now of sieging Winterfell. The mere thought of them potentially being felled by the strange smell as their comrades were was enough to give Jon the time he needed to continue scheming.

Even so, he needed a breakthrough.

It was in the middle of the night, in the form of a wolf that he learned of the enemy’s next move. With the hearing of the wolf he was in, he could easily hear Euron’s blustering. He was angry. Angry at the garrison of Winterfell, angry because his plan was failing, angry at everyone.

His anger fueled him. He meant to continue to try to find weaknesses in the defenses for one more day, then they would turn their eyes south, towards Castle Cerwyn.

Jon drew in a breath, they meant to continue to raid the North now that they realized Winterfell couldn’t be taken. If they took castle Cerwyn, then they could continue on to wreak havoc in other parts of the North. That, Jon thought, may be worse than Winterfell being taken. So much innocent life would be lost. No, Jon knew he had to stop them. He just didn’t know how.

At least, he thought he didn’t. That all changed when he heard quite clearly in the wolf the sound of marching. Up north of Winterfell, there was an army. Who’s, he didn’t know. But he would find out.

So, he urged the pack to move north.

Heed the call, the Call of the Wild. Go North my wolf, go North.

It took all of Wendel Manderly’s cunning to figure out how to move his troops around the Iron Born’s without being found out. His first course of action was to not get close to Winterfell. It was an obvious move, but it still took constant vigilance to make sure they never wandered too close to where the Iron Born were camped. They moved oft under the cover of Darkness when not in the woods. After much time ahorse and through many days of the troops marching at a quick march, they had made their meeting with the mountain clans. Now, they would rest for the night before marching to Winterfell and lifting the siege.

He only hoped they were there in time.

His thoughts shifted, quickly, when he saw a wolf standing in their camp. In its mouth was a letter. Curious.

All it took was him seeing the Manderly colors for Jon to quickly realize their salvation had come. Even greater was the presence of the Mountain Clans. With them, they could win. His heart soared once more with hope.

Now, how to tell them to march south tomorrow and camp slightly away from the Iron Born so they could catch them unaware at night?

As a wolf next to him sneezed, he knew what needed to be done.

It was late at night, the moon light plentiful enough for Robb to see something most peculiar. His brother had gone out late at night to walk to the gate. He ordered them to open it slightly, and then a wolf trotted in. The men were frightened, reaching for their weapons, but Jon held his hand up to calm them.

He stepped forward, and the wolf seemed welcoming of him. He put his hand out, in it a letter. The wolf took it in its mouth. Then, it turned and left.

Robb swore he must’ve been seeing things. Surely, his brother didn’t just… just give a letter to a wolf?

He decided he would go to bed. There wasn’t much point dwelling on it. If Jon had something to tell him, then he would share it.

Best that they all got some rest.

It wasn’t the wolf that really intrigued Wyman. It was the letter. The wolf, for all of its interesting qualities (why was a wolf willing to stand in an encampment of thousands of men? How did it make it this far into the camp?) was only a harbinger. A harbinger of what Wendel didn’t quite know. But he knew it was more than coincidence that a wolf showed up as the Mountain Clans and the Manderly men came together with the rest of the Northern Houses that answered the call.

Even more peculiar when the wolf trotted over to him, dropped the scroll, and waited. Keeping his eyes on the wolf (though he felt no fear. His archers or men near him could easily kill the beast before it had a chance to truly harm him) he bent down and grabbed the piece of parchment. Upon opening it, he felt his eyes go wide.

Directions, orders, from the boy Jon Snow. It was… astounding. Did he tame a wolf so greatly that it could be his courier?

One thing was clear, they knew where to go. They would kill these Iron Born scum.

“He is a warg,” Hugo Wull said with full confidence. “Of this, I am certain.”

It took Wendel some time to understand the term, but after he understood he found himself in awe of the boy Jon Snow. That he could do such fantastical things, he knew the boy had a good future. That he used it for the North only gave Wendel more hope for the North’s future.

