In the North…
Spearpoints shone in the light of the rising sun as the Northmen splinter force marched northwest towards their destination. All along the verges of grass were glistening with the morning frost, indicating that the weather itself was slowly starting to change, however it was an aspect that every the Northmen, old and young alike, were all too familiar with – whereas their adversaries had not been accustomed to; the environmental changes would most likely play a role in the battle that is to come.
Under the command of Lord Galbart Glover, the small Northern retaliation forces numbered around 4,000 men with each soldier wearing the banners of Houses Glover, Mormont, Forrester, Tallhart and Glenmore respectively. Between Deepwood Motte and Winterfell lay one hundred leagues of forest, the Wolfswood. Three hundred miles as ravens fly above it. The forest itself was settled by crofters, foresters and hunters. Overall, the Wolfswood forest is thinly populated, wild and untamed.
At Deepwood Motte, Galbart Glover's maester entered the room and delivers Yara Greyjoy a message from her uncle Lord Captain Victarion Greyjoy informing her that several mainlanders were advancing on her position whilst the bulk of the Northern vanguard under the command of Lord Robb Stark was advancing on Moat Cailin; also, she learned that King Daveth I Baratheon crossed the Trident and was rapidly moving on Moat Cailin from the south.
'An attack from the northern front by the Young Wolf, accompanied by a strike from the south by the Young Stag; all this while a token force closes in on our doorstep. This is poison that I hold. I ought to burn it,' realized Yara as she set her goblet of wine down onto the table. "There will be no answer," she informed the maester.
Her hostages, Robett's wife Lady Sybell, all but lived in her godswood, praying with her children for her husband's safe return from the Ten Towers; another prayer likely to go unanswered. Her heart tree is as deaf and blind as the Drowned God. Lord Galbart Glover was likely furious after hearing what was going on in his absence and led the Northmen forces on Deepwood Motte himself. The moon was almost full, the night so clear that she could see the mountains, their peaks crowned with snow. Cold and bleak and inhospitable, but beautiful in the moonlight. Their summits glimmered pale and jagged as a row of sharpened teeth. The foothills and the smaller peaks were lost in shadow.
One of Yara's men, Tristifer Botley, turned to her. "Torrhen's Square has fallen. Now it will be our turn."
"And what of the Cleftjaws?" she asked.
"Scattered without a fight. The greenland Northmen understand the frozen terrain better than we ever could."
"Then we stand alone."
"Dagmer will smash them," Tris insisted. "They are only wolves."
"Wolves who are at their strongest when travelling with their packs. 4,000 of them, and only 200 of us."
"So?" said Cromm. "We should join the fight. Why should the others have all the glory for themselves?"
'They've given up all hope of victory,' Yara realized glumly. 'All they look for now is a good death. The wolves, stags and lions would give them that, no doubt.' She looked at her men sternly. "We're at our best on the seas, not on the mainland."
The sea was closer, only five leagues north, but Yara could not see it. Too many hills stood in the way. And trees, so many trees. The wolfswood, the Northmen named the forest. Most nights you could hear the wolves, calling to each other through the dark. An ocean of leaves. Would it were an ocean of water.
Deepwood Motte was an old castle, but not a strong one. She had taken it from the Glovers, and they would take it back from her. Princess Yara Greyjoy had no intention of being taken captive. She would die as she had lived, with an axe in her hand and a laugh upon her lips. Her father had given her 30 longships to capture Deepwood Motte. Four remained, counting her own Black Wind vessel, and one of those belonged to Tris Botley, who had joined her when all her other men were fleeing.
*BAM! BAM!*
Yara could hear commotion outside and went to investigate. By the time she arrived on the scene, she could see one man was dead. His blood and brains crusted one her men's axes. The second was still breathing raggedly, though a spear had pinned him to the ground in a spreading pool of blood. Both were clad in boiled leather and mottled cloaks of brown and green and black, with branches, leaves, and brush sewn about their heads and shoulders.
"Who are you?" she asked.
"Wha… what does it matter?" the wounded man replied.
"You are speaking to Princess Yara of House Greyjoy. You're in my castle."
"Deepwood Motte… belongs to House Glover. This is… not your home, squids."
"Are there any more of you?" Asha demanded of him. When he did not answer, she seized Grimtongue's spear and turned it, and the northerner cried out in anguish as more blood gushed from his wound. "What was your purpose here?"
"The lady," he said, shuddering. "Gods, we come for the lady. T' rescue her. It was just us five."
Yara looked into his eyes. When she saw the falsehood there, she leaned upon the spear, twisting it. "How many more?" she said. "Tell me, or I'll make your dying last until the dawn."
