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Chapter 76: The Quiet Before the Iron TIde.
A week before Daeron receives the letter.
A grey mist hung over Moat Cailin as morning broke through the marshland haze. The stones of the ancient ruin were slick with dew, the towers barely more than crumbling husks that reached like fingers toward a pale sky. Within the modest hall, the Lord of Greywater Watch, Howland Reed, sat with his two children for their morning meal.
Meera was tearing apart a chunk of dark rye bread, while Jojen, ever quiet, poked at his salted fish with an absent look. Howland watched them for a moment, allowing himself this rare peace. The causeway leading south from the Neck was quiet, and with King Daeron and most of the army far away in the South, the weight of the North's gateway rested solely on his shoulders.
That peace ended when the door creaked open.
One of his trusted men stepped inside — a crannogman, weather-worn and quiet as the marsh. He moved with the confidence of one who belonged to shadows and silence.
Howland set down his bread. "You would not interrupt us unless it was urgent."
The crannogman nodded once. "Almost a hundred longships sailing up the Saltspear. Ironborn. Led by the Iron Victory."
"Victarion Greyjoy," Howland said, his voice low. The name tasted like salt and blood. "You're certain?"
The man nodded again. They both knew how. He was a skinchanger, bonded to the hawks and ravens that soared high over the Neck, unseen, ever watching.
Howland rose from his bench, casting one last glance at Meera and Jojen. He gave them a reassuring smile.
"Continue your breakfast. I'll return shortly."
The two understood without question, and the crannogman followed Howland into the solar — a damp chamber filled with maps, reed-paper scrolls, and preserved herbs hanging from the rafters.
The door shut with a soft thud.
"How many men?" Howland asked.
"Eight thousand. Four days before they land — maybe less, if the winds favor them."
Howland turned to the northern map pinned to the stone wall. The Saltspear twisted like a snake through marshland before curling inland. Any Ironborn force sailing it could avoid the southern bogs that protected Moat Cailin.
They would land north, where the land was firmer. The Neck was traitorous terrain to outsiders — but Victarion wasn't just any outsider. He was a Greyjoy. A Reaver.
And he had chosen his route well.
"Only fools attack Moat Cailin from the south," Howland muttered, eyes narrowing. "But the Ironborn are no fools. They are coming from the north because they know our weakness."
He turned to the crannogman. "We hold less than four hundred here. Two hundred veteran bowmen that the King left behind… and our people. The crannogmen."
"Not enough to hold if they storm the walls," the man agreed.
Howland's jaw clenched. The stones of Moat Cailin were old and in ruin, Moat Cailin would not hold against eight thousand raiders swarming from the one direction they could not adequately defend.
"I want Meera and Jojen back at Greywater Watch today," Howland said. "You'll see to it."
The crannogman hesitated. "They'll resist."
"Then bind them if you must," Howland snapped, and then sighed. "But do it gently."
The man gave a small nod of understanding.
Howland walked to his cluttered desk, brushing aside a scattering of feathers and wax. He picked up a quill, dipped it into the inkwell, and began to write — the words flowing steady and grim.
"To His Grace, King Daeron Targaryen..."
He did not embellish or overstate. He explained the approach of the Ironborn, the vulnerabilities of Moat Cailin, and his grim estimation of how long they could hold. He signed it simply:
"Howland Reed, Lord of Greywater Watch. Warden of the Neck."
He sealed it with his signet — a reed swaying beneath a full moon next to the sigil of House Reed.
The crannogman came forward and took the letter without a word. He would have it in the air before long.
"Before they land," Howland said, returning to the map, "they must cross the Fever River. Twenty miles between their landing point and Moat Cailin."
The crannogman nodded.
"Then we make those twenty miles the longest march of their miserable Ironborn lives," Howland said, voice like steel hidden in marshgrass. "They'll bleed in the bogs. Choke on our poisons. Our arrows and darts will find them in the fog."
"We'll give them no rest," the man said, eyes gleaming.
Howland nodded slowly.
"Then go."
The man melted back into the corridor like morning mist. Howland remained, alone with maps and silence.
For all his preparations, he knew what he was planning was only to buy time.
Eight thousand against four hundred.
Victory was not the goal.
Survival was.
He turned and looked out the narrow window. The sun was rising over the marsh, casting rippling golden light across the bogwater.
He thought of his king — Daeron, who bore the blood of dragon and wolf, who carried the future of their house and the realm on his shoulders.
The letter was on its way.
All that remained now was to hold long enough for Daeron to answer.
Howland placed one hand against the ancient stone wall.
"Come then, Victarion Greyjoy," he murmured. "Let's see how you fare in the Neck."
He would not yield Moat Cailin, he swore by ice and fire.
Not while breath still filled his lungs.