In the open expanse of the Barrowlands near the Moat Cailin Bog, hundreds of tents were tightly clustered together, each filled with soldiers sleeping within. Outside, nurous figures sat around campfires, their faces illuminated by the flickering flas. Throughout the encampnt, groups of patrolling soldiers moved thodically, their eyes sharp, ever vigilant for any signs of movent beyond the camp's periter.
The banners fluttering in the breeze told the tale of unity among the North’s great houses. Familiar sigils marked their allegiance—House Bolton, the Skinners; House Karstark, the Sun in the Winter; House Umber, the Roaring Giants; and House Mormont of Bear Island, among others. Nearly every notable Northern house had sent their n to support the rebellion, a testant to the North's resolve.
The plan had seed straightforward: march south, unite with the Kingdom’s forces, swiftly quash the Ironborn rebellion, and return ho as heroes. But the reality was far grimr. Tens of thousands of troops now sat stranded at Moat Cailin, their progress halted, frustration and helplessness growing with each passing day.
Inside the largest tent, the air was heavy with tension. Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, sat at the head of the gathering, his expression as grim as the mood of the n around him. Lords and nobles from across the North surrounded him, their faces etched with concern as they listened to the envoy from White Harbor deliver his report.
“So, Lord Manderly can only provide thirty-five ships?” Eddard asked, his voice calm but weighted.
The envoy nodded solemnly. “Yes, my lord.”
Eddard's brows furrowed. “That is far fewer than we anticipated. Why?”
The envoy hesitated before responding. “The news of Lord Manderly’s requisition leaked, my lord. Many rchant ships fled White Harbor before they could be gathered.”
The words hung in the air like an accusation. “Leaked?” Lord Galbart Glover of Deepwood Motte interjected sharply. “Who leaked this information?”
The envoy’s shoulders sagged as he shook his head. “We don’t yet know, my lord, but…”
“But what?” Glover pressed.
The envoy avoided eting their eyes as he answered, “The rchant ships fled before Lord Eddard’s official orders were even delivered to White Harbor.”
The implication was clear. The leak had co from their own ranks. A wave of unease swept through the room, and the grim expressions deepened.
Rickard Karstark, his temper as fiery as ever, slamd his hand on the table. “Is that old Lamprey trying to dodge responsibility? He failed to gather enough ships, and now he’s blaming us? Damned fool—he should be—”
“Enough, Lord Karstark.” Eddard’s tone, though steady, carried a note of finality. “I trust that Lord Manderly has done all he can. We must also consider the possibility that the fault lies on our side.”
Though Karstark fell silent, his scowl betrayed his lingering anger. Among the tension-filled gathering, Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort, remained unnervingly composed. He spoke up, his voice cutting through the din. “How many n can these thirty-five ships carry?”
The envoy straightened. “If packed tightly, my lord, each ship could carry sixty to seventy n. With the addition of deck space, perhaps one hundred at most.”
Lord Bolton’s pale eyes narrowed. “Only that many? I’ve heard of ships capable of transporting hundreds.”
The envoy nodded but explained, “Those are larger cargo vessels or specialized troop carriers, my lord. Most of the ships available to Lord Manderly are smaller guard warships.”
Lord Bolton’s lips pressed into a thin line. “At this rate, it would take ten trips or more to transport all of our forces to King’s Landing. That would take months.” His gaze shifted to Eddard. “Lord Stark, this is untenable. We should consider taking Moat Cailin by force.”
Eddard’s expression gave nothing away as he appeared lost in thought.
Breaking the silence, Jorah Mormont stepped forward. “My lord, let lead a small group to infiltrate Moat Cailin under the cover of darkness. We’ll open the gates from within. With your n coordinating from outside, the castle will be ours.”
Galbart Glover, quick to dismiss the notion, barked, “That’s madness! The Ironborn hold Moat Cailin with thousands of n. You’d be slaughtered before you even reached the walls.”
Undeterred, Jorah countered, “I can do it—”
“There’s no need to continue, Lord Mormont,” Eddard interrupted. His voice was firm, brooking no argunt. “Your plan is too dangerous. I will not sanction such a reckless course.”
Jorah reluctantly stepped back as Eddard continued, “I’ll send word to Howland Reed. He knows these swamps better than anyone. With his help, we may find a way through the marshes. Lightly ard and without supplies, we might traverse the swamp undetected…”
Before Eddard could finish, a raven burst into the tent, its black wings cutting through the heavy air. It landed with eerie precision on the table before him and dropped a small note from its beak. The bird cawed twice, its sharp cry echoing in the hushed room.
