Chapter Text
War was glorious. Or at any rate, it was supposed to be, according to the Young Dragon's account of the War in Dorne. Noble knights rode out from opposing sides, to issue challenges to rival champions. Maidens and children were treated with chivalry by the victors. Men strove valiantly in battle to prove themselves worthy of their lords and loved ones. Jon's blood had boiled when he heard of his father's arrest, and then his murder. Fuck his vows to the Nights Watch! Family was everything. So one night, he'd fled. He knew he was taking his life in his hands, and could be executed on sight as a deserter. No doubt, Lady Catelyn would be only too happy to carry out that particular sentence, so he'd skirted Winterfell, and then had ridden hard for White Harbour. He had some coin, and took ship for Saltpans. From there, he rode for Riverrun, where he knew the resistance was gathering. Lord Edmure Tully and other river lords had welcomed him, and so had Robb, fresh from victories that had broken the Lannisters’ siege of Riverrun.. Of course, Robb had issued a decree freeing him from his Nights Watch vows, the moment he discussed the matter with him. Turned out he was wrong about Lady Catelyn. Much to his surprise, she had been a part of his brother's entourage, and had given him a thin smile on seeing him. She'd even gone so far as to apologise for her last words to him, over Bran's unconscious body.
Turned out, he'd been wrong about a lot of things. Not least, the nature of war. Everywhere, on the road up from Saltpans, he'd seen signs of the war. Burnt out villages, desolate manors, blackened fields. Fucking Lannister work, of course! When he got to Riverrun, all the talk was of revenge for what the enemy had done, and of course, he had no problem with that. They ought to start with the Kingslayer, and hang him from the castle gate, he'd suggested, but Robb had explained Sansa and Arya were still prisoners. He couldn't risk their lives. But “have no fear, the enemy will pay”, his brother had assured him.
The problems had come once it was time to start exacting payment. He’d been put in charge of a small company of horse and archers, and reported to Ser Marq Piper. They’d begun reducing minor garrisons along the Trident still held by the enemy. The locals had told them heart-rending tales of Lannister atrocities, so the order was given ; no quarter. He couldn’t exactly say he’d enjoyed the sight of men dancing from the ends of ropes, soiling themselves, but when he reflected what deserving cases they were, he didn’t lose too much sleep over it. Far harder was when the locals began denouncing some of their number as collaborators. "Hang them," was Ser Marq's brisk order. Well, some of them might have sided with the enemy, others might just have fallen victim to village jealousies. He'd seen enough of these up North, when his father had taken him with him on assizes.
"Shouldn't we try them?" he'd suggested. Ser Marq had frowned, before replying, "This is war, Jon. If their neighbours hate them, I'm not sticking up for them." There had been three of them, two old men, and one middle-aged woman, all of whom protested their innocence, in the face of their neighbours' fury. "See to it, Jon" Ser Marq had commanded, before riding on to the next village, leaving him with his men. What to do now? The Young Dragon had said nothing about this. Should he complain to his brother? Yes, his brother would never have approved of this. Then, no, he realised, Ser Marq would not be giving such an order if it didn't come from his brother. What if he refused? Well, he'd be letting down his brother for sure, even if Robb didn't punish him. And, he'd be letting down the army, and the people of the Riverlands. But, gods, would his father have done such a thing? "Father's honour got him killed", he remembered Robb saying. Wearily, he nodded to his men, who took the three villagers to a large oak tree on the edge of the settlement, and strung them up. At least they died quickly enough.
The next time was worse, much worse. Three young women had been led out from a stable by a jeering mob. Their hands were tied and their heads had been shaved. "They lay with lions", yelled their captors. He questioned them, and yes, it turned out they had slept with Lannister soldiers for coin, but that wasn't a hanging offence, surely? Turned out that Piper had other ideas. "Hang them on the bank of the river. That way, travellers will see them."
"Ser Marq, they've done nothing to deserve it. Come on, young women, doing what any young woman will do. They may have been paid, but honestly, do you think they had any choice in the matter?"
"Fuck that Jon. You've seen what the Lannisters did in this district. Those women chose a side, and they chose wrong. And, if you think your brother will back you up, then think again. He's in no mood for mercy. Now, you can go back to Riverrun, and spend the rest of this war on guard duty, or you can carry out your orders." So, he had carried out his orders. The girls had died hard and he hadn't slept for three nights afterwards. After that, the work of retribution continued, but he'd found it easier to cope.
So, now, months later, he found himself in some one-horse village in the Westerlands, as his brother's army brought fire and sword to the luckless inhabitants, following their victory at Oxcross. The usual orders had come down from the top. No Quarter. Destroy anything you can't carry away. Kill any who resist. His men were burning the village, the luckless inhabitants standing together, downcast. Or the women and children at any rate. The men had been put to the sword, once they tried to resist. He hadn't liked it, but when your chief gives you an order, you have to carry it out. Others of his men were leading away the livestock, and removing any valuables the villagers had had. He heard the sound of horsemen, the enemy maybe? But no, it was Lady Maege Mormont, with a company of riders. She looked at the scene of mayhem, before giving Jon a smile and a nod of approval:
"Well done Jon, a good days's work. Some men don't have the stomach for this, but King Robb chose well in your case."
Robb chose well? The thought made him feel sick. For the hundredth time, he wished bitterly that he'd never left Castle Black.