Waves of Blood

Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF; that honour goes to GRRM.

Edited by: Himura and R. Yorkshireman; B. Reader: Bub3loka

I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.

***

Second Half of the 8th Moon, 299 AC

Victarion Greyjoy, Outside Deepwood Motte

"So my last son is dead," Balon noted, his impassive face darkening as he listened to Meldred Merlyn's blubbering explanation. "And you fled from the battle despite having the numbers."

"They had an army of wolves and giants, behemoths that were all teeth and fur," Meldred whimpered, head bowed all the way to the ground. Victarion never considered the Merlyn lord to be a great warrior, but he didn't think him such a craven either. The usually boastful man was reduced to a quivering mess, looking over his shoulder constantly. "Andrik the Unsmiling died in the hills, and Dagmer Cletjaw was made into a pincushion with arrows by some old hillsman from Stonegate Keep. Prince Theon lo-lost his head in a duel against that Stark bastard in mere heartbeats, a-and I thought we needed to inform you of this new foe, my k-king."

"And I'm now informed," his royal brother uttered stonily. "But Meldred, I sent you to serve by my son's side. When he perished, you should have died beside him in battle, trying to retrieve his bones. Any one of your trusted guards or captains could have been sent to deliver me such important news."

"M-Mercy-"

Victarion snorted. "The Drowned God has no love for cravens; the weak and the cowardly will never feast in his watery halls."

"You speak wisely, brother." Balon's dark eyes had no mercy in them. He stood up, lunging forth and grabbing Meldred by his tangled mess of hair. "But I'm a merciful man. I'll let the Drowned God give you a chance of redemption."

The snivelling plump lord was dragged to the beach, and the King of Salt and Rock's personal guard, the Golden Krakens, the finest warriors the Iron Isles had to offer personally chosen by Balon himself, dragged the Merlyn lord's men after their liege. The reavers of the Iron Fleet and the rest of the captains serving under Balon watched on with amused approval from the piers and docks that his brother had ordered to be built.

Meldred Merlyn found his strength then, kicking and screaming, but it was in vain, for his brother's grip was stronger than iron. He was quickly silenced as Balon shoved his head under the dark waves. His men suffered the same fate. A handful of minutes later, his brother let go, letting the lifeless body float to the waves, and many more followed, carried by the stormy waves. 

"The Drowned God has no love for cravens and deserters," Balon's bellow echoed across the beach, his words reaching thousands of Ironmen watching. "And neither does House Greyjoy. When have we ever shied away from a fight?"

"Never!" Victarion roared, raising his axe in the air.

Swords and axes and spears were drawn, and they echoed him banging on their shields. 

"Never!"

"Never!"

"GREYJOY!"

"Fight!"

While Balon looked unfazed by the death of his last son, Victarion knew his brother mourned in his own way. But with his last nephew dead, the line of succession for the Iron Islands was in dispute. Balon did not care to take more salt wives and make more sons, and Alannys was long past her child-bearing years, which meant the next in line would be Euron. The mere thought made Victarion angry, remembering his wife's end. If kinslaying was not a sin, it would be his older brother dead with his neck wrung, not Elayn, who had lain with him.

A part of Victarion wondered if Euron was even still alive. The last time word had arrived of the Crow's Eye, he had been sailing around the far east into the Shadow. Euron was mad, but even the mad did not survive for long in Asshai, it was known. Victarion didn't expect to see his cruel fool of a brother and his mocking smile ever again. 

But even if he did, he wouldn't hesitate to offend the gods if he laid a hand on Alyna. His fierce lover was already with child, and for the first time in his life, Victarion found himself feeling… fear. No, not fear, for a true warrior knew no fear but perhaps worry for her safety and his unborn child.

The following day, Balon sent Ralf Kenning, accompanied by two score men–half of whom were from his personal guard–to retrieve Asha from Torrhen's Square at all cost.

"Some of the lords and captains are displeased with me," Balon scoffed when the two brothers gathered to break their fast together. "They don't dare speak openly, but they whisper. And the whispers say we're losing too many men trying to play Greenlanders and take castles. They're even rearing to attack Redwyne and return to the Iron Isles for the coming winter."

The table was laden with hearty fare, venison roasted to a dark golden hue, peppered with spices taken from the Mormont's castle, and herbs foraged from the Wolfswood. There was also the choicest bounty from the northern rivers, such as a gleaming salmon the size of man's forearm, silvery scales glistening with fat, which was cooked in a clay oven just enough so its flesh flaked at the touch of a knife. 

"Asha is a Redwyne now," Victarion reminded, skipping the dishes of turnips and leek and cabbage and taking a generous serving of meat as any warrior should. "Wedded and bedded."

"For now," his brother smiled coldly. "What do Ironmen care about the stone statues of the Greenlanders and their weak gods? Even Aeron will tell you such a shaky union can be unmade as easily as it was made."

"So, Asha shall be your heir now?" A part of Victarion disliked the idea, for women weren't meant to lead–or to fight. Asha was fierce and capable, but there were many other men who were fiercer in battle and more capable of command than she was. But his brother's word was law. 

"I don't plan to die anytime soon," was the stony response before his brother's face cracked. "But I want my last child back!"

"As is your right, brother," Victarion agreed; he himself did not have any children that he knew of, at least no trueborn, but he sympathised with his brother's plight–he had lost all his children but one. Then, his mind wandered to his salt wife and their unborn child, and Victarion felt even more sympathy towards his brother. "But perhaps… perhaps we ought to consider turning back to the Iron Isles after Asha is retrieved? The days are growing short, and winter is coming. The Northern wind grows colder with each day, the chill cutting through layers of fur and wool and leather, and the snows are soon to follow. Leave some hardy men to garrison Bear Island, Sea Dragon Point, and Flint's Fingers, and we can return again in the spring once the Hightower and the wolves have exhausted each other."

"You speak true, but my men would not see it this way," Balon's hands balled into fists. "The Stark bastard is coming with merely four thousand men, and the Ironmen would lose heart if we flee from a foe we outnumber two to one. I would be forever the craven who ran away from a foe half numerous than me. Worse, it would give Winterfell time to regroup and deal with the Hightower. No, we need to deal with the Wolves now, and this is the best time to draw that craven Glover out of his walls."

