The blizzard that had lasted for weeks finally ceased, but Robb felt no relief. The Ironborn under Euron's command were far more troublesome than expected.
After receiving word at the Wall, he immediately rode south to Deepwood Motte. The Lord of Winterfell's arrival on the battlefield greatly boosted the morale of the West Coast nobles and commoners. The Northern army, trudging through snow, began to assemble and rushed to the battlefield at full speed. Even before the host was fully gathered, they launched several counterattacks and achieved results, striking a heavy blow to the arrogance of the invaders.
Yet their smooth progress did not last. Euron's true aim was not to seize castles or plunder wealth, but to exhaust both the visible and hidden strength of Westeros, laying the groundwork for a possible full-scale invasion in the future. Soon, the Northmen who had armed themselves to defend their homes discovered that the Ironborn had indeed adopted the measures Roose Bolton had predicted. They no longer sought engagements with the main host, but shifted from frontal assaults to guerrilla raids.
...
By rights, guerrilla warfare requires high mobility and familiarity with the land, a tactic usually employed by defenders. Invaders seldom have the conditions to use it. But the fatal problem was that the North had no powerful navy to oppose the longships of the Iron Islands, having lost control of the sea decisively at the very start of the war. The West Coast and the wide stretch of the Sunset Sea became the Ironborn's uncontested home waters. They came with the wind and rowed away as they pleased, leaving the North in the awkward position of "unable to lose, yet unable to win."
Robb disliked Roose Bolton as much as he loathed the flayed man sigil of his house, and the grim name and atmosphere of the Dreadfort. Yet even while despising him, the new Warden of the North had to admit that this man, who always wore a cold and sinister expression, somehow always made the correct judgments. After a few failed attempts of his own, Robb reluctantly followed Bolton's counsel, ordering the scattered folk along the coast to withdraw inland, gathering them into larger Winter Towns, castles, and garrisoned villages. He shifted from offense to defense, planning to outlast the foe.
This strategy proved effective, and the enemy's violent response confirmed it. Realizing the Northmen's plan, the Ironborn increased their raids, seeking to thwart it by intercepting and slaughtering retreating villagers and soldiers, spreading terror as they went.
In turn, Robb Stark responded in kind, dividing his main host into several parts and racing back and forth, relying on rapid marches to shield the lives and property of his people, rendering the enemy's plans ineffective.
At this moment, he was leading over a thousand Northern elites through a narrow path in the Wolfswood, racing toward a village that had sent up a distress signal.
The accumulated snow made movement difficult. The vanguard ahead carefully searched out the covered path, leaving marks so the horses of the main column would not stumble. The biting cold crept into the seams of armor, while the white mist of the soldiers' breath drifted upward into the forest air, merging with the frozen haze, reinforcing the sense of a vast white wilderness.
As Warden of the North, Robb naturally rode a horse. What was a rapid march for his men was but a steady pace for his mount. Well-trained, it kept the jolting to a minimum, granting its rider moments to think.
Every noble house in the North sent their younger sons to serve as squires and guards to their liege lord. This band of spirited youths chattered beside him, discussing strategies against the enemy.
Lord Karstark's third son, Eddard, remained firm in his opinion. "We must build a navy on the West Coast! We can defend and wear down the enemy's patience in winter, but what if the war drags on into spring? When planting begins, if the Ironborn strike from the sea again, are we to abandon the fields and retreat into castles?"
Jon Umber, called Smalljon, did not disagree. "We once had a navy on the West Coast too, but after Aegon landed and united Westeros, he strictly forbade the Ironborn from raiding the mainland, and it withered away... just like the Night's Watch. Now, only Bear Island and White Harbor keep ships. House Mormont's few longships are no match for the Iron Fleet, and as for House Manderly's fleet... Seven save us, for them to help, they'd have to sail half around Westeros, past the Stormlands, Dorne, the Riverlands, and through waters the Ironborn prowl. And the Shield Isles fleet would never allow the fat eel to pass!"
"Then let us build a naval base on the West Coast! The Wolfswood has fine ship timber. Given time, we could build a fleet strong enough to rival the Ironborn."
"What use are many ships without sailors? I would prefer a few large ones," Little Eddard scoffed. "But even this is easier said than done. Would Crow's Eye let you build a fleet right under his gaze? The coast south of Deepwood Motte lies in their grasp, and Bear Island... Unless he is a fool, Euron will have ships watching every port there. We would first need to borrow skilled artisans from House Mormont and House Manderly, then find a secret place far to the north, hidden from prying eyes, to quietly build our ships. We would also need to gather laborers and soldiers to work and defend the base..."
These words were not idle chatter, but spoken as much for his own ears as for others. Robb understood this and welcomed the thoughts and ideas of the young nobles. But just as Eddard was speaking of crucial matters, his voice suddenly broke off.
After a moment's silence, he spoke again, his tone nervous. "I think I heard something."
Robb reined in his horse, and the column halted at once. They quickly realized Eddard had not been mistaken.
A dull rumble came from the ground beneath their feet. The horses snorted uneasily, riders pulled their reins tight, and the infantry stopped marching, straining to locate the source.
The sound did not come from one side, but from the woods on both flanks of the road at once.
"Enemy attack!" Jon Umber was the first to react, bellowing. "Form ranks! Prepare for battle!"
...
The thick layer of leaves muffled the vibrations of running feet, and the heavy snow left by the blizzard further deadened the sound of the approaching ambushers. By the time the Northmen sensed danger, the enemy was almost upon them. Before their battle array could fully form, hundreds, even thousands of men in motley colors burst forth from behind the snowdrifts on both sides, rushing the column like a tide with wild shouts.
Though suddenly attacked, the Northmen did not fall into disorder.
The Iron Islands held no more than a few hundred thousand souls. At most, they could muster ten thousand warriors. And with Euron raiding the Westerlands, Riverlands, and the North at once, he could not mass all his strength here. Besides, the Ironborn were but pirates, with outdated arms, and many had to stay behind to guard the ships. Their ambush seemed a great swarm, but in truth, they were not so many more than Robb's own force.
Moreover, this levy had been called as Robb demanded, "elites only." These were hardened veterans who had returned victorious from the Westerlands just half a year past. The company now marching with the Warden of the North was the best of the best, high in morale and well-trained, not prone to panic at a skirmish.
Confident in their own strength and holding the enemy in contempt, the Northmen were not cowed by the sudden ambush. Rather, from top to bottom, they felt the enemy was delivering themselves to death. Under the commands of the young nobles around Robb, the soldiers roared, "Winterfell!" and clashed head-on with the onrushing foe.
Blades, spears, and swords rang against shields, armor crashed against armor, and voices roared in life-or-death struggle. Sweat and blood sprayed, and on the snow, red blossoms quickly bloomed, then withered beneath trampling boots, ground into mud and turning a deep brown-red.
The Ironborn had a slight advantage in numbers in the middle of the road, but they were not limitless. Soon all their men had rushed forth from the woods, and a chaotic melee filled the narrow path.
The fight was locked in stalemate. A hundred yards away, a small party arriving last found an earthen mound ten meters higher than the plain. Under their leader's guidance, they climbed it to look down and observe the battle.
(To be continued.)
***
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