Moat Cailin had once been a mighty stronghold with twenty towers, great walls of basalt, and a wood keep. It was said to have rivaled Winterfell in terms of strength and prestige. But, like years tend to do, the fortress has been eroded to what it was now; a few towers held together by half-sunken curtain walls that showed evidence of the former power and majesty of the Moat. The wooden keep had long ago rotten away, along with most of the towers.
There were three towers left, and they had total dominion over the causeway that was the single road in and out of the North. The strongest and largest was the Gatehouse Tower. It was squat and wide, holding up some of the walls with the last of its fading strength. Then there was the Children's Tower, tall and slender, with half of the crenelations missing on its crown. There was a rumor that in the highest room was where the Children of the Forest brought the hammers of the seas down on the Neck. The final tower was the Drunkard's Tower, aptly named because of how the structure leaned. It stood in the ruins of the south and western walls.
Even though Moat Cailin was a ruin in every sense of the word, it was still a highly defensible ruin. The three towers covered the causeway, the only way through the Moat. If the attacking army wants to try and attack one tower, then they must cross chest-deep water infested with lizard-lions along with the constant hail of arrow fire from the other two towers.
Moat Cailin was the definition of the phrase 'damned if you do, damned if you don't'.
"Jon," the Greatjon boomed. "You were missed this morning."
The Greatjon was accompanied by a few other commanders and close friends of Jon's father; Rickard Karstark, Maege Mormont, and Galbart Glover. They were good people. Honest and straightforward. There was no hidden agenda with them.
"My lords, my lady." Jon greeted, nodding to them.
"You look pale." The old She-Bear barked jokingly. "That Moat does that to boys."
Jon smiled slightly. "Just thinking about how to attack it."
"Head on is our only option," Karstark grunted. "Everything else will get us killed."
"More killed." Glover corrected.
"How many men does Frey have in there?" Jon asked, glancing at the Greatjon.
"Black Walder has two thousand buggers holed up in there with him." The massive man spat. "The rest must be with the Leech."
"What did Lord Hawker have to say about the fortress?" Jon asked.
"He said to build a lot of rams," Karstark answered. "A lot of them."
Jon grimaced and looked back at the fortress. From where he was standing, it looked like a stone giant huddled over the road, cutting off all access to the North. Crawling through the giant's limbs and veins were leather-capped soldiers bearing spears, bows, and the bridge of House Frey.
The Bastard of Winterfell remembered meeting the man known as 'Black Walder' during his time idle in Riverrun. He was a wiry, temperamental man who inspired fear in all of the serving staff. He had been chewed out by Ser Stevron once for being caught forcing himself on a serving girl.
He was a stubborn man who had little regard for the men under his command. If he was going to lose Moat Cailin to the northern army, then he was going to take as many of Jon's thirteen-thousand as he could.
"They look too damned arrogant." The Greatjon rumbled angrily. "We need some of those stone-chuckers Robert had at Pyke."
"Trebuchets." Glover helped.
"Aye, trebuchets!" The Greatjon said. "See how comfortable those fuckers are when they got boulders flying over their heads."
"They're not at all comfortable." A quiet, calm voice said from out of nowhere. The group turned to find a small, green-cloaked man leaning on a frog spear. After nearly a year, the Lord of Greywater Watch hadn't changed to Jon.
"Howland!" The Greatjon boomed. "When the fuck did you show up."
The crannogman jerked a thumb behind him at the stablehand that was taking away his small, barrel-chested horse.
"Just now." He answered flatly.
"You said they weren't comfortable," Jon said, interrupting before anyone else said anything. "How do you know?"
"I poisoned their water." He answered simply.
"You always were a smart one," Maege said, she and the others chuckling darkly.
"Why don't they get water from the moat?" Jon asked, glancing over his shoulder at the fortress.
"Tried," Howland answered. "One idiot lost a hand to a lizard-lion and another fought a dart in the jugular." The wiry lord frowned slightly. "I was aiming for the vein next to it."
"You're slipping," Karstark grunted, crossing his arms.
Howland shook his head. "Fucker slipped."
"How did you poison the water?" Jon, bring the conversation back on track.
Howland looked a little amused. "My family has ruled the Neck since the Age of Heroes. We know every inch of the Moat like we know the swamps. It was child's play. They've been without water for three days. They won't last another two."