He downed his horn full of Arbour Gold–the last of the Flower King's gifts, and his face grew savage.

"Besides, how can I leave when faced with two of the men I want to kill the most? Galbart Glover hides behind his walls after killing my Maron, and this Jon Snow struts around his forests and hills after slaying Theon? What father would I be if I turned my tail and ran? Can I even call myself a king when both of my sons' killers roam around, enjoying themselves under my nose?!" 

Of course, his brother spoke with unmatched wisdom. 

"But would Stark's bastard be willing to face us while so outnumbered?"

"Perhaps he will, perhaps he won't. Regardless, he has no choice but to come or else risk a dagger to his back if he foolishly goes after Hightower first. He will come, and that's all that matters."

Victarion wasn't a bright or cunning man by any means. Books, numbers, and sums had made his head spin ever since he was a child, and he never bothered with such things. But he had a talent for seafaring and violence. Even when he was a mere seven-year-old lad, he knew there was something beautiful in the simple shape of a reaver's ax or a sword, tools purely created to reap lives. He struggled with words and nebulous things like politics and trade, but his mind was a sharp blade when it came to personal combat and warfare.

As he predicted, the Stark bastard didn't rush to attack them.

He started attacking their foraging parties across the shore and deep into the wolfswood. Each time Victarion sallied out to deal with them in greater numbers or set up a trap, they melted into the vast woodland as though they were never there. Entering the treeline had become even more perilous, as it seemed that even the trees had eyes and could rain arrows from above. Victarion hated it. 

Worse were the wolves that howled each night, not allowing Victarion and many others even a wink of sleep. Things became dangerous, and he sent off Alyna with one of his ships back to the safety of Pyke. 

"It's as if the damned beasts are in league with the wolf bastard," some said, and Victarion even found himself agreeing the longer the howls continued.

Many men's eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, and if things continued this way, they would be too tired to fight if a battle broke out. Food wasn't a problem, even if they couldn't go deeper into the wolfswood to hunt. A wooden skeleton of a port was built, but it was enough to start things; many fishing boats arrived every day with their bounty. The Northmen dared not come to the open near the docks, preferring to remain in the safety of the woods and hills. But the long, sleepless nights and the incessant cacophony of howls were turning into their undoing.

But a solution was eventually found. Heavy hats lined with layers of linen and fur on the inside covered the ears and could be bound tighter with strings during the night to seal away most of the sound, or little pinkie-sized wood chips lined with cotton were plugged in the ears to reduce the noise. But there was a downside to it.

It muffled all noise, and so men were slow to respond to the call to arms when the night attacks began in force.

It did not take long for the Northmen to begin aggressively attacking during the night. Once again, like pesky flies, they stung, killing a few sentries or even going deeper towards the edges of the camp and setting a handful of tents on fire. Yet tens of Ironmen died each night because most of the men were too deep asleep and couldn't hear much with their hearing sealed tight to avoid the howls of the wolves. Many of the Ironmen sipped on mead and wine to keep themselves warm during the night, scrambling their wits too much to quickly rise and fight in the darkness.

Balon had men construct a third palisade using all the logs they had been logging since they started the siege. It didn't help that the thralls rebelled, many of them fleeing towards the wolfswood, disappearing into the tree line, and Balon ordered those who failed to escape flogged and sent to Bear Isle to work in the mines and sawmills. Alas, this meant the Ironmen had to dig more ditches, plant stakes, and do other grunt work to keep them busy, if nothing else. Many grumbled about doing 'thrall work' but followed their orders. 

The night attacks lessened, but the ones that persisted were still an annoyance. Thrice, Victarion marched out with two thousand men to try and bait Jon Snow into battle, but he was met only by woodsmen harassing him and trying to draw him further into the forest.

Then the giants appeared–enormous beasts twice as tall as Victarion, all fur and teeth, slinging enormous pieces of rock and wooden stumps at the palisade like mobile mangonels. Little by little, the palisade was being broken or dislodged out of the cold ground, and many men were smashed to death by the tumbling projectiles or, worse, skewered by the flying splinters. 

The scouts who sailed up along the coast brought news of literal mountains of skulls piled across the shores, crowned by either a Greyjoy or Drumm banner mounted onto a spear. A brutish, savage warning that even the biggest fool could understand. Many of the Ironmen dismissed the tale, but Victarion could see that their courage had begun to waver. 

"If things continue like this, the Stark bastard will grind us to dust little by little," his brother noted, his dark eyes simmering with anger. "The hillmen and forest dwellers come and go like a sea breeze in the night. I did not expect such cunning from the Quiet Wolf's get, but I should have known that wolves are cunning creatures by nature. How many men have we lost so far?"

"Over four hundred, with many more wounded," Victarion grumbled. "The captains are unhappy, cursing the craven Northmen in the same breath as us."

"I have a plan that will draw out the Stark bastard for good," Balon noted. "I'll send the wounded to Sea Dragon Point and Bear Island. A third of the warriors shall leave."

The Iron Captain scratched his head.

"Leaving us with…." he counted on his fingers, "less than six thousand? But wouldn't that leave our position vulnerable?"

"Enough to invite a direct attack, while in truth, many of the captains will be sailing in nearby waters, ready to strike from behind." Balon's smile turned vicious. "Oh, it shall be bloody, of that there's no mistake–but no Ironman has ever feared a good battle. I am tired of this game of cat and mouse. In the end, we cannot beat the Greenlanders at their own games, and I know how Snow lured Theon to his death. I have a task for you, brother." 

"Anything."

Balon's face turned solemn, and he clasped a gloved hand on Victarion's shoulder.

"First," his voice was reduced to a whisper so quiet the Iron Captain had to lean over and strain his ears to hear. "We will send a messenger to Weaver, Volmark, and Wynch from Sea Dragon Point; they have over a thousand fresh warriors and just as many men healed from previous battles. I want half of the garrison in Bear Isle transferred here, putting us over eleven thousand."

"This is everything the Iron Isles has left to offer bar the meagre garrisons back home," Vicatrion grumbled. 

