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Chapter 323
🕑 Added 2025-01-29 12:19:56 +0000 UTCThe weeks-long blizzard had finally ceased, but Robb Stark felt no relief—Euron Greyjoy’s Ironborn were far more troublesome than he had anticipated.
As soon as word reached the Wall, Robb had ridden south to Deepwood Motte. The arrival of the Warden of the North greatly bolstered the morale of the western coastline’s nobles and commoners. Northern forces, trudging through the snow, hastily regrouped and launched several counterattacks even before full assembly, managing to score some victories and dampen the enemy’s arrogance.
But the smooth progress didn’t last long. Euron’s aim was never to seize territory or plunder wealth—it was to sap the strength of all factions, openly and covertly, laying the groundwork for a potential future conquest of the entire continent. Soon, the armed Northmen, ready to defend their homes, discovered that the Ironborn had shifted tactics. Just as Roose Bolton had grimly predicted, they abandoned pitched battles and began employing guerrilla warfare.
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Normally, guerrilla warfare demands high mobility and intimate knowledge of the terrain, making it a strategy usually reserved for defenders. But the North lacked the naval power to challenge the Ironborn’s longships. From the very start of the war, they had lost control of the sea. The western coastline and much of the Sunset Sea had, without contest, become the Ironborn’s domain. They came with the wind and vanished with their oars, leaving the North in a frustrating stalemate: unable to lose outright, but also unable to win.
Robb didn’t like Roose Bolton. He disliked the man as much as he despised the flayed man sigil of House Bolton, the ominous name of the Dreadfort, and its oppressive atmosphere. But personal dislike aside, the young Warden of the North had to admit that the perpetually grim and cold-blooded man was invariably correct in his judgments. After several frustrating failures, Robb begrudgingly accepted Roose’s advice: to withdraw the scattered coastal populace and consolidate them into larger winter towns, castles, and garrisoned villages. The strategy shifted from offense to defense, intending to outlast the enemy.
The effectiveness of this tactic was evident in the Ironborn’s reaction—they began launching increasingly frequent raids, slaughtering and terrorizing retreating civilians to disrupt the North’s plans. In response, Robb divided his forces into smaller units, rapidly moving them across the region to protect fleeing civilians and foil the Ironborn’s schemes.
At present, Robb led over a thousand Northern veterans through the narrow, snow-covered paths of the Wolfswood, rushing to a village that had sent a distress signal.
The deep snow made progress slow. Scouts at the vanguard carefully uncovered hidden trails, marking a path to prevent the cavalry from stumbling. The biting cold seeped through the cracks in armor, and the frosty breath of the jogging soldiers merged with the misty forest air, deepening the sense of white desolation.
As Warden of the North, Robb rode a well-trained mount. What was an exhausting forced march for infantry was little more than a brisk trot for his horse. Thanks to the smooth gait of the animal, Robb had the luxury of letting his mind wander.
Around him, young nobles serving as squires and guards chattered about strategies to counter the Ironborn.
Edd Karstark, the third son of Lord Karstark, stubbornly repeated his proposal: “We need to build a navy on the western coast! This winter, we can defend and exhaust the enemy’s patience, but if the war drags on into spring and they attack during planting season, will we abandon our fields again to retreat into castles?”
Smalljon Umber didn’t disagree. “The North used to have a navy on the western coast. After Aegon’s Conquest, the Ironborn were forbidden to raid the mainland, and our fleet slowly disappeared—just like the Night’s Watch dwindling over time. Now the only ships left are on Bear Island and at White Harbor. But the Mormonts’ few ships are no match for the Iron Fleet, and as for the Manderlys’ fleet… gods, they’d have to sail around half of Westeros—past the Stormlands, Dorne, the Reach, and Ironborn waters—just to get to the western coast. And that’s assuming the Arbor’s fleet would even let Fat Walrus through!”
“Then we build a new port on the western coast. The Wolfswood is full of excellent timber for shipbuilding. Give us time, and we can match the Iron Fleet in numbers!”
“More ships? With what sailors?” Edd scoffed. “I’d love to have a few great warships. But do you think Euron will let you build a fleet under his nose? South of Deepwood Motte, every harbor is crawling with his raiders. And Bear Island? Euron would be mad not to station ships there. We’d need to borrow skilled craftsmen from the Mormonts and Manderlys, find a hidden northern location, and quietly build ships. Then we’d need laborers and soldiers to defend it—”
Their conversation, half a discussion and half a debate, was as much for Robb as it was for themselves. Robb listened quietly, appreciating the chance to hear the ideas of these young nobles, even as he weighed the practicality of their plans. But just as Edd reached a critical point, his words abruptly ceased.
After a moment of tense silence, he spoke again, his voice tight with unease. “I think I heard something.”
Robb reined in his horse, and the entire column halted. It quickly became clear that Edd hadn’t imagined it.
A faint, rhythmic tremor traveled through the ground. Horses snorted nervously, soldiers stilled, and all strained to locate the source of the sound.
It didn’t come from one direction—it surrounded them, echoing from the forest on both sides of the road.
“Ambush!” Smalljon Umber was the first to shout. “Form ranks! Prepare for battle!”
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The snow dampened the sound of movement, and the thick layer of fallen leaves beneath further muffled the approach. By the time the Northern forces realized something was amiss, the enemy was upon them. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of Ironborn surged from the snowbanks on both sides of the road, their shouts breaking the stillness as they charged the Northerners.
Despite the surprise, the Northmen held their ground. The Ironborn, with their limited numbers, couldn’t muster a force to match the North’s full strength. Spread across three kingdoms, their raids were stretched thin. Furthermore, many of them were poorly equipped and needed to leave men behind to guard their ships. The ambush looked overwhelming at first glance, but Robb’s force was composed entirely of veterans who had returned victorious from the Westerlands mere months ago. These were battle-hardened troops, and panic was not in their nature.
Confidence in their own strength and disdain for their foes filled the Northmen with an almost reckless courage. Under the disjointed commands of Robb’s young bannermen, they roared “Winterfell!” and clashed with the Ironborn, meeting them head-on.
Steel clashed, shields splintered, and the air filled with the sound of fury and death. Blood spattered across the pristine snow, painting it in vivid red before boots trampled it into the mud, turning it a dark, sickly brown.
Though outnumbered, the Ironborn didn’t have an endless supply of men. Once their forces surged out of the forest and onto the road, the battle devolved into a chaotic melee.
A short distance away, a small group of latecomers reached a vantage point atop a hill, observing the battle below under the direction of their leader.
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