Book 1, Act 3 - Blood and Tears

Bernarr IV

The rocky shoreline of the Flint’s Finger revealed itself in the grey and foggy horizon after two days and two nights of the Stark fleet sailing across the Blazewater Bay. Bernarr Bolton let out a deep sigh of relief seeing land again, even if he knew they would still have to sail around the small peninsula to reach the seat of House Flint’s local branch.

“Northmen aren’t made for the seas, that’s for bloody sure,” muttered Torren Ironthorns behind Bernarr. The usually firm and strong captain of the guards looked sickly and pale, dark bags under his eyes and dried chunks of vomit on his dark beard. “May the Others curse the bastard who came up with the idea of sailing.”

Bernarr chuckled slightly at Torren’s grumblings. The young lord wasn’t a seaman himself by any means, but all in all he had taken the voyage better than most of the crew he had shared a vessel with. ‘North Wind’ this particular ship had been named by its captain, Gawen of Barrowton. Bernarr also knew that the fleet’s flagship, which carried King Harlon Stark, was called ‘Hungry Wolf’, the one carrying the King’s brother Prince Karlon ‘Winter Maiden’, and the one carrying Lord Umber and his grandson ‘Giantess’.

The sun was up high and shined through a patchy veil of clouds by the time the fleet had sailed around the peninsula and approached the harbor situated slightly to the east from the castle of Flint’s Finger. It was a rather modest castle in size when compared to the likes of Winterfell and Dreadfort, but it looked sturdy enough standing atop the small and barren hill overlooking the bay to its south.

The longships were beached, and so the army of nearly fifteen thousand Northmen made their landing on Cape Kraken. On the beach King Harlon was approached by Lord Ryman Flint, a short and haggard man with a balding head and thick grey mustache. After kneeling before his king Lord Flint escorted Harlon and his bannermen through the village between the harbor and the castle, while the army began to erect their camp near the beach. Ryman Flint led them all the way to the castle’s great hall, where a welcoming feast awaited them. However, before they could start eating and drinking Lord Flint stood up to speak.

“Welcome, Your Grace and my fellow Northmen, to Flint’s Finger,” he began with a tense and formal tone. “For generations, this castle and the lands around it have been the last foothold of the North on Cape Kraken. I believe it is high time we change that.” The men in the hall cheered in agreement, Bernarr among them. “The Ironborn have sailed to wage war in the south, leaving their settlements here vulnerable. For the past few months they have halted all their incursions to our lands. My brothers, they are afraid!”

“And they’re right to be,” King Harlon spoke up with a wolfish grin. “For Winter is coming for them!”

Bernarr woke up early on the morning following the feast, as the door of the quarters he had been given was knocked on. Still feeling slightly dizzy from the ale he had drank last night he stood up, put on his trousers, and made his way to the door. Opening it, he saw Harrald Umber standing on the corridor, donned in his dark blue cloak.

“Good morning, Lord Bolton,” he said with a friendly smirk. “Just wanted to let you know that King Harlon has invited both of us to join him at Lord Flint’s council chamber.”

Bernarr furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. “You mean, right now?”

“Aye, as soon as possible,” he confirmed calmly. “Better not keep the King waiting.”

“Of course,” Bernarr mumbled, rubbing his eyes as he spoke. “Let me just comb my hair and put on something suitable for meeting His Grace.”

“I’ll wait right here,” Harrald responded with a polite tone.

After putting on the finest red doublet and blue cloak he had brought with him Bernarr joined Harrald on the corridor and they began to make their way towards the council chamber. “Do you know what this is about?” Bernarr asked.

“The war, obviously,” Harrald answered with an almost amused tone. Bernarr frowned in confusion. “Sure, but… I doubt His Grace wishes to discuss strategy with me.”

“Well, you’re not wrong on that,” Harrald admitted nonchalantly. “When it comes to that His Grace mostly trusts the advice of his brother. However, you are still among his most important bannermen.”

“I suppose so,” Bernarr muttered in response.

As they arrived in the council chamber King Harlon was already present, as was Prince Karlon and his second son Ryon Stark, Lord Orryn Umber, Rickard Hornwood, Harrion Hornwood, Lord Rymar Flint and his grandson and heir Daryn Flint. The atmosphere on the room was notably tense, and it seemed to get only tenser after Bernarr walked in.

“Everyone is here, good,” King Harlon stated calmly and took his seat. The rest quietly followed his example.

“Could you finally enlighten us what the fuck this is about?” Lord Umber then asked crassly.

“Patience, Lord Umber,” Harlon responded sternly. “Lord Flint tells me he is able to supply and outfit some two-hundred horses for our army’s use.”

“Only around fifty of them will be proper warhorses thought,” Lord Flint was quick to interject. “The rest are rounseys and stots.”

“Did you invite us here to discuss horses, Your Grace?” Harrion Horwood asked with an arrogant smirk on his face. “I do quite enjoy riding, so ask away if you want my advice.”

“I have not summoned you here to offer any advice,” Harlon replied dryly. He took in a deep breath and continued. “The coast of Cape Kraken is dotted with small Ironborn settlements. Well, the people of those settlements are of course mostly Northmen, but they are controlled by Ironborn captains, and the fort of Greencliffe on the southern coast is where all those captains get their orders from.”