"Fortune favours the bold, brother! Might as well smash Glover for good instead of risking an indecisive battle. Timing is of the essence. Here's what you'll do…"

***

25th Day of the 8th Moon, 299 AC

Val

The afternoon had turned cloudy, and a cold wind wafted from the north. It was a familiar chill, if not of the sort that the Cold Ones brought with their presence. 'It will snow soon,' she mused, 'perhaps within a moon's cycle.' 

Battles were fought differently here in the South. The kneelers and the hillsmen and the reavers all used ambushes and raids, but theirs were far more devastating than anything she could have imagined. And those terrible clashes where thousands of men lined up next to each other and clashed in a deadly game of pushing and prodding made personal skill and heroics meagre. And the chase once one of the lines broke was gruesome and bloody–on a scale she had never seen before.

It was one thing to slay an endless tide of shambling wights, many of which were beasts, children, greybeards, and crones, but to see thousands of living, breathing men fall in the span of a few hours was chilling. After that battle, when the Squid Prince was killed, and Jon had the hill of skulls piled up into a sinister monument of his victory, nobody thought kneelers and southrons were weak or soft anymore. Her husband had been the one to chop off many of the heads, too, not shying away from the bloody work.

Now, she saw a different side of warfare. More kneelers came out of the wolfswood to join Jon, forest clans, the Northmen called them. Bole and Forrester, Branch and Woods, all bowmen and axemen, burly, with shaggy beards to protect from the cold and not afraid of any fight.

Jon chipped away at the enemy slowly and carefully but never faced them directly, in the manner used when hunting a herd of wild mammoths.

Yet the so-called reavers had made a double wall around the kneeler's new castle, shaped like a double ring of wood and ditches, defending both from attack from within and without. Apparently, there had been another one with the same name before, but deeper into the forest instead of overlooking the shore from a hill. This new one was the hope for the Glover chieftain to build a big pier or something as if he couldn't build one before. Jon had explained to her that the old castle was too far away to protect such a pier, but to Val, it did not make sense why one would want to build a home on the freezing bay instead of the rich and warm woods.

"The Ironmen have finally sallied out of their camp and are storming Deepwood Motte," Deer noted, her large, dappled ears twitching as if trying to hear the battle from afar. Even now, the shy singer was uneasy under the gaze of all the Clansmen and Chieftains, shrinking in her golden leaf cloak and trying to hide behind Ghost's shaggy tail. Which wasn't too hard, considering his tail was the same size as her entire body. 

"We should strike now!" Osric Wull bellowed, already stringing his weirwood longbow. His armour was light, with layers of hardened linen and leather, with scales sewn on top. Val had said the ancient greybeard lacked the stamina to carry a hauberk for a long time. "Crush the damn reavers for good and throw them back into the sea!"

"Calm down, Uncle," the burly Edwyn urged, his hands as big as hams barely holding back the eager greybeard. "Things aren't so simple."

"It's a trap," Jon noted coldly. "Assaulting after sending off three thousand men at sea means Greyjoy wants to draw us into a pitched battle. He will try to land a second force to flank us. I would bet his assault on Deepwood Motte is just testing and prodding Glover. Did he send out ladders and battering rams?"

"No," Deer muttered as she tried to fight off one of the direwolves trying to lick her face. But her hands were small, and the direwolf was big. "They've just left their wooden walls and are using makeshift wooden bridges to send men over the moat to try the gate with shields and axes."

Duncan spat. "If we had heavy lancers, we would have crushed them long ago." 

"We have two hundred horsemen," Sigorn snorted. "Have your wits grown soft?"

"Aye, and only fifty of them are lancers on warhorses; the rest are mounted footmen on beasts of burden." Jon intervened. "It takes time and training both for beast and man to become proper cavalry. Besides, it's not like the lancers can charge their way through the palisade."

"So what will we do?" The Old Burley was visibly unhappy, but Val had never seen the old kneeler chieftain smile. "Wait them out and strike at night again until winter comes?"

"Nay," Jon smiled. "We cannot afford to linger here forever. Even if Greyjoy plans to have three or four thousand reavers strike us in the back, it takes time for boats to land ashore and for men to disembark and form a line. They're going to be tired from rowing, and we will see them coming. Balon Greyjoy has no way of knowing that we can see his movements and hear most of his plans. The timing from the attack to their arrival also has to be masterful. If they strike before we've committed, we can retreat, and if they come too late, they will not be striking our backs but facing us alone. It's a gamble, in truth. Balon wants to draw us onto the field, even at the risk of losing."

"He doesn't have much of a choice," Melisandre noted, amusement dripping from her words. "Uneasy sits the crown on the man who keeps losing battles. You slew his son, and if I recall, Lord Glover killed another a decade prior. If he retreats before a force half the size of his army, his own vassals will question his ability to lead."

"So, we'll just… retreat for another night raid and attack his walls with giant slingers again, then?"

Jon Snow's face darkened.

"We won't get a better chance to break the Ironmen than here and now. If they flee back to their barren Isles, we will never be able to dislodge them without a big army. In the end, gambles work both ways, and fortune favours the bold. If Balon Greyjoy wants to fight me, who am I to deny him?"

"FIGHT!" Osric roared, and many echoed him.

"It will be bloody," Jon warned, his voice thickening. "Even with all of the wolves of the Wolfswood under my sway, it will be long and bloody. Balon and Victarion Greyjoy have the best of the Iron Isles with them, clad with steel from head to toe, not some rabble that would break down as soon as things get tough; expect them to fight to the death. They ought to have about nine thousand to our four thousand. Glover should have at least fifteen hundred men behind his walls, but we don't know their condition, and a part of them are just regular levies. I need the count of the greybeards who seek an honourable death in battle."

"There's no death sweeter than in battle!" Osric roared, raising his axe, and many of the greybeards joined him in the clamour. 

After another half an hour, Jon had given orders to everyone, and the cheer was gone from the men's faces, replaced by solemn grimness.

"Say your prayers, and get ready." Jon stood as still as a statue as Rickon helped him don all the armour. "Many of us shall meet our ancestors by the next dawn. This shall be a day of death and slaughter."

