While Jon was busy in Altherion The battle between the Iron borns and Westeros still continued —— The Battle of the Green Fork The Green Fork.
A river broad enough for ships to sail from the sea to the ancient fortress of Moat Cailin.
The dawn came cold and gray.
Mist clung to the waters of the Green Fork, crawling between the reeds and gathering around the ancient towers of Moat Cailin.
The fortress rose from the marshes like the bones of some dead giant, its weathered walls and half-ruined towers standing as grim sentinels over the only reliable passage through the Neck.
Beyond the river, shapes moved within the fog.
At first they were little more than shadows.
Then came the sound.
Oars striking water.
Wood groaning beneath the weight of men.
And beneath it all, the distant cries of Ironborn warriors.
Black sails slowly emerged from the mist.
Dozens of them.
Eddard Stark stood upon the battlements, one gloved hand resting upon the pommel of Ice.
His gray eyes narrowed as he watched the approaching fleet.
“They’ve come,” Jon Umber muttered.
Ned gave a grim nod.
“They have.” The Ironborn ships advanced in a tight formation, their dark hulls cutting through the pale morning water.
Their banners snapped in the wind—black krakens upon fields of dark red—and their crews shouted across the river.
They had come expecting a frightened garrison.
They would find the North waiting for them.
Beside Ned, another banner whipped violently in the wind.
The crowned stag of House Baratheon.
Stannis Baratheon had arrived with a force of his own, bringing disciplined spearmen, archers and several pieces of crude artillery.
The Lord of Dragonstone stood beneath his banner, stern-faced and rigid, watching the enemy approach without a trace of fear.
“They have committed too many ships to the river,” Stannis observed.
Ned glanced toward him.
“Too many?” “They believe numbers will win them the fortress.” Stannis’s expression remained cold.
“That is their first mistake.” A horn sounded from the Ironborn fleet.
Then another.
The attack began.
Firepots flew through the morning mist.
One struck the wooden watchtower overlooking the inlet.
For half a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then flames erupted.
The tower became an inferno.
Men screamed as burning oil spilled across the timber platforms.
Several defenders leapt from the structure, crashing into the muddy ground below, while others were consumed by the flames.
“Archers!” Stannis’s voice cut across the battlements.
“Loose!” Hundreds of bowstrings snapped.
Arrows darkened the sky.
The first volley struck the leading Ironborn ships.
Men toppled from the decks, arrows buried in their throats and chests.
Others scrambled for cover behind shields as more shafts hammered into the wooden hulls.
But the Ironborn kept coming.
They were raiders.
Reavers.
Men who had spent their lives upon the sea and believed death was merely another price to be paid for glory.
Their ships slammed against the shoreline.
Gangplanks crashed down.
Ironborn warriors poured ashore.
Axes and spears rose into the air.
Their war cries echoed across the marshes.
“Hold!” Ned drew Ice.
The enormous Valyrian steel blade came free with a whisper.
“Hold the line!” The Stark soldiers raised their shields.
“FOR WINTERFELL!” The Ironborn crashed into them.
Steel met steel.
The first impact shook the defensive line.
An Ironborn axeman smashed his weapon against a shield.
A Northman answered with a spear thrust beneath the man’s ribs.
Another raider climbed over the barricade and was immediately cut down.
The narrow ground worked against the attackers.
Their numbers were greater, but there was nowhere for them to use them.
Only a handful could attack at once.
That was exactly what Ned had wanted.
“Spearmen forward!” The Stark line stepped together.
Shields locked.
Spears thrust.
The Ironborn staggered backward.
Behind them, Stannis’s archers continued their deadly work.
“Second volley!” Another storm of arrows descended.
Ironborn fell into the mud.
Others raised shields above their heads, desperately trying to protect themselves from the rain of death.
Then a massive figure emerged from the chaos.
He was enormous, wearing battered iron armor and a cloak made from black sealskin.
A great axe rested in both hands.
He roared and charged.
The men before him scattered.
The giant swung.
A Stark shield split in two.
Its bearer was thrown backward.
The Ironborn warrior laughed.
“Where is your wolf, Northman?” His gaze found Eddard.
“Come!” Ned stepped forward.
“I am here.” The Ironborn charged.
Their weapons collided.
The sound of steel rang across the battlefield.
The raider’s axe came down with enough force to kill a horse.
Ned twisted aside, and the blade struck the ground hard enough to send mud flying.
Ice flashed.
Ned struck.
The Ironborn blocked.
Again.
And again.
The savage warrior fought like a beast, relying upon strength and fury.
Ned fought like a soldier.
Patient.
Measured.
Every movement had purpose.
The axe came swinging toward his head.
Ned ducked.
He stepped inside the man’s reach.
Ice rose.
Before he could strike, however, an arrow buried itself in the Ironborn’s shoulder.
The warrior staggered.
Ned’s eyes flicked toward the battlements.
Stannis stood there.
Bow in hand.
“Finish him,” Stannis called.
Ned stepped forward.
But the Ironborn was already retreating toward the river.
A Stark swordsman intercepted him.
Steel flashed.
The Ironborn’s head fell into the mud.
For a moment, the men around them stared.
Then the Stark soldiers roared.