“Seems simple enough,” Orryn Umber spoke up bluntly. “Take Greencliffe and whatever Ironborn remain on the other settlements will surely flee before winter.”

“Perhaps, but it would be even better if we never gave them the chance to flee,” Harlon said sharply.

“Your Grace, are you suggesting that we march to Greencliffe along the coastline?” Rickard Hornwood asked with a calm and formal tone.

“Not quite, that would be too slow,” Harlon answered. “No, I think the majority of our army should march through Cape Kraken straight to the southern coast to lay siege on Greencliffe. However, meanwhile a force of two-hundred riders could liberate the settlements of the coast from their Ironborn masters.”

“I see, and you wish us to lead that force of two-hundred riders,” Harrion deduced eagerly.

“Well, not all of us,” Prince Karlon corrected with a smirk. “My brother and I believe this cavalry should be led by Daryn, Ryon, Harrald, Harrion… and Lord Bernarr.”

“What the fuck is this?” Orryn spoke up angrily, glaring at the King and his brother. “You’re really telling my grandson and heir to ride by the side of those traitorous Bolton and Hornwood sons of whores!” he roared.

“Calm yourself, Lord Umber,” King Harlon commanded sternly. “These young men represent the future of the North, and they should be unified in spite of the divisions of the past. Or do you wish Harrald to one day suffer the same fate as you did, losing his sons in a war against his fellow Northmen?”

Orryn looked infuriated but held his tongue. A moment of silence followed, until Rickard Hornwood spoke up. “I believe this is a great idea, Your Grace,” he said with a respectful tone. “And I am sure my son is willing to do whatever you ask of him to prove his loyalty.”

“Obviously, Your Grace,” Harrion confirmed with a small bow. Harlon now turned his eyes to Bernarr, who gulped slightly under the King’s heavy gaze.

“I will do as you command, Your Grace,” he said after a moment of hesitation.

“As will I, Your Grace,” Harrald said, ignoring his grandfather’s glares.

“Good. Then you shall ride in the first light of tomorrow,” King Harlon declared.

On their first day of riding they made their way around the bay to the south of Flint’s Finger, and then continued along the coast to west. Daryn Flint and half-a-dozen of his men guided them since they knew the land best, but the rest of the cavalry had been gathered from Umber, Bolton and Hornwood troops, with the addition of a couple dozen of Prince Karlon’s men. Bernarr had left Big Ben in charge of the Bolton men marching with King Harlon and taken Torren Ironthorns with him.

They made their way past two villages, but those were both within the lands of House Flint, so they didn’t spend much time on them. By the time the sun began to set they made their camp by an old and ruined watchtower, which now marked the border between Northman and Ironborn territory according to Daryn.

As twilight creeped over the sky Bernarr, Harrald, Daryn, Harrion and Ryon gathered around a fire. For a minute or two a tense silence lingered around them as they warmed themselves and ate their supper.

“So, do you think the Ironborn on these coastal settlements will put up a fight?” Ryon Stark finally broke the silence while sharpening the blade of his battleaxe. He was a comely but sullen man on his early twenties, with a long light brown hair and a stubble beard around his mouth. Bernarr didn’t know him well but had heard that he had a reputation of being short-tempered, which had earned him the moniker “Storm of Winter” from his father.

“Of course they won’t,” Harrion scoffed, the usual sharp smirk on his face. “They’re just lowlifes sent by their king to watch over some fishermen and sheepherders. You think that’s where they’d be if they were great warriors?”

“Regardless of who they were when they were sent here, they have been hardened by years, if not decades, of fighting against my grandfather’s men,” Daryn interjected sternly.

“Aye, skirmishes with peasants over some patch of land or a lousy loot pillaged from your villages,” Harrion spoke with a mocking tone. “Now they face the greatest the North has to offer, charging against them with all the might of the old gods.”

Daryn merely rolled his eyes and opted not to respond. “Do you ever shut up, Hornwood?” Harrald then asked with a lighthearted tone.

“So far no one’s been able to make me,” Harrion boasted with a grin.

“Oh, but I recall you were pretty quiet when you were captured at White Knife and brought in chains before King Harlon,” Ryon remarked coldly, which reduced Harrion’s grin to a thin smirk.

“I’m sorry, I thought we weren’t supposed to talk about past conflicts,” he said snidely. “Because I have plenty of stories from that war that I’d love to tell.”

“We shouldn’t,” Bernarr was quick to assert himself into the conversation.

“Bernarr is right,” Harrald said calmly, and Daryn also muttered something in agreement.

“Fine, let’s talk about something else,” Harrion said with a mischievous tone. “How about women? Ryon, I heard you’ve got yourself a lowborn wench. Gave you a bastard son too, didn’t she? Must be quite a wench for you to acknowledge the boy as your own and refuse to marry a proper noble lady.”

“None of your business,” Ryon muttered with an expression that made clear he did not wish to talk of the subject any further.