If the boy were to march with any army, having a scout in the skins of animals would be incredibly beneficial. However, it would be less helpful if everyone knew.

No, he would keep this secret. So, he vowed to not speak of it. He asked The Wull to also hold the same oath. He looked at Wendel with a curious look. “Southerners not like wargs much. Best if none know The Ned has a warg for a son.”

That was good enough for Wendel. So, he decided to turn in for the night. Tomorrow, they would march towards Winterfell. That night they would take the Iron Born by surprise and kill as many as they could.

Margaery was close to manic with worry. Ever since she heard of what Sansa was facing from her brother’s letter, she couldn’t rest. The fact that her family played a part in all this chaos and death gave her both guilt and anger. Her father was to blame. The Iron Born would most definitely not have had the gold to hire sellswords if not for their family.

She could only hope that Jon and Sansa won, and that their family was not found out. Her grandmother, Margaery knew, would do her best to take care of that. However, she doubted that her family’s actions would go fully unnoticed. She only feared what the punishment would be for this folly.

Would this keep her from the path she had in her old life? She didn’t know. If it did, though, if she were used as a bargaining chip or some hostage to satiate the cry for justice that would inevitably come, she wondered if she would even care.

For so long she had wanted to be queen, but she had been queen. It had killed her. Is that what she wanted? No, if not being queen kept her away from the unnatural green of wildfire she’d gladly never touch a crown again.

She could help the realm in her own way, be benevolent in her own way. She would figure it out. She felt lost, but one day she’d find her way.

But that day wasn’t today. Today, she would talk to her father. She would tell him just why his actions had doomed them.

“Father,” Margaery’s sweet voice carried into Mace’s ears as she poked her head into his solar. His mother, Olenna, was sitting in a corner of the room. It seemed as if she were about to dress him down once more, but his daughter, always his savior, seemed to come to the rescue.

“My sweet rose, please dear, tell me what troubles you,” Mace said as a smile bloomed across his face.

It died quite quickly when he saw the scowl his daughter had aimed at him.

“You’ve made a major mistake, father,” Margaery began as her voice started low but began to increase in fervor as she spoke. “Please tell me, father” the way she said father dripped in venom reminded him much of how Olenna spoke to him. He could tell his mother enjoyed this by the slight smirk she wore on her face. “that the Iron Born do not have the gold to buy sellswords because of us.” His daughter finished, her voice at the end going to a silent whisper.

He said nothing. What was there to say? He thought he saw an opportunity. What was a little gold to a Tyrell? How was he to know his actions would lead to something so dangerous. It seemed a good plan at the time.

Every plan is shattered at the first encounter with the enemy, Mace. Especially your plans.

“My dear…” he began. Her glare stopped him.

There was a pause in their conversation. He said nothing as he looked from her to the ground. It was all he could do hide his shame.

Margaery sighed, “father, the Starks are considered to be good people.” She began using a tone as if she were speaking to a toddler or someone who was simple minded. “Do you know how terrible it would be for our House, our reputation, if people were to learn that they were only in danger because of us?”

He had thought of that. It was all he could think about since that damn letter was sent to every major House in Westeros. It seemed even a bastard of the Starks could be loved by the people.

“Then there is the letter,” Margaery spoke as if reading his thoughts. “If people were to learn that children were fighting battles only because the Tyrells had some sort of pact with the Iron Born, father, we’d be ruined.”

Margaery took a breath. She looked at the floor, and gathered her thoughts. Then, she looked at her father once more.

“Father, if any of the Starks were to die, do you have any inclination as to what the King would do to our family?”

A pang of fear went through Mace. No, no he couldn’t let that happen. If such a thing were to come to pass… it would be the end of them.

“But what am I to do?” Mace mumbled. “The deed is done.”
At this Margaery looked to her grandmother.

Olenna, ever the schemer, had a plan.

“I’ll tell you what needs to be done, Mace,” Olenna said, her words full of commanding force.