"Many. Thousands. 4,000… aieeee… Won't be long now…"
*AHOOOOOOOOO!*
The warnhorn cried out, long and low, a sound to curdle blood. Yara had begun to hate the sound of horns; on Old Wyk, her uncle's hellhorn had blown a death kneel for her dreams and now her men were sounding like it might as well be their last hours on earth.
"To the walls!" Yara told her men.
"It's too late… The North… remembers—" the wounded northern scout spoke, before one of the ironborn thrusted their spears through his mouth, silencing him permanently.
Yara turned her own steps for the nearest watchtower, with Tris Botley right behind her. The wooden watchtower was the tallest thing this side of the mountains, rising 20 feet above the biggest sentinels and soldier pines in the surrounding wolfwood. Yara squinted her eyes and saw a horde of Northmen vastly approaching Deepwoode Motte, banners bearing the sigils of different houses and lit torches lighting up the darkness. 4,000 mainlanders against the ironborn's 200…
"We can't fight that many Greenlanders," pointed out Tris.
Cromm, however, remained unnerved. "We can fight as many as come, pup. The more there are, the more the glory. Men will sing battle songs of us for generations."
"But will they sing of your courage or our folly?"
"Come the dawn we will feast beneath the sea."
"If we die with dry feet, how will we find our way to the Drowned God's watery halls?"
"All of them rivers here lead to the sea."
Yara was not ready to die, not here, not yet. "A living man can find the sea more easily than a dead one. So long as we can hold Moat Cailin, let the wolves keep their woods and cold weather. We can always come back. For now, we're making for the ships."
"What?!" exclaimed Cromm.
She wondered who was in command of her foes. If anything, Yara would have taken the strand and put her ships to the torch before attacking Deepwood Motte. The Northmen would not find it that easy, not without ships of their own. Yara never beached more than half her ships. The other half stood safely off to sea, with orders to raise sail and make for Sea Dragon Point if the northmen took the strand.
"Hagen, blow your horn and make the forest shake. Tris, don some mail, it's time you tried out that sweet sword of yours." When Yara saw how pale Tris was, she pinched his cheek. "Splash some blood upon the moon with me, and I promise you with a kiss for every kill."
"But Princess, here we have the walls. What happens if we reach the sea and find the Northmen have taken our ships or driven them away…?"
"Then we die," she finished cheerfully, "but at least we'll die with our feet wet. Ironborn fight better with salt spray in our noses and the sound of the waves at our backs."
Another of Yara's men blew three short blasts in quick succession, the signal that would send the ironborn back to their ships. From below came shouting, the clatter of spear and sword, the whinnying of horses. Too few horses and too few riders. Asha headed for the stair. In the bailey, she found Qarl the Maid waiting with her chestnut mare, her warhelm, and her throwing axes. Ironmen were leading horses from Galbart Glover's stables.
"A ram!" a voice shouted down from the walls. "They have a battering ram!"
"Which gate?"
"The north!" From beyond Deepwood's mossy wooden walls came the sudden sound of trumpets. Trumpets? Wolves with trumpets? That was wrong, but Yara had no time to ponder it.
"Open the south gate," she commanded, even as the north gate shook to the impact of the ram. She pulled a short-hafted throwing axe from the belt across her shoulder. "The hour of the owl has fled, my brothers. Now comes the hour of the spear, the sword, the axe. Form up. We're going home."
From a hundred throats came roars of "Home!" and "Yara Greyjoy!" Tris Botley galloped up on a tall stallion. The ironborn closed about each other, hefting shields, swords, axes and spears, a rain of arrows began flying overhead and into the fortress.
*WHOOSH!*
*WHIP!*
*BAM!*
One of Yara's men, Argoth Marrick, was hit in the throat with a passing arrow. He began gurgling blood before more arrows rained down upon the fleeing ironborn as they moved to make for the ships at the shore of Sea Dragon Point. They fought in the predawn gloom, shadow against shadow, stumbling over roots and rocks, with mud and rotting leaves beneath their feet. Half of Yara's forces were thrown off their horses as arrows hit their mounts, mortally wounding them or incapacitating them.
"Don't let them get away!" shouted Lord Gregor Forrester. The Lord of Ironrath and Defender of the Ironwood Groves, the Forresters were the vassals of House Glover chosen by Lord Galbart Glover to lead the vanguard.
The first Northman to come at Yara Greyjoy was a Glover soldier who died at her feet with her throwing an axe which hit him between the eyes. That gave her respite enough to gather her wits before another Northman armed with an axe loomed up before her, swinging with both hands as he howled in wordless fury. Yara dodged effortlessly and shoved her dirk in his guts, twisting the blade before pulling out and gouging out his eyes. She spun and found another behind her, and slashed him across the face beneath his helm – albeit he nearly
"The crimes you ironborn have committed against the North won't go unpunished!"
