Chapter 20: Fighting a Land War in The North in Winter

The North. The grim bloody North. I have to remind myself why we’re even making the effort. I’ve heard more than one man grumble about letting the Wildlings have this frozen wasteland and although I brought them up sharply on that, I can’t say I don’t share the sentiment. But I have to reunite the Seven Kingdoms and drive the Wildlings back, I have to restore The Wall and the Night’s Watch.

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I get word that Boremund’s army, ragged though it is, is attempting to make landfall and meet with Old Wyk’s forces in the Karhold. Despite the siege of Old Wyk itself, no recall order has come to Ulf Grimm’s army. They would have little chance of returning to the Iron Islands in time to fight and no chance of winning that fight, but the loyalty nonetheless is heartening. At least one lord in this realm knows his duty, even if he is just a boy of eleven. Whether his forces will remain once Old Wyk falls and Ulf gives his surrender to Harmund Greyjoy I cannot say.

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The Wildlings arrive just before Boremund’s army, but they are fairly evenly matched and my side has the defensive advantage, being dug in near the village of Barbleton.

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I must press the issue. The other lords and ladies are prevaricating, but Lady Margaery is kin through her marriage to my son Aegor. Perhaps with his help I can convince her to join my war instead of wasting thousands of men in a fight over Crab’s blasted Shore. Who in the seven hells launches a war over Crab’s Shore? Barion Tully, apparently.

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By the Seven, Aegor has done it! Just hours after our arrival in Silvereed, I am brought a message from Lady Margaery. She informs me that she will absolutely honor her obligations. I am informed she currently has around 25,000 men, which could be better. How many of those will come my way I cannot say. Still, it is better by far than nothing at all. Perhaps I can find ways to pressure the other Lords.

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The High Septon has died. I dread to give this thought words, but I do wonder whether this passing is a sign from the Gods that my efforts against The North are not blessed. Well, it hardly matters now. Soon they will select a new High Septon and that will be that.

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Another setback, of course. Why would I experience anything that is not a setback when I am seated on this damned throne? My armies in the Karhold have been conclusively defeated and scattered. The survivors run straight into an even larger Northern army and half my men are cut down before they can reach the ships of my fleet. I order the handful of ragged, worn survivors to sail for my main army. They no longer have the numbers to be effective on their own.

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Boremund is dead. He was not, it seems, among those who made it back to the ships but was instead captured and hauled to Jarl’s dungeons. The poor conditions, the recent stresses of fighting, and the biting winter conspired to do away with Boremund. I cannot say I am altogether heartbroken, the man was a danger to me in the long run. We shall have to see what his son Renly is made of.

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Not very much, it would appear. The man is a dunce, not an outright simpleton but only just able to go about the tasks of his daily life and by no means a fit ruler. Well, at least that will make it difficult for him to make any moves on the Iron Throne.

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The ragged remains of Boremund’s army reach my main force just as we begin moving towards Moat Cailin. A small force from Massey’s Hook is already there, though they lack the numbers for an effective siege. It does give me knowledge of the area though and at least for the moment, movement towards Moat Cailin is safe for my men.

With all my forces now around me, I order them merged into a single larger host. I lead in the center, though I fear I am not the leader I once was. Kennett is on the left flank and Ser Dobber Byrch, of my Queensguard, on the right. I do not entertain the hope that we might suffice to beat the Wildlings if they come in force. My only hope is that the rumors of uprisings against Jarl, mainly by his own Wildling allies, are true and suffice to distract him.

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News comes that Old Wyk has fallen and Ulf Grimm has surrendered. He is removed from the war effort, although this is now of little consequence seeing as every last Ironborn in The North has been killed, imprisoned, or has melted away to try and make his way home.

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Damn this winter! Another of my Queensguard has died, The Lord Commander no less, at the age of just 47. I must find yet another man to fill his shoes and the list grows less impressive every year. He is replaced as Lord Commander by Ser Balman of Wendbridge, a capable man but one whose sword arm is failing him at the age of 60. I am surprised to soon find a suitable new member as well, in the shape of Ardrian Edgerton. He is reputedly a rather godly man and not shy about saying so, but more important he’s young and his skills with a sword are rare indeed.

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Finally, The Reach and Dorne have beaten Barion Tully and enforced whatever preposterous claim it was they were pressing. Maybe with this out of their systems they can get to the clearly unimportant task of defending the realm. I judge this unlikely. More probably they will find some new point of conflict, or simply prevaricate and claim their armies need time to replenish before they can join me. Half my damned army is dead of starvation or the cold while they grow soft and fat from the wealth of their lands.

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Moat Cailin has fallen. There have been several notable firsts during my reign, but this is one of the few which is actually a good thing. I order the men to move north once again, but rumors of Northern armies stop me from moving towards Winterfell in a hurry. As we arrive in Whitford, that very army approaches ours.

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We have time to dig in around Fordswatch before battle is joined. Our numbers are about even for the moment, but who knows how close enemy reinforcements might be? Well, it hardly matters, if we cannot win this one way or another that will likely be the end of the war. I order the men to meet them in battle.

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Of course, just as our victory is at hand, another Northern army arrives and joins the enemy. With the losses incurred so far in the fight we are now outnumbered two to one, and have fairly poor prospects of victory. I give the order to retreat, but we are harried throughout the ride and the enemy reaches Moat Cailin before we do. We are forced into battle.

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We still fight on, but we are obviously losing. As I contemplate how to organize the next retreat, a Wildling charge breaks through the lines and reaches my own coterie. As the Wildlings and my men fight Ser Malcolm steps forward to defend me and is slain by a woman who announces herself as Morra. As Malcolm falls and dies, Morra turns and advances on me. I draw my sword.