They had left two hundred of the most heavily wounded garrisoned into the Stonegate Keep, and another seven hundred of the best huntsmen and foresters were sent to harass Hightower from the wolfswood when he heard Deer report Winterfell was under siege. 

Jon confided to her that he was tempted to have his wolves join them, yet they would not be useful out in the open against such vast numbers, and his control over such long distances weakened significantly unless he either had Ghost leading them or purposefully dived into their minds–which is not a connection he wanted to foster. It made his thoughts sluggish, and the backlash upon each death was significant. Besides, Val knew her husband; he probably intended to use the wolves to pincer the Ironmen, and Ghost rarely let Calla out of sight for more than a few hours. 

Even Val, despite being pregnant, insisted on leading a host of archers and woodsmen to pepper the Ironmen from the southwest, for they needed every set of hands against a foe that outnumbered them heavily. And a retinue of a dozen direwolves. It was a relatively safe position that allowed her to retreat into the vast woodland if the need arose. Everyone was out to fight, aside from the mewling Desmera Redwyne, her priest-women garbed in white, Leaf and two singers who took care of Calla and Rickon–all guarded by a small pack of direwolves up the hills. 

A giant blew a mammoth's horn, it's deep rumble heralding the start of the battle.

***

26th Day of the 8th moon, 299 AC

Val had never felt so tired in her life. Her back ached, her hands were numb, her leather gloves had torn apart, and all of her fingers were bloody from pulling the strings which had snapped in the middle of the night. A part of her regretted not taking the brand-new pair of leather gloves at Stonegate Keep just because they didn't have dye to whiten them. The current pair was a gift from her sister, even if it had been worn down from use…

Her whole body was drenched, both from sweat and the cold of the rain that seeped through her tunic and cloak. Worse, she needed to relieve herself badly; her bladder felt as if it were about to burst, but she couldn't retreat until her quivers were all emptied.

The idea of having a near-endless supply of arrows courtesy of the clansmen and the woodsmen who had spent the last moons fletching and making arrows had been appealing, but now she was cursing the runners who kept bringing more and more. It felt like she must have loosed over a thousand arrows alone, yet to limited success; those Ironmen truly were made from iron, from head to toe, she could barely find a weak point not tightly guarded by their round shields or metal garb.

The giants throwing and slinging trees and stones and stumps at the enemy camp forced them to abandon their defensive positions and sally out to give battle.

Jon had opened the fighting by hurling an ice sword like a javelin, targeting a man wearing fancy kneeler armour emblazoned with a black leviathan, piercing his shield and impaling his armoured torso. It had set the tone for the battle, no matter how hardened those Ironmen seemed. The shock of seeing their chieftain killed in such a manner had left them open to the surging wave of clansmen. 

The fighting was the bloodiest mess Val had ever seen, even more so when Ghost used his enormous form to barrel like a battering ram into the Ironmen from the side with a wave of direwolves, causing their ranks to falter. But it was not without a cost; Val saw four of the direwolves fall, and the Ironborn archers started targeting the enormous direwolf, foregoing everything else. It was unfortunate that the archers were too far away from her, or else Val would have had an easy time targeting the lightly armoured foemen. Yet, Ghost and his direwolves continued to wheel around and lunge whenever Jon's men were overwhelmed by the sheer number of steel-clad Ironmen. 

In about two hours of bloody push and pull, the reavers were driven back towards their camp after three hours of fighting; the enemies were clearly tired from the lack of sleep that the wolves had cursed them with. Then, Jon had the men halt and ordered the giants to start peppering the palisades with their enormous slings, killing scores of Ironborn. But it still allowed the Ironmen much-needed rest. 

Half an hour later, more reavers and their boats were sighted approaching the shores, just as Jon expected. Their numbers looked significantly greater than expected, but it took time for them to land, giving Jon time to split his lines in two and signalled for Glover to attack the far side of the palisade. 

The Squid King's men were galvanised, shouting and clamouring at the sight of their allies…but the fresh reinforcements took too long to form into lines and had barely begun their march before the Burley chieftain and his one thousand greybeards met them, supported by four giants.

Still, the Ironmen finally sallied out of their camp, ready to give battle again.

Val lost count of how many times she thought the day was lost and that they would flee, but Jon kept encouraging the men whenever they wavered with roaring and battle cries.

Her husband had hundreds of frenzied wolves rush out of the wolfswood into the enemy reinforcement's backlines, taking them by surprise just as the greybeards struck. For a moment, Val thought the Ironmen would succumb to the pincer attack, only for a half-giant of a warrior, wearing a squid-like helmet and a fluttering cape threaded with gold into the shape of a kraken, to rally his rear into a disciplined formation of spears and shields. The shield wall looked more like a turtle that had retracted its limbs, and the wolves' assault was akin to waves of fur trying to break a wall of steel. The wolves were easily slaughtered by spears, javelins, and axes. Nevertheless, the beasts had provided enough of a distraction for the outnumbered greybeards to crash into the shield wall and turn that section of the battle into a brutal melee. 

Waves of men and steel crashed upon each other like a deadly storm of death, again and again, with no victor in sight. Sometimes, one side pulled away to take a breath and regroup, trying to fan out or gather strength from a failed decisive push. Streams of men constantly tried to go around and hit the enemy from the side or push to envelop and overwhelm the other. Val and bands of skirmishers like hers thwarted such attempts from the south, while Ghost and his direwolves constantly prowled between both battle lines to prevent similar attempts. Having learned a bitter lesson from his first mad lunge, he and his pack used their mobility to attack from the side or the back, never the front. 

Over by the palisades, Sigorn had five hundred men tasked with assaulting the Greyjoy camp from the far end but met with fierce resistance. The men in the stone castle had also sallied out, judging by the sound of fighting from the far side of the palisade, but neither side buckled. Then, night came, and with it, Val and her archers were forced to rely on the Earth Singers to spot where the enemy was; their ability to see at dark proved crucial as the overcast skies hid the light of the moon while the Ironmen archers proved useless at night. 

Still, casualties had been sustained from their side; Both of the giants that had dared to rush into the melee had fallen–one to the man they called the Iron Captain and the other to some warrior with a rippled blade like Jon's.