The lords stared, so with amazent, others with unease. A few exchanged wary glances, their faces darkened with distrust. Though all were loyal to the Old Gods, the sudden appearance of the raven unnerved them. Supernatural ons were not easily welcod, and whispers of malevolence lingered in the silence.
“Howland?” Eddard's voice was calm yet questioning, his eyes fixed on the raven before him as if he had already guessed its origin.
The raven responded with an affirmative nod, then pecked at the note resting on the table with its sharp beak.
Eddard quickly picked up the note, unfolded it, and scanned its contents. As he read, a rare smile broke across his face. “It seems we no longer need to search for a way to bypass Moat Cailin,” he announced. “The castle has already been retaken.”
The gathered lords froze, stunned by the sudden revelation, before expressions of joy lit up their faces. They eagerly passed the note around, each man reading it in turn.
“Who is this Chosen One Lynd?” Jon Umber, the burly Lord of Last Hearth, finally asked, his curiosity unable to be restrained.
He wasn’t alone in his confusion. Many of the Northern lords shared his puzzlent, their lack of familiarity with Lynd evident. Their focus had long been directed inward, toward their own lands, and news from the South often seed distant and irrelevant.
Roose Bolton, however, proved the exception. The cold and calculating Lord of the Dreadfort had a penchant for gathering intelligence from beyond the North. His pale, unsettling gaze swept the room as he began to explain. “Lynd is a figure of considerable renown in the South. His exploits are nothing short of extraordinary.”
Bolton’s recounting of Lynd’s deeds held the room in thrall. Most astonishing was the tale of how Lynd had single-handedly slain over seven hundred Ironborn pirates outside the Starry Sept. The sheer scale of this feat left the lords wide-eyed and incredulous.
“That’s absurd!” one lord exclaid, echoing the unspoken thoughts of many. “No man could do such a thing alone.”
Roose Bolton’s tone remained even as he elaborated. “This accomplishnt has been officially recognized by the Church of the Seven. They claim he was blessed by the Warrior himself, chosen to act as the god’s instrunt. Hence the title, ‘Chosen One.’”
“The Church of the Seven,” scoffed a lord who, like most Northerners, remained steadfast in his devotion to the Old Gods. “Those corrupt septons will anoint anyone for the right price.”
His remark earned nods and murmurs of agreent from the others.
Bolton, unfazed, continued. “The Citadel has also validated Lynd’s actions. They’ve chronicled the event in their official records.”
At this, the room fell silent. Though the lords held little regard for the septons of the Faith of the Seven, their respect for the Citadel and its Maesters was profound. Anything recorded by the Citadel was deed rigorously verified and beyond question.
Eddard, sensing the conversation veering into speculation, stood to address the gathering. “Who this ‘Chosen of the Gods’ is does not concern us,” he declared firmly. “What matters is that Moat Cailin is now clear.”
His tone brooked no dissent. “Sound the horn and rouse the camp,” he ordered. “Have the army ready to march on Moat Cailin.”
The lords sprang into action, each returning to his contingent to relay the command. Soldiers were awakened from their tents, hurriedly packing their belongings and preparing to move.
At the break of dawn, the combined army of the North began its march. They crossed the swampy expanse and made their way along the narrow causeway toward Moat Cailin. By the ti the sun hung high in the sky, they had reached the castle’s outskirts.
The scene that greeted them was both grim and unsettling. The marshlands surrounding the castle were littered with the bloated, decaying corpses of Ironborn soldiers. Lizard-lions, grotesque swamp predators, feasted on the remains, tearing into the flesh with abandon.
The soldiers moved cautiously, unnerved by the sight. Fortunately, the lizard-lions remained fixated on the corpses and largely ignored the advancing army. Only a few bold creatures ventured close to the causeway, but they were swiftly driven back by the wary, spear-wielding soldiers.
Eddard Stark’s face darkened as he took in the grueso spectacle. The indiscriminate scattering of bodies repelled him, the lack of respect for the dead an affront to his sense of honor. Even enemies, in his eyes, deserved a dignified end. The Ironborn should have been cremated, their remains treated with so asure of solemnity, not discarded like refuse to be consud by beasts.
However, for the rest of the people in the North, feeding the bodies of the Ironborn to the Lizard-lions in the swamp was a practice they welcod. They watched with relish, discussing among themselves that, after this war, the Lizard-lions around Moat Cailin would likely beco even fiercer and more prone to attacking humans. After all, if they consud too much human flesh, other ats might seem unappealing to them.
The gates of Moat Cailin Castle were opened early, and the army of the North rode directly into the central square. Lynd's forces had already departed the castle, having briefly cleaned up the corpses of the Ironborn before retreating to their camp outside to rest. They were preparing to march to Seagard as soon as the Northern army took full control of the castle.