“You kill the Greyjoy brothers, and you destroy any of our records so that this will not fall on us. Send our men to join the King, and ask for them to be put at the forefront. Kill Balon Greyjoy, and we must also move to kill Euron. An assassin, if we must. Then, we send men North. By the time they arrive, the fighting will likely be over. However, that is not why we should send them. We send them to help rebuild. Show the North that the Reach is on their side.” Olenna looked content with that plan. Mace seemed to ponder it.

Margaery had her own thoughts.

“Grandmama,” Margaery began in her sweet voice. She would need to play up her sweetness if she were to get what she wanted. “Since it shall be safe at that time, what say you to sending some of us North as well? Surely, seeing Tyrells in the North would show them that the Reach is willing to help in ways that few Houses would.”
To Mace’s horror, Olenna seemed to think it a good idea. He would have objected his daughter going to that barbaric land, but he knew that when his grandmother had a certain idea it would not be let go of.

“A beautiful idea my sweet girl, sending you and your brothers North with a large escort to help rebuild what was torn down would certainly help to soothe any ill will the North may have for the Reach if any rumors were to come out about our dealings,” Olenna said smiling at her granddaughter’s idea.

Margaery held back her triumphant smile. She would get to see the North, something she had never truly done before. She would also see her friend Sansa once more.

New things for a new life, yes, Margaery was happy that some things had changed.

Maybe being in a cold place would drive away the feeling of incredible, unnatural heat that had plagued her for so long.

She could only hope.

Jon moved quickly that day. He knew another skirmish would be had at the walls, but he was more interested in speaking with the garrison. The wall and those that manned it would keep the enemy out.

He moved quickly to the commanders that surrounded one of the tables in the barracks. It was still unsettling the way they looked at him in awe, the way they deferred to him. Unsettling, but it was helpful.

He wasted no time, “tell the men,” Jon began, “to be ready tonight. Every man to their horse, their sword in their hand and a bow strapped to them as well. I have received word that the Manderlys, Mountain Clans, and other minor Houses of the North march just outside the view of Winterfell. Tonight, the Iron Born will be in their tents fast asleep. When the screams begin, we will ride out and wipe out the last of the Iron Born.”

The men had become accustomed to his strange way of getting word from sources he shouldn’t have. It would have been troubling if he wasn’t right nearly every single time. So, they didn’t think much about it and instead spread the word.

Tonight, there would be rivers of blood.

It had happened suddenly and without warning. Euron was asleep one second, and then the next he was awake with his sword in his hand. His men were being slaughtered left and right. A retreat, he knew, was what they needed.

He tried to get the men together and form them into some semblance of order. He was largely unsuccessful. Men were being felled left and right. If it wasn’t swords, then it was arrows when they tried to run.

He heard a loud sound, all at once. A loud howl. Wolves, many of them. They had taken to the field, and they were chasing down his men as they ran away.

He also heard something else. A voice. The voice of a boy.

“The Old Gods! They are with us!” a dark-haired boy on horseback said as he chased down one of his men and stabbed him with a dagger through the neck.

Chaos, Euron saw, chaos that he knew he needed to escape from. So, he grabbed a horse, threw off the Iron born that was on it and rode away as fast as he could.

Pandemonium, Jon knew, was a dangerous thing. The utter chaos that occurred as soon as the Northern Army led by Wendel Manderly and Hugo Wull descended on the Iron Born was disorienting and intoxicating all at once. For every Northman that died, 10 Iron Born fell. It was a slaughter. So surprised were the Iron Born that they were largely unarmored and unarmed.

It was him that brought the pack here. He had warged into the alpha, the wolf he typically dreamt with, and led them to the Iron Born camp. It was calculated. Now that Jon had victory in his hands, he had an idea as to how he could increase the solidarity of the North at large. The lesser being of their House animal (for a direwolf was truly their animal) attacking with them would make them think the Starks were favored by the Gods. With the help of nature, he’d build upon the legend of their House in this current era.