When the hour of the wolf approached–or at least it did according to Dapple, the singer with her group, it began to rain, turning everything even messier, and the wetness began to loosen her bow's string, and she had to use her sling instead. Val often thought the Ironmen would break, but they just kept fighting, no matter how bad the situation seemed for them. Sometimes, they retreated as if about to rout, but the man they called Balon Greyjoy beheaded a few and managed to restore order by barking orders with his harsh, guttural cries. The field of death and struggle was only illuminated by the occasional flash of lightning and the terrible rumble that followed.

Sometimes, the Ironmen seemed to have the advantage despite the endless stream of wolves harassing their rear. Sometimes, it appeared that Jon would break the Ironmen, but they managed to repel him–or even retreat for a brief respite. 

Even that half-giant warrior with the golden kraken on his armour and a monstrous axe in his fist roared. "COME OUT AND FACE ME, SNOW!" 

Yet at that same moment, Jon was fighting the Squid King and another warrior with a rippled blade at the same time, so the man–one of the hunters said was called Victarion Greyjoy, was met with the last of the bloodthirsty greybeards who fought like devils without fear of death. 

His challenge was met by the old Burley chieftain. 

"You'll have to get past me to get to The Jon!" 

The battle seemed as if it would go on forever. Her husband and the clansmen with him were tangling in those warriors clad in heavy suits of steel until they slowly fell one by one. After hours of bitter fighting, Jon eventually slew the warrior with the rippled blade and, with a few more heartbeats, managed to disarm the Squid King and take him prisoner. Yet the Ironmen would not surrender, emboldened by Victarion Greyjoy roaring his challenges and slaying any Northmen who approached. He still had a lot of men and was too far away for Val to target with her archers.

Her husband had left the rest of the attack on the Ironmen camp to Glover and Sigorn before taking the fight to the Iron Captain. It was several hours of bloody struggle later that Victarion Greyjoy's battleguard was finally taken down by Toregg and Duncan Liddle after he killed the old Burley and dozens of Northmen. From what little Val could see, even Jon was tired after hours of fighting; his movements slowed considerably, and his blade could no longer cut through ringmail in one strike as it did before. 

The clouds to the far north parted then, revealing the moon. Strings of moonlight pierced through the darkness, allowing Val a clear view of the carnage below for the first time in hours. 

Both sides had fanned out a small circle, letting Jon face Victarion, who looked no less tired than her husband and refused to surrender or retreat. It was not a fight with any particular finesse, just two tired men trying to kill each other. Within a minute, their battered shields were broken, and it was just an axe against a sword.

Even tired and slow, her husband was still as slippery as an eel and managed to avoid the Ironman's ax and peppered his foe with glancing blows, but they didn't do much to his foe's armour. The enormous Ironman and Jon traded one brutal blow after another, and the winner slowly became apparent. Jon hooked his blade under the bearded axe's head, and managed to twist, wrenching it away out of Victarion Greyjoy's grasp. The tall reaver managed to take out a dirk and rushed forth to close the distance, tackling Jon into the muddy, corpse-covered mess below. 

Val's heart leapt into her throat, but after the longest minute in her life, Jon stood up on his feet, shaky, with a dagger raised victoriously towards the sky, while the steel-clad Greyjoy did not get up again. 

"A good warrior." Dapple's voice was filled with awe. Her cat-like golden eyes saw everything despite the darkness. "He would have bested most others, I'd say. But not the Jon."

Finally, after both of their chieftains were either slain or taken captive, the Ironmen broke and fled, just as the sky had begun to lighten in the east, only to be faced with the full encirclement of her husband's army and his wolves. Some desperate ones broke the encirclement, fleeing towards their ships, yet most failed to reach them as the morning tide swept many boats into the bay; the desperate reavers threw themselves into the stormy waters, drowning in their armour. 

The forest was swarming with wolves, and the sea was stormy. By the time the slaughter was done, the sun was peeking through the overcast horizon to the east, and the ground was strewn with corpses in every direction, soaked in blood and rain. The sheer number of corpses was mind-boggling, considering hundreds, no, thousands, belonged to wolves. Mounds of carcasses could be seen between the battlefield and the sea, where the Ironmen had tried to escape to their boats–and most of them had failed. 

The worry in her heart melted once she saw her husband standing straight amidst the thickest of the carnage. Jon was once again drenched in red, a second rippled sword tucked under his belt. But Val could see his hand was stiff, and the gaps around the ice armour were wider than she remembered; he had gotten wounded again and was probably bruised black from all the punishment he had taken.

The rain was finally dwindling, and the first rays of the sun from the east illuminated the macabre sight before her, revealing a muddy field turned red from killing, filled with corpses as far as her eye could see. Once the fighting had ended, she had managed to retreat to the bushes to relieve herself before forcing her sore legs to lead her back to the battlefield. A second look towards the carnage made any joy from the victory evaporate; Val realised what Jon meant by saying, 'war is different than raiding'. 

"So you've won, boy," it was the Squid King, the man with a hardy, gaunt face and greying hair they called Balon Greyjoy, forced to kneel over the corpses of men clad in steel from head to toe. They had put up a hardy fight, for another giant had fallen there, along with dozens of free folk and clansmen. "You might have killed my brother and my son, but the line of Greyjoy is far from over. Aeron and Euron live and shall avenge me. Do your worst."

"A madman and a priest," Jon noted hoarsely, his voice breathless with exertion. "How many Ironmen have left their bones here for your ambition, Balon Greyjoy? Just here, there must be ten thousand dead. Is there even anyone fit to fight left on your isles? If your brothers dare come North, they shall meet with the same fate as you and Theon."

The defeated king snorted, closing his eyes as if he didn't want to gaze upon them. 

"What use is prattling about it? The day is yours–just be done with it already. Kill me so I can feast down with my brother and sons in the Drowned God's watery halls."

"I think not," her husband's voice thickened with contempt. "Your brother was a warrior worthy of respect; your son–half a traitor that he was, still had some honour left in him, even if he lacked in wits. But you? You, who started this out of naked avarice and ambition, won't escape so easily. Jarod, cut out his tongue and tendons."