The horses screamed and kicked and rolled their eyes in terror, maddened by the butchery and blood. Tris gripped the saddle of his horse; the stallion was rearing and wheeling as Tris swung his spiked club left and right against the oncoming Northmen.
"Four," as one went down. "Five. Six Seven," he shouted.
More Northmen just kept on coming, and more ironborn kept getting slain. Their numbers were rapidly dropping. Yara Greyjoy knew they wouldn't last long so long as they remained on the shore. She looked onto the distance and saw her warships and beached oars. She didn't know how long they've been running, but if the ironborn could make it back to their ships – they could very well make their escape. Or even turn the tide against the Northmen, by utilizing each deck's trebuchets and scorpions.
Yara pushed her dirk into a Glenmore soldier's chest through fur and wool and boiled leather. His face was so close to hers that she could almost smell the sour stench of his breath, and his hand was at her throat. Yara felt iron scrapping against bone as her point slid against a rib before sliding through. Then the man shuddered and died. When she let go of him, Yara pushed him off of her as her ships were within range.
"Back to the boats! Quickly!" she yelled.
The remaining ironborn had scrambled back to the oars, en route to Black Wind. What had originally started as a 200 occupation force was drastically reduced to a mere 70. Heavily outnumbered and forced to abandon their prize. The Northmen had only lost almost 100 men, but their numbers were still vastly superior. As some of her men began getting their feet into the waters, jumping onto the oars, Princess Yara Greyjoy stood side-by-side with Cromm, listening to the grunts and curses all around them, to brave men crawling through the shadows weeping for their mothers. A Mormont soldier drove at her with a spear long enough to punch through her belly and Cromm's back as well, pinning them together as they died. Cromm killed the spearman before he reached her. A heartbeat later a Glover soldier badly wounded Cromm, driving an axe into his right flank.
"Damn you all," Cromm chocked as he fell to his knees.
Yara wrenched loose a throwing axe and sent it flying end over end to take out Glover, Forrester and Tallhart soldiers coming at her. When she finally felt water at her ankles, Yara seized her chances and climb aboard the nearest oars with what remained of her men and began rowing to the Black Wind. Yara watched as the Northmen gathering at Sea Dragon Point, either finishing off whatever ironborn stragglers who failed to make it to the oars in time or taking them as prisoners, but it didn't matter to the ironborn. They refused to be taken alive and still put up a fierce fight. In the end, all who resisted were killed. And all Yara could do was to do nothing but watch.
'191 of my men are gone, and for what? All for some pinecones and rocks?' she bitterly thought to herself.
Climbing aboard the Black Wind, Yara Greyjoy watched as her surviving crew tended to their wounds. Some cursed the Northmen and wanted to fight, but so long as Yara was in charge she had the final say. Glancing over her shoulder, Yara could see the Northmen in the distance – glaring at her. Momentarily glancing into the seas, the moonlight's reflection bouncing off the surface, Yara looked back at the mainland and felt her hands tightening.
"Load the spitfires," Yara commanded. "Bombard the mainlanders."
The surviving ironborn each ran up to the Black Wind deck and started carrying oil-covered stones, lit them on fire and… one-by-one, propelled them upwards and over aimed directly at the pursuing Northmen.
*BAM!*
*CRASH!*
*BOOM!*
Explosion after explosion, the ironborn watched as the Northmen screamed and shouted, scurrying about trying to avoid the fireballs hurled at them. There were also weren't enough men to sail the remaining longships, so Yara instructed her crew to burn the other three to prevent the Northmen from seizing them to use against them. As the flames coated the mainland and the remaining ships began sinking into the ocean depths, Yara pushed herself off the edge of the Black Wind and made her way up the stairs to the ship's wheel.
"What are our rations, captain?"
"We've well enough for our voyage to the Iron Islands, Princess. Luckily, our glorious plunder should be able to last us for about two weeks."
Yara nodded. "Bring us back to port at Pyke, captain."
"Princess?"
"I said bring us back to port at Pyke. I need to have a word with my father, the Kraken King."
The ironborn captain begrudgingly nodded and steered the Black Wind around the western coast of the North, planning an estimated safe route to the Iron Islands and avoid any contact with enemy ships if possible. As she left to her private chambers, Yara sat on one of her hammocks and placed one arm over her brow.
"Theon…" she whispered almost in a sad tone. "Where are you?"
######
At Moat Cailin…
*BOOM!*
*CRASH!*
It was a stormy night. Rain battered the ancient fortress of Moat Cailin, thunder boomed across the skies and lightning struck the ground with tremendous force. Inside, the ironborn scrambled into their positions. Among them, only one maintained his composure. Lord Captain Victarion Greyjoy.
