The architectural blueprints for the [Training Ground] hovered in Eddard's mind's eye, a complex lattice of translucent gold lines. As a former humanities major who had spent a brief, stressful stint as a site supervisor in his previous life, he could barely decipher the structural requirements.
Most of the facility was grounded in the mundane: clearing a massive site on the west bank of the Crossing, compacting the heavy Riverlands clay, and erecting timber barracks and stone armories. These required only sweat, coin, and the steady hand of his new steward, Scholar Bennett.
However, the center of the blueprint contained a "Mystical Anchor."
It called for a life-sized statue carved from ebony, a knight on a galloping horse, drawing a bow. The base was to be constructed of "Black Stone" and inlaid with dragonglass runes. But the true engine of the building was the foundation. The blueprint hinted that burying an object of "Immense Ancient Power" beneath the statue would multiply the experience gain for his Guards.
Eddard had already secured the primary component: the skull of Balerion the Black Dread. Once the massive bone arrived from the Red Keep's cellars, he planned to treat it with alchemical preservatives, bury it deep within the earth of the Crossing, and seal it beneath the black stone. He wanted to see if the spirit of the greatest dragon in history could breathe fire into the souls of his Karstark soldiers.
The materials were a puzzle. Ebony was plentiful in the Summer Isles but rare in the Riverlands; he had already sent agents to White Harbor and Gulltown to source a trunk large enough for the carving. The black stone was more elusive. He had sent a raven to the Citadel and prepared Dita Calandre to sail for Pentos. He would scour the Free Cities if he had to.
Amidst these administrative headaches, the first replies from the Great Game arrived.
Robb Stark's letter from Winterfell was uncharacteristically warm. The King was relieved to hear the Crossing was secure and ecstatic about the massive shipment of Reach grain and livestock Eddard had extorted from the Lannisters. The North was starving, and Eddard had just provided its first full meal in months.
Tywin Lannister's response, arriving the same day, was a jagged piece of parchment filled with barely suppressed venom toward Tyrion. The Old Lion understood the strategic cost of the materials he was surrendering, but he was a pragmatist. He needed Ser Kevan, his only capable deputy back in the capital. Tyrion was a brilliant substitute, but Tywin didn't trust his son's "vices."
Tywin had agreed to the humiliation because his house was being besieged from within. The Reach was a wildfire; Stannis Baratheon's invasion of the Mander had sent Mace Tyrell into a panic. The "Queen of Thorns" had effectively taken command of the Tyrell host, mocking her son's incompetence and refusing to let him leave King's Landing to "stuff Stannis to death with fine wine."
Dorne remained a coiled viper. Oberyn Martell sat on the Small Council, watching the Reach and the Stormlands bleed each other with a predatory smile. Doran Martell, ever the cautious prince, had sent grain to the Iron Throne to maintain the peace, but the Dornish spears remained pointed squarely at the Lannister rear.
With the contract signed and the hostage exchange in motion, Eddard realized the South was effectively stalemated for the next six months. It was time to turn his eyes North.
Three days later, a force of two thousand two hundred men gathered on the East Bank of the Twins.
This was the "New Sun" of the Crossing. It included the First and Second Guards Corps, seven hundred heavy cavalry, each man leading two horses. They were a vision of silver and black, their chainmail polished to a mirror finish, their black sheepskin cloaks shielding them from the biting autumn wind. The remaining fifteen hundred were a mix of disciplined Karstark infantry and the levies of the new vassals who had chosen submission over the axe.
Eddard rode to the front of the column, his silver plate armor catching the sun. The black tower and golden sun on his chest felt like a brand. Behind him, a hundred elite retainers followed, carrying the heavy banners.
"MARCH!" Eddard roared.
The column set off along the King's Road, a steel snake winding toward the Neck.
The tactical report from Winterfell was grim. Roose Bolton had locked himself in the Dreadfort with two thousand veterans. He was playing the role of a mad dog, refusing to negotiate, refusing to sally, but sending small raiding parties to burn the surrounding villages. He was a lingering infection the Young Wolf couldn't yet purge.