"Craven!" Balon Greyjoy spat, his eyes darkening with rage. "You don't have the guts to kill me-"

Jon laughed coldly. 

"I don't care to kill you at all. You, Balon Greyjoy, are now nothing more than a twice-defeated king. I will parade you around the North as a cripple to inspire the men to fight harder against Hightower and their ilk before gifting you and your crown to the Lady of Winterfell. Whatever offence I have given to her, I'm sure she'll forgive. I might not be able to give her Arya's murderer, that she might take her pound of flesh, but I think you ought to do just fine. Get him out of my sight."

As Balon Greyjoy was brought away, the surviving warband leaders and kneeler chieftains flocked to Jon. All of them were battered and tired–some were missing fingers, ears, eyes, and noses, and many others had their helmets smashed or missing. Even Morna's mask was gone, and one of the woodswitches was bandaging her side and leg. Val estimated at least a third of the faces were missing–probably dead or heavily wounded. 

Even Ghost's pristine coat was covered by muck and blood and arrows, but judging by his gait, none of them had gone too deep. Val could see a few deep gashes to his side–even the monstrous direwolf had not survived the battle unscathed. While he was devastating against even the most armoured opponent, his significant size had made him an even larger target. His shaggy retinue of direwolves and their lesser kin were now feasting from the flesh of the fallen Ironmen with no care in the world while Leaf and a few other singers hastily crowded over the white direwolf, carefully pulling out arrows and cleaning wounds.

Many of the other direwolves had left the battlefield once the wounds on their bodies had piled up; over a third of them were peppered with arrows and cuts, but none nearly as bad as Ghost, yet they were smart enough not to descend into a frenzy like their lesser cousins and retreated when their injuries became too much. The Singers descended from the forest to tend to the direwolves, singing gentle songs that soothed the beasts as the arrows were being wrenched from their flesh. 

Many of the forest clansmen looked worried at the sight of the wolves feasting on the dead. A wiry huntsman called Gregor Forrester was the one to speak up first. 

"Is it wise to have them gorge themselves on human flesh, Lord Snow?"

Her husband sighed. 

"Wise? No. But I have them under my control, and every pound of flesh devoured here is a pound of flesh in deer, boars, bears, hares, and fish that our men can eat later. The Ironmen did not just cut down most of the surrounding forest for miles, but they ate most of it clean."

The admission that he controlled all the wolves had many of the kneelers grimacing; some even looked somewhat wary. Rightly so, for such powerful magick was unheard of. But Jon didn't care to deny it; his powers over wolves and dogs were clear to see, and denying served no purpose.

"At least there's enough plunder in steel to go around for everyone," Ryk Longspear jested, eliciting a few chuckles and successfully lightening the mood. Yet even his face was swollen black and blue, with a vicious cut going down his right cheek. "Enough to have everyone clad in good armour and wield steel weapons. And hundreds of these longboats, if we ever want to sail."

"The boats have to be pulled ashore so a storm doesn't wash them into the sea. We have to salvage the steel fast, rub it clean and oil it up, or it shall rust in this mud," Duncan Liddle wheezed as one of his men helped him remove the battered brigandine. It was misshapen and mauled so severely that it had to be cut apart through the layers of hardened linen below.

"We don't have the numbers to fight Hightower now," Edwyn Wull muttered.

"Not alone, so we'll be linking up with Mors Umber and his nine thousand men near Tumbledown Tower," Jon said, his voice quiet. "But first, we'll have to rest up and recover. Just cleaning up the battlefield will probably take days, and boiling the flesh off the heads to pile skulls across the shore will only slow us down further." 

Of course, they couldn't possibly forget the most important part–even Sigorn was nodding solemnly. 

"What about the Ironmen who fled on their longboats?" Toregg asked.

Duncan sneered. "They're probably fleeing to the Iron Isles with their tails behind their legs."

"We have most of the Iron Fleet here," Edwyn Wull said, looking over the shore with tired eyes. "And many warships and longboats from other reaver houses. This is enough ships to make us a sea power only second to Redwyne."

"Sailing a ship takes training and dedication," Jon pointed out. "Commanding a whole fleet even more so." 

The greying man with a silver fist emblazoned on his surcoat, Glover, came over. His left hand was hanging limply by his side, a stump on the place of his wrist.

"You have my gratitude for the assistance, Jon Snow," the man bowed deeply. "I shall prepare a feast-"

"I only did my duty, Lord Glover." Jon nodded. "But now is not the time to celebrate. We lost many today, and nearly everyone else is wounded, and the fighting is far from done. Hightower and his zealots fester in the North like a putrid wound, and the Ironmen still hold Sea Dragon Point, Bear Island, and Flint's Fingers. We can rest our weary bones now, but we cannot rest easy. Prepare no feast, but help my men bury or burn the dead and give us guest right, a roof over our heads for the night, and meat at your table."

"You shall have it," Glover nodded solemnly. "Let it be known that House Glover does not lack in hospitality!" 

Val terribly wanted to lean on her husband and enjoy the warmth of his embrace as the chieftains began to disperse and nurse their wounds, but he was covered in blood, and there was no warmth to be found in the breastplate of accursed frost that burned to the touch.

Instead, she leaned in and whispered in his ear, "You're wounded."

"I'll have Brightspot patch me up." His voice was tired. As much as the exhaustion seeped into Val's bones, she was not the one in the thick of the fighting. "And you yourself need a clean change of clothing."

Val was too tired to stay awake for long, and Jon had her ushered into the stone keep, where a horde of soft kneeler women pulled away her sweaty garments and scrubbed her clean with hot water, bandaged her bloody fingers before leading her to a feathered bed.

***

It was dark when she awoke. The hearth in her stone room was cackling with a ruddy fire, revealing the carpet covered in a veritable sea of fur. Ghost was at the foot of the bed, his fur a pristine white again, though Val could spy a few angry red patches and places where spears and swords had shaved off some of it. 

Much to her relief, there was a crib next to her bed–Calla was snoozing peacefully.

The door quickly opened, revealing her husband wearing a plain grey tunic. All the direwolves shuffled, opening a path from the door to her bed.

