CHAPTER 127
By the tenth hour of the morning, the fog still clung stubbornly to the Neck.
Garon tightened the reins of his horse, bringing the warhorse to a halt as it snorted thick white clouds into the cold air.
Behind him, six hundred Northern cavalry came to a silent stop upon the Kingsroad like a dark river of iron.
Three days of hard riding had left traces of exhaustion on Garon's face.
Yet his eyes remained as sharp as ever.
His gaze fixed itself upon the looming silhouette ahead.
Moat Cailin.
The ancient fortress stood half-shrouded in swamp mist, its ruined towers rising like the bones of some long-dead giant.
Yet something immediately felt wrong.
There were no visible defenders.
No Ironborn banners.
No kraken sigils flying from the towers.
Only silence.
An unsettling silence.
The wind carried with it the faint scent of blood and charred wood.
"It's too quiet."
Jon Snow guided his horse forward, frowning deeply.
"Did the Ironborn abandon Moat Cailin?"
Garon did not answer immediately.
His eyes narrowed as he carefully observed the fortress.
The importance of Moat Cailin could not be overstated.
Even if Victarion Greyjoy had marched north alongside Euron Crow's Eye, he would never have willingly abandoned such a strategic stronghold.
It simply made no sense.
"Send two scouts ahead."
Garon turned and issued the order.
Immediately, two riders detached themselves from the formation.
Like shadows, they disappeared into the mist and advanced toward the ruined towers.
The wait was not long.
When the scouts returned, however, both wore expressions of disbelief.
"My lord!"
One of them rode forward, breathing heavily.
"There are signs of recent fighting inside the fortress."
"Very recent."
"We found dozens of dead Ironborn."
"They appear to have been ambushed."
The second scout quickly added,
"The survivors are barricaded inside the gatehouse."
"We estimate roughly two hundred remain."
He hesitated before continuing.
"They seem terrified."
"It looks as though they are defending themselves."
"But at the same time..."
The scout swallowed nervously.
"It also looks like they are hiding from something."
Garon's eyes sharpened.
Hiding?
Who could have attacked the Ironborn at Moat Cailin?
Robb Stark remained in the Riverlands.
The North had committed its strength elsewhere.
The possibility made little sense.
Could it be the Lannisters?
Or some other force entirely?
After a brief moment of consideration, Garon's uncertainty transformed into decisive action.
"Advance."
His sword flashed from its scabbard.
"Whatever is happening inside, we will seize the fortress before the enemy can recover."
At once, six hundred horses surged forward.
The thunder of hooves shattered the silence of the Neck.
The cavalry charged through the thinning mist and rapidly approached the ancient fortress.
Within moments, the Ironborn spotted them.
"The Northmen!"
A panicked shout echoed from the gatehouse.
"Damn it!"
"How are they here already?"
"Where is Lord Victarion?"
Another voice answered with fear rather than confidence.
"Forget Victarion!"
"Run!"
The Ironborn were already on the verge of collapse.
The mysterious attack they had recently suffered had shattered what remained of their discipline.
Now, faced with charging Northern cavalry and uncertain of enemy numbers, panic swept through their ranks.
Many abandoned their positions entirely.
Instead of defending the fortress, they fled into the open.
It was a fatal mistake.
The moment they left the protection of the walls, they became easy prey.
The battle that followed was scarcely a battle at all.
Six hundred mounted Northmen slammed into barely more than a hundred terrified Ironborn.
The outcome was inevitable.
Resistance collapsed almost instantly.
Like a blade cutting through wet parchment, Garon's cavalry shattered the remaining defenses and swept through Moat Cailin.
Some Ironborn died fighting.
Others threw down their weapons and surrendered.
Within a remarkably short period of time, the fortress belonged to the North once again.
The speed of the victory felt almost unreal.
Standing beneath the gatehouse, Garon surveyed the aftermath.
The flagstones were slick with blood.
Ironborn corpses lay scattered throughout the fortress.
The moss-covered stones were stained crimson.
Northern cavalry moved through the ruins searching every tower and courtyard.
Soon another report arrived.
The Ironborn longships had been burned.
Every one of them.
The discovery only deepened Garon's unease.
The victory had come too easily.
Far too easily.
Who exactly attacked the Ironborn?
Before he could investigate further, a disturbance erupted among the perimeter guards.
Garon immediately turned.
Dozens of soldiers had raised their weapons toward the swamp.
Bows were drawn.
Spears lowered.
Swords unsheathed.
Everyone stared into the mists of the Neck as though facing some unknown threat.
Then figures emerged.
One after another.
A group of roughly one hundred people stepped out of the swamp.
