Chapter 323: War on the West Coast
The blizzard that had raged for weeks finally ceased, but Robb felt no relief—the ironborn under Euron's command were proving far more troublesome than anticipated.
Upon receiving word at the Wall, he had immediately ridden south to Deepwood Motte. The arrival of the Lord of Winterfell on the battlefield greatly bolstered the morale of the west coast lords and smallfolk. The Northern army, treading through heavy snow, regrouped at maximum speed to march toward the front. Before they had even finished mobilizing, they launched several counterattacks that yielded genuine results, significantly dampening the enemy's arrogance.
But this smooth progress did not last long. Euron's objective was never to conquer territory or seize wealth, but to bleed the combined strength—both overt and covert—of the warring factions on the Westerosi continent, laying a foundation for a future total invasion. Soon, the Northmen armed to defend their homes discovered that the Ironborn were indeed doing exactly as Roose Bolton had predicted: they no longer engaged the main host, but shifted from frontal assaults to guerrilla harassment.
By rights, guerrilla warfare requires high mobility and familiarity with the terrain; it is usually a strategy employed by the home side, and an invader lacks the roots or conditions to use it. The fatal problem, however, was that the North possessed no powerful naval force to counter the Iron Islands' longship fleets. At the very start of the conflict, they had cleanly lost command of the sea. The west coast and the vast Sunset Sea adjacent to it became the Ironborn's home turf without a fight. They came on the wind and left by the oar, leaving the North in the awkward position of being unable to lose, yet never able to win.
Robb did not like Roose Bolton, much as he disliked the flayed man sigil of his house and the somber name and atmosphere of their seat, the Dreadfort. Yet despite his dislike, the new ruler of the North had to admit that this perpetually sullen and cold man always managed to make the correct judgment. After stubbornly running into a few walls, Robb reluctantly followed Bolton's advice and ordered the residents scattered along the coastline to withdraw, consolidating everyone into medium-to-large winter towns, castles, and garrisoned villages. He switched from offense to defense, intending to wear the enemy out.
This tactic worked, and the enemy's violent reaction proved it. Guessing the Northmen's intent, the Iron Island forces increased the frequency of their sorties, attempting to sabotage the plan by intercepting and massacring retreating soldiers and civilians to create a climate of terror.
Robb Stark's response was a direct countermeasure: he split his army into several divisions, rushing back and forth to protect as many lives and assets as possible by increasing their marching speed, thus thwarting the enemy's calculations.
At this moment, he was leading over a thousand Northern veterans along a narrow path in the Wolfswood, racing toward a village that had sent a signal for aid.
The snow made the going difficult. The vanguard ahead carefully sought the covered path, treading out marks to ensure the cavalry in the main host didn't lose their footing. The chill in the air seeped silently into the gaps of their armor, while the white breath huffing from the soldiers jogging behind the commander drifted upward and back, merging into the cold forest mist and intensifying the blank white effect.
As Warden of the North, Robb was naturally mounted. What was a forced march for the infantry was a mere trot for his horse. Because it was well-trained, the horse controlled its jolting perfectly, leaving the rider with enough mental energy to think.
The various Northern houses had assigned their younger kin to serve as squires and guards by their liege's side, and these energetic youths were currently chattering about strategies to deal with the enemy.
Eddard, the third son of Lord Karstark, remained firm in his stance: "We must build a navy on the west coast! In winter, we can defend and exhaust their patience, but if the war isn't over by next spring... when the spring planting begins and the Ironborn still come by ship, are we to leave the seeds in the ground and shrink back into our castles again?"
Small Jon Umber did not disagree with him: "We used to have a navy on the west coast, but after Aegon's Landing unified Westeros and forbade the Iron Islands from raiding the mainland, it slowly vanished... much like the Night's Watch. Now, the only ones in the North with warships are Bear Island and White Harbor. But House Mormont's pittance is nothing before the Iron Fleet, and the Manderly ships... Gods, if they want to help, they have to sail halfway around Westeros, past the Stormlands, Dorne, the Reach, and the Iron Islands just to reach the west coast. The Redwyne fleet would never let the Fat Eel's ships pass!"
"Then we build new shipyards on the west coast! Fine shipbuilding timber is everywhere in the Wolfswood. Give us time, and we can build a fleet several times the size of the Iron Islands'!"
"What use are ships without enough sailors? I still prefer big ships," Little Eddard sneered. "But it's easier said than done. Will the Crow's Eye just let you build a fleet under his nose? The entire coast south of Deepwood Motte is their playground, and Bear Island... Euron isn't stupid; he'll have ships watching every port there. We'd have to borrow master shipwrights from Mormont and Manderly first, then find a hidden, secret spot as far north as possible to build in private, and conscript enough laborers and soldiers to work and guard it—"
These words were not mere idle chatter; to a large extent, they were directed at Robb. Robb understood this and was glad to hear the ideas of these young nobles. But just as they reached the critical details, Little Eddard's voice cut off abruptly.
After a moment of silence, the speaker spoke again with a tense tone: "I think I heard something?"
Robb reined in his horse, and the entire column came to a halt. They quickly realized that Little Eddard was not imagining things.
A dull vibration suddenly rose from the ground beneath them. The horses snorted in agitation. Riders pulled their reins and the infantry stopped their pace, all focusing their senses to find the source of the sound.
The noise did not come from a single direction, but from the woods on both sides of the road simultaneously.
"Ambush!" Small Jon Umber was the first to react, shouting at the top of his lungs: "Form up! Prepare for battle!"
The layer of fallen leaves on the forest floor had absorbed the vibrations of running feet, and the thick snow left by the previous blizzard further muffled the sounds of the approaching ambushers. By the time they sensed something was wrong, the enemy was already upon them. Before the Northern army could even finish forming a battle line, hundreds upon thousands of soldiers in various garbs emerged from behind snowdrifts on both sides of the road, surging out like a tide, screaming as they charged the Northmen.
Despite being suddenly attacked, the ambushed party did not fall into chaos.
The Iron Islands had a population of only a hundred thousand or so; at most, they could muster ten thousand soldiers, and Euron was simultaneously harrassing the Westerlands, the Riverlands, and the North. He couldn't concentrate his forces in one spot. Furthermore, as half-baked pirates, the Ironborn were mostly poorly equipped and had to leave men behind to guard their ships. The ambushers before them looked like a black mass, but in reality, they were not necessarily more numerous than Robb's host.
Moreover, the Northern army assembled this time followed Robb's strict requirement for elites only. Those present were largely veterans who had returned victorious from the Westerlands campaign six months prior. The group following the Warden of the North was the elite of the elite—high-spirited, well-trained, and not prone to panic over a mere skirmish.
With confidence in their own prowess and contempt for the enemy, the Northern army felt no fear at being ambushed. Instead, from top to bottom, they felt the bravado of an opponent coming to their door to seek death. Under the raw but eager commands of the young noble sons surrounding Robb, the soldiers roared "Winterfell!" and slammed head-on into the attackers.
Blades and clubs clashed; bodies and armor collided. Amidst roars of life-and-death struggle, sweat dripped and blood sprayed. Crimson flowers bloomed across the white snow, only to be trampled and crushed, mixing with dirt until the boots ground them into a deep, reddish-brown.
There were slightly more Ironborn than Northmen in the center of the road, but they were not infinite. The attacking side soon finished pouring out from both sides of the woods, descending into a chaotic melee in the center of the path.
In the middle of the field, the battle was deadlocked. But a few hundred meters away, a small group of the last to arrive found a hillock about a dozen meters higher than the surrounding ground. Led by their commander, they began to overlook the battlefield.
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