Acting on a "suggestion" Eddard had sent via raven, Robb had begun a policy of strategic displacement. He was forcibly relocating the Bolton vassals and smallfolk to the lands of White Harbor and Karhold. If the Leech wanted to hide in a castle, he would eventually find himself ruling a kingdom of empty fields and silent barns.
Then there were the Ironborn.
Asha Greyjoy still held Deepwood Motte, using Northern hostages to keep Earl Glover's pikes at bay. Pirates were raiding the Stony Shore and Sea Dragon Point with impunity. But the most critical point remained the gate to the North: Moat Cailin.
Victarion Greyjoy had intensified his assault on the three crumbling towers, determined to keep the Neck closed to the Stark return.
The moon hung high over the marshes of the Neck, a cold, pale eye watching the fog roll over the black mud.
The three towers of Moat Cailin, the Gatehouse, the Children's Tower, and the Drunken Tower loomed in the shadows like three titans who had passed out in the swamp. They were tilted, covered in centuries of moss and filth, yet they remained the most formidable obstacle in Westeros.
"Lord Reed, it seems the Kraken truly intends to die in this mud," Eddard said, his voice echoing in the mist.
He was walking along a narrow, winding wooden causeway. On either side, the black mud bubbled with noxious gases. In the shifting fog, he could almost see the specters of the thousands of southron soldiers who had died trying to take this place.
"It is their nature, Lord Eddard," a quiet, raspy voice replied. "Balon Greyjoy sent his Iron Fleet to choke the North. He forgot that the North has deep lungs."
Standing beside Eddard was Howland Reed, the Lord of Greywater Watch. He was a small man, his features almost entirely hidden beneath a deep green hood and a cloak woven with living leaves. He carried a yew longbow and moved with a silence that suggested he wasn't walking on the wood, but gliding above it.
"The Ironborn were at our very throats," Howland continued, his blade-like lips barely moving. "Victarion's boats had bypassed our hidden weirs. My people were in despair. And then... the Bolton men arrived."
"The Boltons?" Eddard asked, surprised.
"They came from the south, flying your sunburst banner," Howland said, a hint of a smile in his tone. "They were fleeing the Crossing, but the Ironborn didn't know that. Seeing a Karstark 'vanguard' arrive to relieve the Moat broke their nerve. Victarion pulled back to the Fever River, thinking the main Northern army was behind them. Roose Bolton saved Moat Cailin by accident, simply because he was too afraid to look back."
"A coward's contribution is still a contribution," Eddard mused.
Earlier that day, as Eddard's 2,200-man host had approached from the King's Road, Blackfeather had spotted the Ironborn galleys retreating once again. The sight of the actual Karstark army, shimmering with steel and purpose, had been the final straw for the weary pirates. They had endured weeks of poisoned arrows from the crannogmen and the mysterious "disappearance" of their sentries; the arrival of a fresh, heavy cavalry force was an argument even Victarion couldn't win.
Moat Cailin was a death trap for the healthy. There was no clean water, no dry wood, and the air was thick with biting flies. Normally, it was a fortress of skeletons. But tonight, it felt like a bastion of hope.
"Let us get out of this damp," Howland said, gesturing toward the base of the Drunken Tower. "My daughter Meera spoke of a 'Winter Wizard' who would come from the south with fire in his hands. I see she was right to trust her dreams."
Eddard stepped across a temporary wooden bridge, his boots thudding on the ancient stones of the tower. Inside the hearth, a roaring fire of peat and driftwood burned, casting long, orange shadows against the damp walls.
He had reached the gate. Now, he just had to open it for the King.
[System Notification: Moat Cailin reached.]
[Quest Update: Clear the Fever River.]
[Target: Victarion Greyjoy's Iron Fleet.]
[Soul Power Gained (Strategic Positioning): 150 SP.]
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