"We lost fourteen hundred men," he sighed, face tired. "All the greybeards are dead, even Osric, the Unyielding, they call him now, for he died standing with three spears in his gut. Five hundred are too crippled to be of any good in war again, and over a thousand are too heavily wounded to continue this campaign. Three giants died in the struggle, one thousand four hundred wolves perished, along with twelve dead direwolves. Glover lost a quarter of his, and almost everyone else is wounded. We were this close to breaking."

Jon closed his eyes, and a tired sigh rolled off his lips.

"It was me they died for. I had dozens of chances to retreat, even after I saw Victarion Greyjoy come with far bigger reinforcements than I expected. I could have retreated to continue harassing Greyjoy and slowly whittle away at his forces until he broke or was forced to leave. But I chose to stay and fight and break the Ironmen here and now for good. And now they're broken at a heavy cost."

"This Greyjoy king lost far more," Val tried to lift the mood, cupping his face, enjoying the prickly feeling of his stubble. "We won."

Her husband smiled wanly.

"There's rarely any victors in war, only those that are left, at least that's what my father used to tell me, and I can only agree. But aye, we survived against the finest the Iron Isles had to offer, so we can fight another day, for there are more foes still. But that's a problem for later. Now we rest up and heal. And deal with my wayward little brother. Rickon attempted to drag off Victarion Greyjoy's axe with him cause he took a liking to it, but he could barely lift the monstrous thing."

"Your brother has the makings of a great warrior and a hunter," she chuckled. "A powerful warg, too."

"Aye, but I have to keep the little hothead safe until he learns the skills to get out of trouble–or overcome it. He was genuinely trying to explain how the axe was looking for a new owner–him," he said fondly, then his fingers ran down her bandaged hand. "How are you feeling? Brightspot said your skin had peeled off on three fingers."

Val grimaced. "I'll be fine, but I won't be able to do much for at least a sennight. Though I suppose I ought to be thankful I have a husband to take care of me. Perhaps I ought to have gone with Dalla to Little Hall. I'm not blind. I saw the corpses–over two-thirds of the spearwives that left Warg Hill with you perished today. The third that survived were like me, with the skirmishers and the marksmen."

Jon sighed.

"A woman can fight as well as any man, they oft claim, but the question that ought to be asked is not if they can, but if they should. A wise man once told me the gods have fashioned us for love." his gaze grew distant as if he was staring at something far away she couldn't see. "But now I think the gods have fashioned us for war. A man's battlefield is with a blade or a spear or an axe in one hand and a shield in the other, while a woman faces her battles on the birthing bed. I will not send you away for the rest of the campaign, but you will not fight any further. You have your battle, and I have mine."

His words were soft but firm–he would not yield here, no matter what she said. 

A part of Val was reluctant. She wanted to scoff and scream, even prove her skills again and again. But last night was still vivid in her mind. The screams of agony, the stench of death, the struggle in the cold rain as madness and fury had taken hold of the minds of men. She had killed a handful of these Ironmen and wounded plenty more with her arrows, but it mattered little. Duncan, Rickard, and Sigorn had killed dozens, while Jon had killed scores–though Jon himself told her that Ghost had killed far more. She felt sick just by remembering the field of thousands of corpses, all of which had been alive a day earlier. 

There was nothing left to prove. She had proven herself a warrior and a huntress thrice over. Hunting made her blood sing, but fighting like this? It was ugly and brutal in a callous manner that would make even cannibals gag, and it made her insides churn and her heart heavy. A part of her missed the Haunted Forest and the peaceful calm of Warg Hill, where the biggest danger was Isryn with a few hundred raiders. It was a harsher land but lacked these endless waves of bloodthirsty foes armed in steel from head to toe. 

"I'm staying with you regardless," Val muttered weakly. "Through thick and thin. Someone must look after Rickon lest he run up to some mischief again while you're off to battle. How are your wounds?"

"Nothing serious," Jon's lips twitched. "My body is one giant bruise; my sides and shoulders are the worst and might ache for a week. Victarion Greyjoy was a good warrior, but he was one man as tired as I was. Harlaw and Balon Greyjoy almost managed to best me. Two of the finest warriors I've ever crossed swords with, and they immediately found my armour's weakness. One of his personal guards almost nailed my foot to the ground with his spear. Yet Greyjoy and Harlaw weren't used to fighting together, and that was their undoing. I told you, a single man, no matter how great a warrior, cannot change the course of battle the way command, discipline, and planning can. Well, now I have another dragonsteel blade in my collection. I'm tempted to give you one-"

"I prefer knives and spears," she interrupted him with a kiss. 

A knock on the door interrupted them before Val could pull him into bed, much to her displeasure. They were invited by Lord Glover to dinner, something they couldn't decline, judging by the reluctance on Jon's face.

Lord Glover's wife, Jeyne, turned out to be Edwyn Wull's sister, much to Val's surprise. Like her brother, she was stout of build, with a heavy chest, thick waist, and long chestnut curls. Galbart Glover's brother, Robett, had perished in the battle earlier, however, leaving his wife, Sybelle Locke, widowed with two children. The woman was dressed in black and glaring daggers at Desmera Redwyne, who was allowed a place at the high table.

Even the serving women avoided Desmera as if she had the Grey Plague.

Rickon and Edwyle Umber sat with the Glover children at another table, five of them each younger than Jon's brother. None of them managed to get Rickon's attention, aside from the older boy called Larence Snow, who seemed somewhat shy yet had proven himself in the battle. Val did not know what he had accomplished, but it was enough for her husband to take Larence as his squire. 

Rickon, however, seemed to be fiercely frowning at something–probably planning his next bout of mischief. 

Nymeria and Shaggydog were in the corner of the Great Hall, playfully squabbling over meat-covered bones that looked big enough to belong to a cow or a cave bear. Both direwolves were unharmed–Jon had seen them be Rickon's guard during the battle. 

Val focused her attention on the vast array of dishes before her, many of which she didn't recognise. She skipped the fish and venison–for she had taken her fill of those in the last few moons and focused on the rest. Honeyed mallards, mashes of vegetables with all sorts of sour and sweet cheese, things the southrons called lemon cakes that were almost sickeningly sweet, and all sorts of fermented drinks–though she didn't dare touch any of them after Leaf noted they might affect her babe. Eating was particularly hard when the fingers on her right hand were bandaged, and she tried to eat with those kneeler forks and spoons as everyone else did.

