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Chapter 260
🕑 Added 2025-01-28 23:08:10 +0000 UTCAccording to legend, during the Age of Dawn, a group of humans known as the First Men crossed the Arm of Dorne, bringing bronze weapons, leather armor, and horses, and began invading Westeros. The native Children of the Forest were unable to stop the human advance and were forced to retreat further and further north. On the brink of extinction, the Children unleashed a desperate act of magic, summoning a cataclysmic flood. The flood not only destroyed the Arm of Dorne, severing the land bridge to Essos, but also split Westeros in two, creating a natural barrier to halt the northward migration of mankind.
When the waters receded, the Arm of Dorne had transformed into the Stepstones, and the region carved out by the flood formed the Neck—a "bottleneck of swamps."
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Myths aside, the Neck indeed divides Westeros into the southern and northern regions. Composed of marshes, bogs, and lakes, the Neck is treacherous terrain filled with sinkholes, quicksand, and hidden dangers. The most deceptive hazards are areas covered with lush green grass or aquatic plants that appear stable but will swallow anyone who steps on them.
A simple misstep isn’t the worst of it. The Neck teems with venomous insects, snakes, poisonous flowers, and lizard-lions with teeth as sharp as daggers. For those who stray from the main road, these dangers are far deadlier than the terrain itself.
If the Neck is the North’s natural defense, then Moat Cailin is its impenetrable gate.
Once a massive fortress with twenty towers and walls of black basalt as high as Winterfell's, Moat Cailin had repelled countless Andal invasions, ensuring that the North remained the only region in Westeros still ruled entirely by First Men who worshiped the Old Gods.
However, time and the sinking terrain have reduced the once-mighty stronghold to ruins. Most of its walls have collapsed, the wooden structures have rotted away, and only three of the twenty towers remain standing. From the outside, Moat Cailin appears as little more than a desolate outpost, unworthy of even being marked on a map, let alone considered a formidable defensive position.
Yet despite its dilapidation, Moat Cailin has managed to hold Robb Stark and his nearly 20,000-strong Northern army at bay for weeks. The reason is simple: Moat Cailin isn’t just a fortress standing in an open plain—it’s built within the swamps of the Neck.
The only dry route through the vast wetlands is the causeway, a narrow path that leads directly to Moat Cailin. The three remaining towers, though in disrepair, effectively block the northern exit of the causeway, acting as a cork in a bottle. The causeway itself is narrow, allowing only two carts to pass side by side, making it impossible for a large army to advance, deploy, or even organize an effective assault.
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To reach the fortress, Robb’s forces must first traverse the “bottle’s neck.” The three towers are positioned to cover one another, with defenders able to rain arrows on any attackers attempting to storm them. The stone walls, though moss-covered and slick with hanging ghost grass, are still challenging to climb. The surrounding swamps act as a natural moat, making it impossible to maneuver around the fortress.
If Moat Cailin’s natural advantages weren’t bad enough, the causeway itself is a defensive hazard. Built entirely by human hands, the road requires constant maintenance to prevent it from sinking into the marsh. Since the Ironborn seized the fortress, the road has fallen into disrepair, worsened by recent rains. For the attackers, this has made their already grueling task nearly impossible.
The Northern army, numbering nearly 20,000, has been forced to camp miles south of Moat Cailin in one of the Neck’s rare dry villages. Each day, assault troops must march from their camps to the fortress, and the narrow road means that no more than 200 men can attack at once, despite their overwhelming numbers.
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Moat Cailin, a broken shell of its former self, has proven to be an unyielding obstacle. The Bloody Gate of the Vale may be a more impressive natural fortress, but it at least sits in open terrain, allowing attackers to marshal their forces before an assault. Here, at Moat Cailin, the attackers are denied even the dignity of a proper fight.
The terrain and weather have sapped morale, leaving Robb Stark no choice but to adopt an indirect strategy: divide his forces and bypass the bottleneck entirely. Some troops are attempting to reach Moat Cailin from the north by way of the swamps and the seas. White Harbor’s fleet is ferrying soldiers southward, while House Reed guides others through treacherous swamp paths.
Even so, these northern forces are small, numbering only a few hundred. They are gathering strength from nearby villages and White Harbor to eventually reach over a thousand men. Once combined with Robb’s main force attacking from the south, they will strike Moat Cailin from both sides, overwhelming the Ironborn defenders.
The bottleneck cannot keep its master locked out forever—especially with allies already inside. Whether or not Aegor and his New Gift Army had arrived, the fortress would eventually fall.
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Recent developments have reduced the urgency of Robb’s campaign. With Balon Greyjoy dead and Euron declaring for Stannis, the Ironborn threat in the North has diminished. Raiding parties have been driven off, Deepwood Motte has been reclaimed with Aegor’s help, and news of Stannis’s naval victories has reached the North. These successes have allowed Robb to consider Aegor’s suggestion of attempting a surrender negotiation.
Robb has learned from his failures. His once-unshakable confidence, forged in victories over the West and the Riverlands, was shattered by the disciplined tactics of Randyll Tarly. A costly battle near King’s Landing left thousands of Northerners dead—men who had previously enriched themselves in the West but would now never return home with their spoils.
This bitter lesson sobered the Young Wolf, forcing him to prioritize the safety of his soldiers and his people over personal pride. The boy who dreamed of being an invincible commander was gone, replaced by a lord who understood his true duty: to protect the North.
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Now, Robb Stark stands with 200 elite soldiers on the narrow causeway, watching the Kraken banner flutter over Moat Cailin. He waits patiently, giving Aegor’s plan a chance to succeed. If negotiations fail, he will signal the armies on both sides of the fortress to attack.
The sun hangs low in the sky, with three or four hours of daylight remaining. The tilted Drunkard’s Tower looms precariously. The shattered Forest Tower juts into the heavens like a broken spear. And the Gatehouse Tower, wide and imposing, holds pale-faced Ironborn defenders peering cautiously through its crumbling battlements.
Soon, Moat Cailin’s fate will be decided. If Aegor’s gamble succeeds, the battle may end with far less bloodshed. If not, the bottle’s cork will be forcefully removed before nightfall.
