The raven's news surged through Seagard like a torrent and promptly spilled over the walls into the camp of two thousand northerners: the longships of the Ironborn had been smashed off Fair Island by the combined might of the Royal and Redwyne fleets. Eddard Stark and his top lieutenants immediately stopped the day's training; granting their ebullient men a day to celebrate in Seagard's taverns, potshops, and whorehouses, while they rushed off for Lord Jason's Keep to hear the full message brought in on black wings.

"That didn't take you long, did it, Ned?" the Mallister lord said, happily swirling a cup of wine in one hand, boots resting atop the ironwood desk of his solarium, broad shoulders jauntily tipping his chair backward. "Kraig!" he called loudly for his steward. "More glasses! Lord Eddard has brought friends."

"It's true then? The Iron Fleet is sunk?" Ned asked.

"Oh not all of it," Lord Jason replied with a saucy grin that damped the usual fierceness of his eyes, "but enough to send the Greyjoy brothers scurrying back to Pyke."

"Wooo-Hooo!" the northerners cheered.

Mal," Jason Mallister directed his squire, "there's still a spare goblet, pour a cupful for his lordship here," and he pointed his own mug at Ned.

The teen dutifully picked up the flagon and poured half a glass, until spotting the first of the dregs. "Uhm, my lord?" young Malcom Mallister pronounced, swishing the remnants about inside the near empty jug.

"Kraig!" Lord Jason cried again. "Another …" and his eyes flitted about the room quickly counting the number of Northern and Riverland lordlings present, "six bottles too!"

The voices of the half a dozen Mallister deputies already in the room joined in the loud applause of their northern guests for their lord's largesse.

Knowing of Robert's impatience to grapple with a foe better than anyone, Ned asked, "Did the message give any notion on when the King will take the fight to the Krakens?"

Lord Jason's cheery grin turned fiercer and plucked a slight, rolled piece of parchment from the breast pocket of his tunic. "Lord Stannis seems a most efficient fellow; he took ravens aboard with him. This he sent from off his Fury the day after the sea battle." The Mallister lord tossed the small bundle on to the table next to where Ned stood.

Lohgun's liege picked it up, unrolled the message, and read it half a loud.

May the Twenty Seventh, Year 289 After Landing.

Flagship Fury.

Off the northwest Coast of Fair Isle.

To the Lord Mallister,

Victory. Forty seven longships sunk and thirty three captured yesterday at the cost of only twenty six war galleys. The Iron Fleet and longships of the other Iron Lords are scattered and fleeing north. Aeron Greyjoy now a prisoner. The warships of the Arbor acted as the anvil to the Royal Fleet's hammer.

The Royal Fleet shall pursue and blockade the rebels in their ports.

Paxter Redwyne ordered to clear Ironman's Bay and bring transports to Seagard. Look for them, barring a storm, in no less than ten, but no more than fourteen days. The King expects to see your and Lord Stark's banners off of Pyke in a month where you will be granted the privilege of assisting his Grace in rendering justice upon House Greyjoy.

All Duties faithfully performed in the name of King Robert Baratheon, the First of His Name.

By Lord Stannis Baratheon, Master of Ships.

"Well they sliced a tentacle or two off the Kraken," Ned said with a big grin.

"Didn't they, though," Lord Jason agreed enthusiastically. "And soon will have a chance to stab it in its inky black eye!"

'Still sounds like a dour turd, that Stannis,' the wildling thought, remembering through the haze of years the tall, gaunt, taciturn young man he'd briefly met in a brightly colored pavilion beneath the towering grey walls of Storm's End. 'But still very effective,' he grudgingly admitted.

"Wine!" the Greatjon called as the mousy steward led a minor contingent of buxom servers into the solar.

"Frails!" came the Badger's automatic rejoinder to his very big friend.

Ned laughed and slapped Lohgun on the shoulder. "Do you ever not think with your cock, my friend? I swear you're near as bad as I remember Robert was."

What cheer the short man felt for the coming battle drained away, though he kept a false grin plastered to his face, not wanting to reveal the depths of his turmoil to Ned. 'You have no idea, no idea,' Lohgun thought.

Two days earlier fifty Redwyne battle vessels had chased the covering force of rebel longships out of Ironman's Bay to grant some thirty odd transports the right the next day to jockey for the limited moorings at Seagard's still incomplete docks. The thin, stooped, dyspeptic Lord Paxter had himself finally come ashore this morning to scold Northerner and Riverlander alike on the criminal inadequacy of the harbor's berths, as though the Greyjoys' depredations had not created the problem in the first place, and to disparage everyone on their lack of preparedness. In reality, from the get go the four functioning piers were jam packed with overly eager lordlings, knights, and warriors trying to swarm aboard any ship that appeared to offer a modicum of space; while paying no heed whatsoever to the directions futilely screamed by the jury rigged port's understaffed and overburdened Harbormaster. And none of that even addressed the mountain of supplies necessary to sustain three thousand men for several months all sitting on the beach; nor the number of fools insisting on bringing along their horse, 'the cleverest little charger' or 'strongest steed you ever did see,' for a sea campaign.

After enduring Lord Paxter over a small dinner for three hosted in Lord Jason's private apartments, an ice cold angry Ned had returned after dark to the North's encampment and summarily summoned his top deputies: Manderly, Umber, Cerwyn, Mormont, Tallhart, Stout, Flint, Brooke, Whitehill, Locke, Forrester, and Badger. Lohgun, upon entering the large tent erected beneath the Direwolf banner, immediately noted the storm dancing in Ned's eyes; the best window to his friend's moods, for his well-schooled, lordly mien seldom betrayed the vigor of his feelings.