Nearly a month ago, he had already received word of Robb Stark the Young Wolf and most of his bannermen had sailed around to White Harbor with the Royal Fleet's assistance and was already en route to strike Moat Cailin from the north. Elsewhere, Victarion learned of Daveth Baratheon's march up the Neck to attack from the south. A pincer movement, the Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet learned. Victarion had only lost once against Stannis Baratheon during his brother Balon's first rebellion, but vowed to never let it happen again.
He had already fought off gruella-style hit-and-run tactics from the local Crannogmen, but refused his men to begin pursuing them. Victarion knew from a tactical standpoint that the Crannogmen had proven time and time again that they were notoriously difficult to conquer and knew the terrain. They never sat in one place for too long. Even if the swamp and bog indeed held water for the ironborn to navigate through, if the Crannogmen didn't kill the ironborn with their poisoned-tip weaponry first, then the carnivorous, reptilian creatures such as sea serpents and lizard-lions as well as the terrain itself most definitely will. Those who tried found that out the hard way.
Being a capable commander, Victarion knew how strategically important Moat Cailin was to the ironborn occupation. Even if the fortress had degraded over time and only three towers remained standing, Moat Cailin is still the lynch-pin of the defense of the North from any invasion from the south. So long as they held the fortress, the North was still technically considered under ironborn rule. And Victarion Greyjoy was not willing to give up his well-deserved prize without a fight. After all, he had most of the Iron Fleet off shore – near Saltspear and the Fever River. But to make the necessary preparations for a military strategy from his enemies, Victarion had to reinforce both the northern and southern flanks of Moat Cailin.
"Won't be long now," he mused. "Soon they will be in for a fight of their lives."
"What is dead may never die," one of his captains recited.
"What is dead may never die. But rises again, harder and stronger. The Drowned God will lead us to victory against the greenlanders."
It was a while later before his captain, Red Ralf Stonehouse returned.
"Contact from the north!"
"Contact from the south!" another shouted.
*AHOOOOOOOOO!*
As the warhorn cried, long and low, a sound to curdle blood, Victarion Greyjoy observed both sides of the fortress and saw assembled armies marching towards them. Robb Stark and Daveth Baratheon were now visibly in range. Unsheathing his axe, Victarion began barking orders at his men.
"SPEARS AND SHIELDS!" he roared.
######
Author's Note: The first wave of the counterattack took place. Deepwood Motte was liberated and now the battle of Moat Cailin was now officially underway. Now, before there's a wave against what happened earlier, take note that veterans such as Stannis Baratheon and Jaime Lannister acknowledged that although the ironborn were fierce warriors who were unparalleled at sea, they weren't soldiers and lacked both discipline and strategy. Regardless, I figured I'd change some things with Victarion for the next chapter since he's experienced the pincer strategy before against Stannis and Paxter Redwyne. It'll be Daveth Baratheon and Robb Stark against Victarion Greyjoy. It'll be an incredibly tough fight, even for both young men. Many of you noticed how tough Victarion was and regularly compared his durability to Tormund Giantsbane so I'll keep taking notes so as to get it right. Keep sending me info so I don't get it mixed up. Thoughts? Let me know.
Gachmara: Why didn't all of them die, or get captured, even in a rout, when surrounded by 20 times your own army, there is little chanse of escaping. Also, the first focus should have been to capture Yara/Asha, simply because she is a VIP.
―Don't worry; Yara isn't finished yet.
RHatch89: Awesome :)
―Thanks.
Felon GT: Kabab iron born from asshole to mouth. Or like heads stretching miles. Crucify them?
―We'll see what comes next.
BioHazard82: Another good chapter.
―Thanks.
C.E.W: Now that Deepwood Motte is liberated, the Ironborn have lost a strategic base of operations in the North. Torrhen's Squire is retaken and now the only stronghold on the main land is Moat Cailin. Victarion must likely doesn't know about Deepwood Motte yet. As the Iron Fleet, it can't stay where it is when the royal fleet arrives unless they want to be caught off guard, and if Victarion is captured or killed, it will be leaderless. Victarion is a sea commander, not a field commander which gives Robb and Devath an an advantage on that part. Even if they can't retake the castle, they can trap Victorian in and leave the Iron Fleet leaderless and the royal fleet will destroy it. And if the fleet is destroyed, Victorian will be cut of from supplies and I wonder how long it will be for the garrison to turn on him. If the Ironborn garrison turns on each other, then it would weaken Victarion to the point where the Moat will be too undermanned to defend. Either way, Daveth wins and the Ironborn will follow Victarion to the grave.
Guest #1: great story
―Thanks.
The Three Stoogies: a great chapter can't wait to read more i hope victorian greyjoy gets captured alive and handed over to Daveth keep up the great work.
―Kraken vs. Stag and Direwolf. Who will win this epic battle?
Blizzard dragon7777: Out of 200 soldiers for only 9 plus yara to survive? That's not a route that's a massive defeat for the iron born.
―They don't do so very well on land, I know.