Night had fallen hard over Moat Cailin. The wind came howling off the fens, cold and wet, carrying the smell of mud and rot. From the battlements, Benjen Stark could see the mists rising out of the swamps, thin, ghostly veils drifting across the dark water that surrounded the ancient fortress.
The towers stood like broken teeth against the grey sky, slick with moss and rain. What little remained of the army camped within the walls, their fires burning low, their voices hushed. The songs of victory that had once filled the camps of the rebellion were gone. All that was left now was the quiet crackle of firewood, the coughs of tired men, and the wind that never stopped blowing.
It had been three days since they reached Moat Cailin. Two days since Walder and the remnants of the cavalry returned from their clash with the Lannisters. A day since Benjen had sent Walder north with the wounded and with Robb, to carry the last of his kin home to Winterfell.
The men called it a victory that the Mountain had been stopped, that their flight across the Green Fork had been bought with courage and not cowardice. That Walder, a giant of a man in his own right, had clashed against the Mountain alone and delivered a great victory. In the songs they would tell, perhaps that would be true. But Benjen knew better. There were no victories left for the North, not here, not now.
He leaned against the cold stone of the battlement, his breath steaming in the chill. The wind tugged at his cloak, the furs heavy with damp. Below him, the marshes stretched endlessly, pools of dark water glimmering faintly in the moonlight. Somewhere out there, half-buried beneath the reeds and mud, lay the bones of the First Men who had built this place.
He could almost hear them whispering in the wind.
Benjen closed his eyes for a moment, remembering the rush to the Green Fork, the battle on the Kingsroad, the cries of men as the horses stumbled through the water, the sound of steel and thunder behind them. His own recklessness had nearly destroyed them. He had wanted vengeance for Eddard, for Rickard, for Lyanna, for all the Starks the South had taken from him. But vengeance didn't bring back the dead. It only filled the earth with more of them.
He had led them to fight when he should have led them to safety. He had turned a retreat into a battle out of pride, not duty. And still, they had followed him.
He looked down at the courtyard below. The few thousand who remained were scattered between the crumbling walls and the muddy yard. Men huddled together for warmth. A handful sharpened blades more out of habit than need. Most simply stared into the flames.
They were northerners. They didn't complain. They endured.
Benjen straightened and walked along the parapet toward the southern wall. From here, the causeway could be seen — a narrow strip of broken stone and swamp stretching off into the darkness. It was the only road into the North. Every southern army that had ever tried to take it had broken upon these bogs.
This would be where they made their stand.
He'd sent Walder away with the boy, the wounded, and what little hope remained. Now, what was left of the host would stay here. Moat Cailin would not fall while there were men alive to hold it.
Benjen rested his hands on the cold stone and stared south into the mist. He couldn't see beyond it, but he didn't need to. He knew the Lannisters would come. Tywin wouldn't rest while the North remained defiant. Perhaps he was already marching. Perhaps he was content to let them starve behind these walls. Either way, Benjen would be waiting.
The thought didn't comfort him. It didn't frighten him either.
He had been fifteen years old when this all began. Fifteen, and angry at a world that had taken his family and left him with nothing but ghosts and war. Now, he was older by far than his years. Older than he had any right to be.
He pulled his cloak tighter and turned away from the edge. The torchlight flickered across his face, deepening the shadows beneath his eyes. The courtyard below was quiet, save for the soft murmur of sleeping men. A lone raven perched above the gate, black feathers glistening in the rain.
Benjen stopped at the steps leading down into the courtyard and looked back once more at the mists that hid the South. He thought of his father's words, that the North was not won by fire or steel, but by endurance.
So be it.
If Tywin Lannister wanted the North, he could bleed for every foot of it.
Benjen turned and descended the steps, his boots echoing on the wet stone. The wind howled again across the fortress, sweeping over the old stones and the sleeping men below.
Inside the great hall, the fires burned low. Benjen crossed the room in silence and stopped by the table where the old maps lay spread. The ink had run from damp fingers and rain, but the lines were still visible, the causeway, the fens, the river. He studied them for a long time, tracing the path the Lannisters would have to take. Every road led through the swamps, through ground that would swallow men and horses whole.
He didn't need a great host to defend the North. He only needed enough time.
For Robb to grow.
For Winterfell to stand ready.
The torch guttered beside him, smoke curling in the still air. Benjen reached out and snuffed it with his fingers, leaving the hall in darkness.
Outside, the rain began again, steady and cold.
The siege had not yet begun, but in truth, it already had.
-X-
The wind howled through the Sea Tower of Pyke, driving the rain against the stone like thrown pebbles. The room stank of salt and smoke, the fire in the hearth struggling to keep itself alive. Balon Greyjoy stood at the window slit, staring out into the night where the waves crashed white against the cliffs. His hands were clasped behind his back, the iron crown resting on the ledge beside him.
Behind him, his family waited. Victarion sat stiff in his armour, helm under one arm, axe at his feet. Aeron stood in the shadows near the fire, his wet hair hanging like seaweed. Rodrik and Maron sat together, eager and watchful, their youth sharp in contrast to the hard men around them.