Rodrik and the Greatjon noisily came in together, the scent of ale heavy upon them. The pair happily shouted out "Bear" and "Badger" upon spying their friends and wove their way over, oblivious to the cool gaze Ned cast upon them. When his friend from the Bite started to open his mouth, the wildling stepped hard on his toes. "Ouch, why'd you … ?" The Badger stepped down even harder, causing his gregarious comrade to squeak loud enough to gain even the Greatjon's diminished attention. Both Lohgun and Jorah shook their heads toward Ned. "Ohhhh," grunted the big man.

"Sers, if none of you realized it, today was a shambles. A giant, steaming pile of Auroch manure," the Lord of Winterfell chastised his lieutenants. "Barely a quarter of our men got boarded and none of the bloody supplies! How are we to come to the aid of our King if we can't organize ourselves any better than a stoat in heat?"

Rodrik started to snicker until he felt the sharp pressure of Lohgun's boot again.

"Since the North has the most men, Lord Jason and Lord Redwyne have assigned us the two most southerly piers to load our men," Ned continued sharply. "The next pier up will be for supplies only. The north pier will be used for the Mallisters and the few Freys here to use. Greatjon. Jorah. An hour before dawn you will station yourselves at the start of the far dock. No one gets close to a boat unless they're with their fellow banners. Badger, you'll be with me at the next dock doing the same. Medgur. Marlon. You shall be at the supply dock. Understood?"

All five men nodded vigorously.

Ned nodded back. "Everyone else, have your men lined up … in orderly fashion at dawn. Figure it out tonight what order you'll go in. No more than one chest per man. Oh, and no horses!"

Several grumbled loudly at that last pronouncement, until Ned's stony glare shushed them.

"I'll post a list in an hour as to who gets to bring a horse. I warn you, the list will be short."

"Pardon, my lord," Medrick Whitehill interrupted. "Not that I don't trust the Mallisters, but seems we'll be leaving a lot behind now, won't we?" he complained. "How do we know it'll stay safe?"

Ned's lips turned a thin smile. "Because you and yours will stay in Seagard to guard it," he answered coolly.

The air surged through the the tent as everyone inhaled in stunned amazement at their lord's seemingly arbitrary decision to deny one of their number the honor of battle. Medrick's face turned red, then purple in rage, but he remembered to whom he owed his station and kept his mouth shut.

"Any more questions?" the Lord of Winterfell asked without a hint of emotion.

A chorus of "No, my lords," filled the tent.

"See to your duties then." And everyone was dismissed.

The morning had gone well. The sun, just past its zenith shone down on loaded ships pushing away from the dock and others hauling up their anchors in order to take up the soon to be freed space. A hundred men jockeyed on the southernmost pier to board the tied up cogs still taking passengers. Only a few hundred men remained, not too impatiently, in front of Ned and Lohgun where they stood at the point wood planks met stone and sand.

Splash!

"There goes another," the wildling muttered. "Twenty seven," he called out.

Ned chuckled. "Are you sure?"

"Ayup," Lohgun answered nonchalantly.

"He might have fallen from the other dock," his friend countered. "Care to wager a copper on it?"

The Badger tilted his head toward Ned and raised up his eyes to give the Lord of Winterfell the dubious look that arrogantly proclaimed, 'Really? You're doubting me?' After a long moment he added with a whiff of mockery, "Take a gander then, bub. Your copper."

Ned simply chuckled more, but never turned around, for his eyes narrowed to look at something in the distance. Lohgun followed his friend's gaze and saw a horseman wearing the grey colors of Winterfell riding down the beach from the direction of Seagard's Shore Gate. "Who is it?" Ned asks.

"You trust my eyes, but not my ears?" the wildling growled with mock anger. "It's … six toes."

Ned blinked in surprise. "What's so important Cat would send a rider all the way from Winterfell, but not important enough to send by raven?" he pondered.

"Let's find out," the Badger declared then stuck two fingers in his mouth to blast a whistle that cut through the noise of the wind, the seas, and the docks.

The messengers head snapped over and soon spotted his liege. He spurred his horse to a trot. Upon arriving he snapped a salute while saying, "My lord."

"Edwyn, You're a long way from Winterfell. Is all well?" Ned asked, hiding any concern or eagerness. Lohgun simply stared at the oversized boots the rider wore, trying to imagine what it would feel like to walk with six toes on each foot.

"All is fine, my lord. Your lady wife tasked me to deliver you a message." The rider snapped open a leather pouch tied to his saddle and reached in to pull out a sealed parchment. "Right glad I arrived soon enough, or I'd have been looking for a boat to chase after you," he said with what sounded like a sigh of relief.

"Thank you, Edwyn." And Ned in accepting the missive handed over a small purse of coins. "Enjoy a few days rest in Seagard before heading back. If this is important, I'll have a message for you to take back." Ned tore a thumbnail through the direwolf sigil of the wax and unfolded the paper. His eyes widened in surprise.

"What news?" Lohgun asked.

"I'm going to be a father again!" Ned yelled through a smile so large it threatened to cut his head in half. "Cat's pregnant!"

"HUZZAAHHHHHH!" erupted out of the throats of every man within listening distance. Men pushed forward and hands reached out to pound their liege lord on back and shoulder, moving Lohgun way from his friend.

The Badger rubbed a hand over his mouth and bushy, unkempt beard. "Shit. I'm Gods damned," he whispered to himself, horrified at the possibilities.