The atmosphere in the hall was subdued, though a few made half-hearted toasts in the names of the fallen. Nobody spoke of blood, vengeance, or more battles after last night's bloody slog but of the fallen and bonds of kinship. 

The kneeler ladies, however, didn't know what to make of Val and kept giving her appraising looks, their eyes sliding over her silver-gold locks. They didn't try to speak with her yet, but that was probably because of the three direwolves curling around her chair–forcing the uneasy servants to go around them while not allowing her any neighbours. Ghost had outright taken one of the lower tables for himself like an enormous cot, munching on a whole roasted pig without a care in the world, his massive tail smacking the squires sitting on the next table who were too terrified to even change seats. None of the ladies dared come within twenty feet of the direwolves. They were far more curious about Leaf, sitting on Jon's left side along with Melisandre.

Val didn't have to guess why for too long; the word around the table was about the new weirwood grove of dozens of trees in the middle of the Ironborn's siege camp. The Singers and Melisandre had done their grisly blood magic again. This time, they had even provided cuttings for hundreds of weirwood bows and spears, all perfectly straight, which was a generous boon, judging by the way all hostility and distrust melted from Lord Glover's face.

"So, you hail all the way from Asshai," Jeyne Wull noted, curiosity readily apparent in her voice. "I did not think your lot cared about the Old Gods of Stream and Stone and Forest."

"The journey here was perilous but all the more worth it for the danger and the insights it provided." Melisandre inclined her head. "Only those of true faith and genuine conviction can stand through the test of adversity. Lord Snow and Leaf showed me the true way when the night was darkest, and the Great Other sought to bring about the Eternal Night."

"From a follower of Red R'hllor to a staunch believer in the Old Gods," Sybelle Locke sighed. "I never thought I'd see the day. This makes you their first priestess, but our gods have no clergymen, holy rites, or holidays. Look at the Seven Gods of the Andals. Their clergymen have grown drunk on gold and power, trampling on the very virtues they have sworn to uphold in the name of vanity and greed. The clergy are dangerous, I say. You might do this with good intent, but-"

"Fear not, Lady Sybelle," Meliasndre smiled kindly. "I am but a tool of the Gods. Priests and priestesses are no different. They are no different from any other men and women. They can be good or bad, sinful or pious, and the clergy is but a tool."

Jeyne Wull snorted. "Quite the tool, I see. Turning pirates into heart trees–you will be welcomed by anyone in the North, and I daresay even South of the Neck by those who have not lost their minds to the rabid zeal that has taken the hearts of many. I don't think the North has seen such a number of weirwood bows and spears-shafts in millennia. And is it true that they're perfect in shape?"

"It's just a nudge of what is already there in the right direction," Leaf noted, her voice brightening with excitement. Her golden-green eyes were alight for the first time in a while. "All living beings want to grow, and if one knows the skill of wood-singing and is willing to pay the price, it's easy to nudge the growth."

"Fascinating," Galbart Glover nodded eagerly. "Please, tell us more." 

The feast continued for hours, and the novelty of Melisandre and Leaf's skills wore out eventually, especially when Jon reminded them that House Stark and the Iron Throne have the last right to dispense justice in the North, and no, if they wanted to sacrifice brigands and bandits to the heart trees in peacetime, they had to get permission from Winterfell. Many of the chieftains began to leave for a deserved night's rest. In the end, the hall was empty save for Val, and Jon speaking quietly to Lord Glover about the situation across the North. In the end, even she got too tired and excused herself.

"Ghost, lead me to Jon's room," she requested, ignoring the servants who were too scared to approach beyond giving her an oil lamp. The enormous direwolf padded through the narrow hallways, his frame barely fitting through as he led her to the same wing she was in earlier, and her husband's quarters were just by her room. It was only proper to finish what that servant had interrupted so long ago, even if she felt sleepy.

Yet the moment she entered the room, Val froze. There was someone under Jon's covers, and when Ghost's hackles all raised, she didn't hesitate to draw her dagger.

From the oil lamp, however, she could see that whoever was hiding in Jon's bed was slight of frame. 

Ghost crouched and barely managed to squeeze through the doorway, letting out silent huffs of annoyance. 

She motioned at the covers, and the direwolf dutifully padded over without producing a sound, bit the edge of the cover and pulled them off in a swift motion, revealing a very much stark naked Desmera Redwyne.

Val, ignoring her tired body, lunged forward and grabbed her by the hair, ignoring her shrieks, "I am a HOSTAGE! HELP, HELP! MURDER!"

The foolish whore squealed like a pig to the slaughter, but her body was soft and small and weak. Desmera couldn't resist Val's whole weight as the spearwife pushed her knees on the southron's back; her head was meticulously pushed down on the bed, yet Val frowned at her serrated dagger, all the while the girl screamed for all the castle to hear.

The first to arrive was Duncan Liddle, with his great axe drawn, who paused instantly with his mouth hanging open.

"Dunk, be a dear and get me a pair of scissors," Val requested, her smile probably thinner than she intended. "This harlot needs to learn a proper lesson, and it's hard to get a good shave with a dagger."

Perhaps carrying a pair of scissors on her person at all times wouldn't be remiss. Or a shaving razor–the southrons had all these useful delicate tools of steel that many would kill to possess Beyond the Wall. 

By the time Jon arrived with a dozen guardsmen, his sword drawn, Val was already finishing, Ghost having laid a single paw on the girl's back, causing her to freeze and cease her struggles. 

She turned to find her husband standing still at the door, along with Lord Glover, whose face was flushed red, though Val couldn't say whether it was from rage or something else.

"What?" Val threw the last of the crimson locks on the floor and took a moment to spit and rub the mostly shiny bald head with the covers before admiring her handiwork. It wasn't nearly as good as it would have been otherwise, as her bandaged fingers were a bit too stiff. The little whore's wails were like music to her ears as she smiled innocently at her husband. "I didn't harm her one bit. Look, there's not even a single cut on her!"