And Euron sat apart, lounging in his chair like a man among ghosts. His black coat gleamed in the firelight, his pale eye half-lidded, the other, a deep, dark blue, the colour of a storm at sea, fixed on Balon with faint amusement.
For a time, the only sound was the sea.
Then Balon spoke. "Our father raided the Reach in the early days of Robert's war. Burned Oldtown's ships, sacked their coasts. The realm remembered the Ironborn then."
Victarion grunted in agreement. "Aye. We struck hard and fast. Took their women, gold and wine, and they never came close to catching us."
Rodrik leaned forward. "Then let us do it again. The Reach is soft—"
Balon cut him off with a glance. "The Reach is fighting the Stormlands, boy. They have more swords on their walls than we have ships on the tide. We have already picked their coast clean. And the forts along there will be armed in case of our approach."
Maron spoke next, quieter. "Then the North. They're weak. The young Stark hides behind swamps and ruins. He won't stand against us."
Victarion shook his head. "There's little to take in the North but snow and empty bellies. It's too poor to be worth our sails."
Balon's gaze slid toward Euron. "You've been silent."
Euron smiled faintly. "Only listening."
"Then speak."
Euron leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. "You speak of the Reach and the North, but both are poor prizes. The Reach is bloodied, the North is barren. The lions, though…" He paused, letting the word linger. "The lions sit on gold, fat and drowsy. Tywin Lannister marched south with ten thousand men, no more. That leaves his keeps and his mines ripe for plunder."
Victarion's brow furrowed. "Ripe, aye, but not undefended. Ten thousand gone still leaves thrice that many to be called. The Westerlands can raise one of the largest forces in the realm and they're the most well-armoured and equipped. You'd have us raid a lion's den and think it a sheepfold?"
"The greater the risk," Euron said softly, "the greater the prize."
Aeron's head snapped up. "And the greater the folly. You'd have us drown in greed."
Euron's smile deepened. "And what would you have us do, follow in father's footsteps?"
Victarion's hand tightened around his axe. "Watch your tongue."
"Why?" Euron asked calmly with a smirk. "Does my tongue offend you, brother?"
Before Victarion could answer, Balon's voice cut across the room. "Enough." He stepped forward, the storm behind him casting flashes of white through the slit of the window. "We will not waste our strength on the Reach or the North. Both are poor, both are guarded. The West…"
He let the word hang in the air.
Rodrik looked up sharply. "The West?"
"The Lannisters," Balon said. "Their lord's away. His armies are marching, their ports are swollen with ships. Gold enough to buy kingdoms. But they're dangerous prey."
Victarion frowned. "Aye. Their coastlines are stony and their harbours fortified. Their fleets are strong, their men disciplined. We strike there and they'll call every bannerman to arms. Ten thousand marched, but thirty thousand still sleep behind their walls. The Westerlands are rich, but they'll bleed us dry if we're not quick."
Euron spoke before Balon could. "Then be quick."
The others turned to him.
Euron's voice was quiet, but there was steel beneath it. "Strike where their strength lies, the sea. Lannisport. Burn their fleet in its harbour, before Tywin returns to guard it. The lions won't bear their teeth if they're choking on smoke."
The fire crackled. The sea roared below.
Rodrik looked to his father. "It could be done," he said, half-whispering. "A night assault, from the sea. Before they know we're there."
Maron nodded. "And we'd be gone before dawn."
Victarion slammed his fist on the table. "You speak like fools! Lannisport's no fishing village. Its walls are high, its harbour narrow. We'd be trapped before the first ship burned."
Euron only smiled. "If you steer poorly."
Victarion's eyes flashed. "Careful, brother."
"Always," Euron said again.
Balon's stare moved from one brother to the other. "Enough."
For a long moment, there was only the crackle of flame and the sea hammering the cliffs below. Then Balon turned to Victarion. "You'll take the fleet."
Victarion's head came up. "Aye, my lord."
"Maron and Aeron will go with you. Take every longship that can sail and strike fast. Burn their ships, salt their docks, and bring me their gold. What you can't take, you leave in ashes."
Rodrik leaned forward in his chair, one hand tracing the grain of the wood. "And what will you have me do, father?"
Balon regarded his son. "You shall sail for Seagard and claim the fortress for our own."
Euron leaned back with a smirk. "And what of me?"
Balon's eyes met his. "You'll stay here. Pyke needs watching, and someone has to tend to what's left when real men sail."
A faint chuckle escaped Euron. "As you command."
Victarion muttered something under his breath that might have been a prayer or a curse.
Euron stood and made to leave, but as he passed Victarion, he spoke softly. "Try not to drown in glory, Captain."
Victarion's grip tightened on his axe, but Balon's glare froze him in place.
The Crow's Eye left without another word.
When the door shut behind him, the room felt larger, emptier, the air less heavy though no one dared to say so.
Balon turned back to the window, the storm's light flashing against his iron crown. "The lions have grown fat while the realm bleeds," he said. "It's time they remembered who rules the sea."