Only Lynd, Nyria, Howland, and Dacey remained inside the castle, accompanied by a dozen soldiers, awaiting the arrival of the Northern leaders.
When Eddard Stark led the Lords of the North into the square of Moat Cailin and dismounted their horses, Howland stepped forward, leading Lynd and the others to et them.
"My lord, this is the Chosen One, Ser Lynd Tarran, and this is Lady Nyria Footly of Tumbleton..." Howland introduced Lynd and Nyria to Eddard Stark.
"Dacey? Why are you here?" Jorah Mormont, standing among the lords, suddenly stepped forward in surprise, his gaze fixed on Dacey, who stood beside Lynd.
Jorah’s cry of surprise imdiately drew the attention of the crowd to Dacey. Several lords recognized her; either they or their sons had once been her suitors. To the Southerners, Dacey might have seed rough or unrefined, but to the people of the North, she was the epito of a strong, capable woman—an ideal wife.
Unfortunately, Dacey had never taken a liking to any of her suitors and had eventually left for the South under the guise of embarking on an "adult journey," much to the disappointnt of many. No one had expected to see her again, let alone in these circumstances. Judging by the exquisite armor she now wore, it was evident she had fared well.
“I am now the captain of Ser Lynd’s fifth cavalry patrols, and I killed eleven Ironborn during the battle to retake Moat Cailin,” Dacey declared, her voice filled with pride as she glanced at the gathering.
At her words, the crowd snapped out of their astonishnt and turned their attention to Lynd, who stood beside her in the distinctive armor of the Banished Knight.
Eddard Stark's eyes lingered on the flying dragon etched on Lynd's helt before stepping forward. He extended his hand, saying, “Thank you, Ser Lynd, for recovering Moat Cailin. Otherwise, we would have been forced to storm it, and that would have been costly.”
“I am only too happy to obey the king’s orders,” Lynd replied politely, shaking Eddard’s hand. Then, with a hint of curiosity, he asked, “Shouldn’t you be taking a detour around Moat Cailin by ship from White Harbor? Why are you attacking it by force?”
Eddard paused briefly before countering, “How did Ser Lynd know that we planned to bypass Moat Cailin and go to White Harbor by ship?”
Lynd explained calmly, “Before coming to Moat Cailin, Lord Howland and I discussed your next possible moves while at Greywater Watch.”
Eddard’s expression shifted to one of understanding. It dawned on him that the departure of rchant ships from White Harbor might not have been due to leaked plans, but rather because soone had anticipated their strategy to bypass Moat Cailin. Those rchants might have fled early to avoid having their vessels conscripted.
As the conversation unfolded, Lord Jon Umber suddenly interrupted without warning, directing his words at Lady Nyria. “A woman? A woman is leading the troops? Have the n of the South died off? They would let a woman lead the troops.”
His remark provoked an outburst of laughter from the Lords of the North and the soldiers gathered behind them. Eddard Stark’s face darkened with displeasure, and he was on the verge of reprimanding his n when Lynd stepped in and halted him.
Lynd turned toward Nyria, whose expression had soured at Jon Umber’s words. With a slight smile, he asked her, “You’ll handle it?”
Nyria nodded decisively. “Okay, I’ll handle it.”
She strode over to an open area, hefting a massive axe in her hand. Turning to face the gathered Northerners, she called out sharply, “A bunch of n trapped here for more than ten days and still unable to march south. Co on! Let’s see if you Northerners can call yourselves n!”
Her taunt silenced the laughter, leaving several of the Lords and knights visibly displeased. Eddard did not intervene, and the provocateur, Jon Umber, stepped forward to accept her challenge.
To everyone’s astonishnt, Jon drew his longsword and launched an attack on Nyria. However, with a single powerful swing of her axe—using only its body and not the blade—she sent both Jon and his weapon flying through the air. If she had used the blade, Jon would have been cleaved in two.
The crowd was stunned. Jon Umber was renowned for his strength in the North, and there were few among the gathered Lords who could confront him head-on. Yet this formidable warrior had been defeated in a single move by Nyria. The sight left the Northerners in disbelief.
“n of the North!” Nyria declared disdainfully, casting a scornful glance over the assembled crowd before turning and returning to Lynd’s side.
Ser Lynd broke the silence that followed. “Lord Stark, I need to leave imdiately to assist in the defense of Seagard, but I don’t have enough n. I may require your support. This Lord here”—he gestured toward Jon Umber—“is clearly skilled; he was able to face Nyria briefly without being seriously hard. Please assign him to !”
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