They were smaller in stature than most Northmen.
Their clothing was unlike anything worn by ordinary soldiers of the North.
Dark leather garments blended almost perfectly with the surrounding marshes.
They carried spears, frog-gigs, and hunting weapons designed for life among the bogs.
Their movements were silent.
Ghostlike.
As though they belonged more to the swamp than to the world of men.
At their head walked two young figures.
One was a lean young woman with alert eyes and a three-pronged frog-gig resting easily in her hands.
Beside her walked a younger boy.
He appeared slender and unremarkable at first glance.
Yet his green eyes possessed an unusual depth and calmness that made him seem far older than his years.
They looked less like soldiers and more like guardians of the Neck itself.
The Northern soldiers instinctively tightened their encirclement.
But before anyone could act further, Garon raised his hand.
"Lower your weapons."
The soldiers hesitated.
Then they obeyed.
The moment he saw them, Garon recognized who they were.
House Reed.
So it was the crannogmen who struck the Ironborn.
The realization instantly explained much of what had happened.
The young woman stepped forward.
Her sharp gaze swept across the assembled cavalry before settling upon Garon.
"In the name of House Reed of Greywater Watch," she said clearly, "are you men of Winterfell?"
Garon nodded.
He gestured for the surrounding soldiers to stand down.
"I am Garon Glover of Deepwood Motte."
"I have come under Stark authority to reclaim Moat Cailin."
His eyes shifted toward the fortress around them.
"Was it your people who attacked the Ironborn?"
The young woman nodded.
The boy beside her remained silent, carefully studying Garon.
Those strange green eyes seemed to contain both wisdom and an unsettling sense of foresight.
"I am Meera Reed."
She then indicated her companion.
"This is my brother, Jojen Reed."
"Our father, Lord Howland Reed, sent us to aid Winterfell."
"We traveled through the swamps and arrived behind the Ironborn."
The explanation was straightforward.
Yet it revealed everything.
The ambush.
The panic.
The collapse of the garrison.
All of it suddenly made sense.
Garon felt a slight stir within his heart.
In another timeline, Meera and Jojen would have journeyed to Winterfell for the harvest feast.
House Reed had not openly entered the war.
Yet circumstances had changed.
The Ironborn invasion had forced even the crannogmen to take action.
Upon reflection, however, Garon found it unsurprising.
No house in the North was more loyal to House Stark than House Reed.
Howland Reed had stood beside Eddard Stark at the Tower of Joy.
He carried some of Ned's deepest secrets.
"The siege of Winterfell has already been lifted."
Garon inclined his head slightly.
"You have my thanks, Lady Meera."
"And yours as well, Jojen."
Meera nodded respectfully.
"Lord Glover."
"We heard of your victory at Deepwood Motte and Ox Horn Mountain."
"It seems the North is beginning to recover its strength."
Before Garon could respond, Jojen Reed finally spoke.
His voice was quiet.
Yet somehow it carried clearly through the fortress.
"The wolves must gather."
"The winds of winter are already rising."
"And a colder storm approaches from the south."
His green eyes remained fixed upon Garon.
"We must reach Winterfell as quickly as possible."
The strange words immediately stirred something within Garon.
His gaze lingered on Jojen.
Only then did he fully remember.
The boy standing before him possessed greensight.
Just like Bran.
Just like the greenseers of old.
A thought flashed through Garon's mind.
Has he seen something through the Three-Eyed Raven?
The more he considered it, the more convinced he became that the arrival of House Reed was no coincidence.
"Very well."
Suppressing his thoughts, Garon quickly made a decision.
"House Reed has served House Stark faithfully for thousands of years."
"You know the Neck better than any living men."
He looked toward Meera.
"I intend to leave two hundred soldiers here to garrison Moat Cailin alongside your people."
"What do you think?"
Meera glanced toward her brother.
Without hesitation, Jojen answered.
"That will be sufficient."
Then he added calmly,
"Lord Garon, I ask that you allow your men to escort my sister and me to Winterfell."
The certainty in his tone only reinforced Garon's suspicions.
"Of course."
"Give me a little time first."
"I must finish organizing the garrison."
Immediately afterward, Garon gathered his officers.
After careful consideration, he selected two hundred men from the White Harbor contingent to remain behind and defend Moat Cailin together with the crannogmen of House Reed.
Once the arrangements were complete, he noticed the exhaustion visible on every soldier's face.
Rather than departing immediately, he allowed the men several hours of rest within the fortress.
Meanwhile, far to the west upon the rugged shores of Cape Kraken and the Stony Shore, Euron Crow's Eye and the remnants of his shattered force finally reached safety after their desperate flight through the North.