Whether there was magic in his family’s blood or not, Jon would make the realm believe that the Starks were, essentially, demigods amongst men. Favored by the Gods, and loved by nature. If he were to succeed, then the realm at large would think twice about ever attacking his family again. After all, what would the Gods do to them if they saw fit to set a larger than normal wolf pack on their enemies? No, if they were favored by the Gods then let their House continue in peace. Why would they go against them and bring a curse onto their own House?

So, with a heavy intake of breath, Jon shouted as loud as he could, “The Old Gods! They are with us!” As soon as the words left his mouth, the wolf pack descended on the Iron Born. Many of the wolves died, but they had served their purpose. Jon felt a sense of pity for them, but the wolves helping him would go a long way to helping his House secure their peace and prosperity.

Jon continued to fight. Not closely with any Iron Born that could potentially kill him, but he would act along with the rest of the horse riders and chase down those that tried to run away.

After he stuck his dagger in one of the fleeing Iron Born, he saw, to his left, Euron Greyjoy throw a man to the ground and take his horse. He meant to flee.

Warging into one of the wolves for just a moment, he sent the signal to the Alpha for the pack to chase after him.

And so they did.

Euron continued to flee, but a pack of  40 wolves were on his tail. He wouldn’t survive the night.

He hadn’t been riding long before he heard it behind him. Wolves, many of them. He looked back and his heart beat faster. A whole pack, it seemed, was after him. Was this his punishment? Was House Stark so loved by their Gods that they would protect them even when he had done all he had done for his Drowned God and never got anything in return?

He turned forward, he had to keep going. It wasn’t long, though, before his horse began to falter. He took his sword and stabbed the horse in the hind. He forced it forward. Either he outran the pack or he died. He did not want to die today.

Shortly after he had stabbed his horse, it gave out beneath him. He heard no wolves.

He thought he was safe for a moment. He closed his eyes and found a short, peaceful rest.

When he opened them, he saw the eyes of a wolf baring down on him.

Euron tried to grab his sword, tried to grab anything, but the wolf was faster. Much faster.

His throat was ripped out.

Euron died as he lived his life. Worthlessly, and without purpose.

They had won, Jon realized, as the wolves returned dragging the corpse of Euron Greyjoy.

They had the resounding victory he had dreamt of, the resounding victory he was chasing.

The first words he remembered after his realization came from Hugo Wull.

“Don’t cry boy, we have won,” The Wull said to him with slight confusion in his voice.

Jon touched his cheeks. He didn’t even… When did he begin to cry? All he could feel was relief. Relief that the nightmare had passed, relief that he was successful, relief that his siblings were safe, and relief that no more men would have to die from his orders anymore.

He dried his tears and turned to the remaining men from the garrison.

“Gather the dead. Give ours a proper burial.” His eyes took on a dark glint, “every Iron Born and sellsword, I want their heads on spikes all around Winterfell’s walls. When that has been done, create a path of skulls for each of the gates. Let it be known from the sands of Dorne to the Wall, if any try to take Winterfell, they forfeit their life.” Jon gave his orders with steel in his tone. The men nodded, and with that Jon’s shoulders slumped. He was tired, so very tired. Finally, he could rest easy.

A few days later, the Vale knights and many other volunteers arrived to see skulls on spikes lining the roads and the Stark banners still hanging from the walls. The Iron Born nowhere in sight.

They resolved themselves, then, to rebuild. If they could not fight, then they would help where they could. Victory had come for House Stark, but death had also come for many. So, these volunteers purposed to stay and help. The young Lords wanted to meet this Jon Snow, while the rest simply made themselves content with the fact that there was still work to be done. They had not, in fact, missed out on the glory.

It was a different type of glory they now sought.

So, the world would know of the Weeping Wolf, the Trickster Wolf, and the Bloody Wolf. All one boy, one man, so complex yet so simple in his purpose. A boy who’s only wish was to protect his family.

And protect them he did.