The Ironborn hesitated.
Their leader was dead.
Their attack began to unravel.
“NOW!” Ned shouted.
The Stark line surged forward.
Shields slammed into Ironborn bodies.
Swords and spears drove the raiders backward.
At the same moment, Stannis’s men advanced from the flank.
The trap was closing.
The Ironborn tried to retreat toward their ships.
But the river was no longer theirs.
A burning vessel drifted across the water, its sails engulfed in flames.
Then another ship caught fire.
Then another.
A contingent of Stark soldiers had managed to board an Ironborn vessel that had run aground.
They killed its remaining crew and set the ship ablaze before abandoning it.
The wind carried the flames toward the fleet.
Panic spread among the Ironborn.
“To the ships!” “Fall back!” “Get off the shore!” Their retreat became a riot.
Stannis pointed toward the river.
“Block the channel.” Soldiers immediately began dragging logs, chains, and wreckage into the narrowest sections of the water.
The Ironborn ships attempted to escape.
One struck the obstruction.
Its hull splintered.
Another tried to turn.
An arrow struck the helmsman.
The ship drifted helplessly into the burning wreckage.
Flames swallowed it.
By midday, the Green Fork had become a graveyard.
Burning ships drifted upon the water.
Broken shields floated among corpses.
The mud beneath Moat Cailin had turned dark with blood.
The surviving Ironborn fled into the marshes, abandoning weapons, supplies, and wounded comrades in their desperation to escape.
The defenders watched them go.
No one cheered at first.
There was only exhaustion.
Ned stood among the dead, Ice hanging at his side.
He looked across the battlefield.
The fortress still stood.
The river still flowed.
The Ironborn had been defeated.
But Ned knew better than to mistake victory for safety.
“They’ll come again,” he said quietly.
Stannis stood beside him.
“Of course they will.” Ned looked toward the burning fleet.
“Next time, they’ll bring more men.” “Then next time,” Stannis replied, “we kill more men.” Ned almost smiled.
Almost.
But his gaze remained fixed upon the horizon.
The war was not over.
It had barely begun.
The Aftermath The days that followed were spent repairing what the battle had damaged.
Ned ordered the surviving watchtowers rebuilt and the walls reinforced.
New palisades were erected along vulnerable sections of the riverbank, while additional trenches were dug around the approaches to Moat Cailin.
The fortress had survived.
But Ned had no intention of relying upon luck a second time.
Scouts were sent into the marshes.
Riders patrolled the river.
Lookouts were stationed along the coast.
Every ship approaching the Green Fork was examined.
Every strange sail was reported.
Meanwhile, Stannis studied the river itself.
The battle had taught them something important.
The Green Fork was not merely a river.
It was a weapon.
If properly defended, it could become a wall of water separating the Iron Islands from the North.
Ned intended to make certain it did.
Yet the threat was not limited to Ironborn ships.
Messengers soon arrived from the Riverlands.
Villages along the coast had been raided.
Fishing boats had vanished.
Small settlements had been burned.
The Ironborn were spreading.
They had lost the battle at Moat Cailin, but they had not lost their appetite for war.
Indeed, their defeat had made them angry.
Among the survivors was a captain named Harras Pyke, a cunning and ruthless reaver who had escaped the battlefield aboard one of the few ships that survived.
When news reached him that his warriors had been defeated, he did not mourn.
He swore vengeance.
The North had humiliated the Ironborn.
And Harras intended to answer that humiliation with blood.
He began sending ravens and messengers throughout the Iron Islands, calling upon captains who had once raided together.
More ships.
More warriors.
More weapons.
The next attack would not be a raid.
It would be an invasion.
Wolves and Stags The victory at Moat Cailin carried consequences far beyond the battlefield.
Word of the battle spread throughout the North.
The Ironborn had been defeated.
The ancient fortress had held.
And Eddard Stark had stood beside Stannis Baratheon and broken the first major assault.
The northern lords praised their lord.
The king’s court heard the news.
And King Robert Baratheon demanded a full accounting of what had happened.
A royal raven arrived at Moat Cailin several days later.
Ned broke the seal.
His expression hardened as he read.
Stannis watched him.
“King’s Landing?” Ned nodded.
“Robert wants me to ride to westerlands and from there well push the iron borns in full force , to throw them all to the sea.” Stannis folded his arms.
“He should focus in strengthening the royal fleet i left the command when we finally taken back the Stormlands from the iron borns , with the fleet and adding the surviving ships of the other houses encircling the coast would be possible.” Ned looked toward the river.
“The question is whether the crown will move quickly enough.” Neither man spoke for several moments.
They both understood the danger.
The Ironborn had been bloodied.
But they were not broken.
And if they were allowed to recover, they would return.
Stronger.
Better prepared.
More numerous.
Ned turned toward the distant horizon.
“The North will not wait for them.” He called for his bannermens.
“Double the patrols.
Reinforce every river crossing.
Send riders south and warn the Riverlords.
I want reports on every Ironborn movement from the coast to the islands.” The captains bowed.
“As you command, Lord Stark.” Ned looked once more toward the Green Fork.
The river flowed peacefully now.
But beneath its calm surface lay the memory of battle.