“Oh, you’re so boring,” Harrion teased. “Come on, tell us at least what makes her so special? Is it her tits?”

Now Ryon stood up, his face flushed red with anger and the battleaxe still firmly in his hands. This was clearly frightening enough sight even for Harrion to back down. “Fine, fine, we won’t talk about your woman, give it a rest,” he spoke with his hands raised up. With a steely stare in his eyes Ryon sat down again.

“How about you, Harrald?” Harrion asked with a playful tone. “Any stories of maidens you’ve conquered lately?”

“I am loyal to my lady wife,” Harrald responded calmly, to which Harrion reacted with an exaggerated fake yawn.

“You must be the most boring bunch of sorry fuckers I’ve ever had the displeasure of spending time with,” he said with a smirk. “Fine, I guess I’m the only one here with interesting stories to tell. Would you like to hear about the time me and my mate Torwyn Holt started a drunken brawl in one of Barrowton’s taverns?”

“No thanks,” Ryon grunted and took his leave from the fire.

“Sure, why not,” Harrald said with a shrug, glancing at Ryon as he walked away.

As Harrion told his story, and then a few more, Bernarr began to feel strangely jealous. He had spent most of his life in Dreadfort with few real friends, whereas Harrion seemed to have endless stories to share of his adventures around the North. Bernarr was about seven years younger than Harrion, that’s true, but still he couldn’t help but feel he had lived a much less exciting life. I suppose this war is my great adventure.

After a somewhat cold and uncomfortable night of rest they continued their ride towards west in the morn. By noon they reached the first village within the Ironborn territory called Wolf’s Gill, but there were no signs of Ironborn there. The local folk informed them that the men of Captain Rolfe, who was in charge of the next village to the west called Old Rock, had not paid them a visit in nearly a year. After a short rest they continued their ride towards Old Rock.

When the village revealed itself in the horizon it was clear to Bernarr how it had gotten its name, as its houses were built around an ancient standing stone atop a small hill. However, what could also be seen were the two longships anchored at the village’s pier, one of them slightly smaller than the other.

“Two ships,” Torren muttered by Bernarr’s side. “That means at least fifty of those bastards, probably more.”

Horn was blow in the village when they noticed the Northman cavalry, and indeed dozens of men armed with round shields and axes, swords or spears began to flock to the field in front of the village, where they quickly formed a shield wall.

“I will lead the charge in the middle with Ryon and Daryn,” Harrald spoke with a strong and authoritative tone. “Harrion, you lead the left flank. Bernarr, you lead the right flank.”

Terrified of what was to come, Bernarr could only give Harrald a stiff nod before turning around to organize his men on the right flank with Torren. He could feel his heart pounding, it was hard to breath, and cold sweat ran down his forehead beneath the helmet. Soon Harrald blew his horn and charged straight toward the Ironborn shield wall. Few seconds after that Harrion led his men to charge on the left flank.

“Mylord, it is time,” Torren said tensely, and Bernarr gave the captain a nod. He unsheathed his sword and pointed it towards the enemy. “Forward! For Dreadfort!”

The hooves of the horses thundered against the green field as Bernarr led his men to flank the Ironborn defenders from the right. He could see the charge led by Harrald bashing against the shield wall, followed by a cacophony of breaking shields and dying horses. However, Bernarr had no time to contemplate any of that as just seconds later he himself reached the disorganized line of Ironborn defenders on the right and cut through it.

Bernarr swung his sword with a wild scream, hitting one of the ironborn on their helmet, then breaking one’s shield while trampling another. A throwing axe flew right by his head from the left, and Bernarr could feel his breaches wetting just a little. Soon he could see Harrion and his men cutting through the enemies ahead of them, and then Harrald’s men finally breaking through the shield wall on their second charge as well.

After just minutes of fighting the Ironborn had been thoroughly routed, and those of them still able to run dropped their shields and retreated towards their longships. In the middle of the battlefield Bernarr dismounted his horse and removed his helmet, watching silently as injured Ironborn and horses were put to the sword all around him, while injured Northmen were carried to be taken care of elsewhere. It didn’t take long for a murder of crows to begin circling around the battlefield.

“It ain’t a pretty sight, but you’ll get used to it, mylord,” Torren muttered as he approached Bernarr.

“I hope so,” Bernarr answered with a hollow tone, feeling his hands still trembling. He then turned his gaze to see dozens of unarmed villagers approaching the battlefield. Notably most of them were women.

“People of Old Rock! I am Harrald Umber, here by the command of King Harlon Stark,” Harrald declared. “We have come to liberate you from your Ironborn masters.”

“Liberate us?” one of the women asked with tears in her eyes, on her knees by one of the fallen. “Most of the men you slaughtered were born and raised in this village!”

“They served the Ironborn,” Daryn Flint said coldly. “Makes them Ironborn in my eyes.”

Harrald dismounted his horse and calmly approached the weeping woman. “My apologies,” he said sincerely. “War is ugly business and sometimes innocents suffer for it. Know that from this day you are under the North’s protection.”

The woman reacted with a meek nod, and Harrald then turned towards his men. “Help the villagers to bury the dead,” he commanded sternly. “After that we shall leave.”