"How do you know?" Jon asked.
Howland looked at Jon, his hood falling back slightly so that his moss-green eyes could be seen. There was a harsh light there that made Jon just a little uneasy. Again, he was reminded why Howland Reed was such a dangerous man. Not only was he armed to the teeth in weapons that he had been using for decades, but he was also cunning and had no qualms about dishonorably killing men.
"The Frey's aren't the first to try and hold the Moat," Howland responded. "I know how long it takes before men begin to die of thirst."
Again, the older nobles chuckled at the man's deadpanned delivery. The Greatjon patted Howland on the shoulder, his ham-sized hand almost the same size as Lord Reed's head.
"Why haven't they abandoned the Moat?" Jon asked.
"It's the only thing protecting them." Lord Hawker said, walking up to the group, flanked by his three sons. He nodded to Lord Reed. "Your scouts were helpful. Most of the men on the walls are dummies."
"Dummies?" Glover asked.
"Straw-filled decoys," Hawker explained. "Very few actual men walk the walls. The marshmen describe them as pale and gaunt. I've seen the effects before. Thirst."
"Now is the perfect time to attack." The Greatjon declared.
Jon shook his head. "Not just yet, my lord. Lord Reed said they won't last another two days. We simply wait two days and attack them when they're at their worst."
"I'll prepare the rams," Hawker said.
"We'll need hand-held ones as well. There are places in the towers where a dozen or so men could hold off an army. We'll need to batter them down." Howland added.
Jon nodded. "We attack in two days. Lord Hawker, you have command of the van. Lord Karstark, Lady Maege, you have the front. Lord Glover, the archers."
"Am I pigshit?" The Greatjon asked angrily.
Jon shook his head. "I might have a special task for you, Lord Umber." He turned to Howland. "Is there any way we can get a small group of warriors into the Moat and take the enemy by surprise?"
Howland nodded. "I'll have my men open it for you. How many men do you need?"
Jon glanced at the Greatjon. "Myself, Lord Umber, and Robb's battle guard should be sufficient. Nine men in all."
"I'll take you over the night before Lord Hawker begins his attack," Howland promised. "Just make sure the walking mountain keeps his great mouth shut."
"You have your roles, my lords, I suggest we get to them. In two days, we'll have the Moat and we start freeing our home from traitors and rebels."
Line Break
"You did well out there," Howland said, walking into the tent behind Jon and Ghost. "Reminded me of your father."
"Which one?" Jon grumbled, pouring two tankards of ale and handing one to the small lord.
"Eddard," Howland answered easily. "Your chosen father." He glanced down at Frost. "How is Blackfyre treating you?"
"Frost now." Jon corrected. "I honestly thought that not many would notice."
"It's valyrian bloody steel." Howland chuckled, dropping into an open seat. "It's not exactly common. Would you not point it out if you saw pigs flying?"
Jon chuckled as well and took a seat, leaning forward, cradling the tankard in his hands. "Your children were at Winterfell last we spoke. Where are they now?"
Howland shook his head, his face becoming an unreadable mask. "I don't know." He answered quietly. "Jojen and Meera have passed beyond my vision."
"Your vision?" Jon asked.
Howland shook his head again. "Nothing lad. I don't know where they are. But I know they are not dead."
Jon sat up a little. "Really?"
"I had friends search the ruins. They found markings in the crypts. There were also charred bodies outside the Godswood. Given the size and number, I suspect it was the ironborn raiders Greyjoy had with him."
"So Bran and Rickon are alive?" Jon asked, not wanting to believe it in case it wasn't true.
"My friends found prints heading north," Howland said. "Two were wolf prints, that much was certain."
"North?" Jon wondered. "Do you think they would be heading for the Last Hearth or Karhold?"
"Hopefully not Karhold," Howland said, taking a drink of his ale. "Arnolf Karstark has been spotted amongst Bolton's men."
"Arnolf? Who's he?" Jon asked.
"Rickard's castellan," Howland answered. "A grouchy, crooked man. I wouldn't be surprised if he was somehow pressured into joining the Boltons."
"Does Lord Karstark know?" Jon asked.
Howland shrugged. "I'll let him know tonight or tomorrow. It's no real problem for us. As soon as Rickard is back in the North, he'll bring his uncle and cousins to heel."
"So Bran and Rickon went north, along with your children, but we don't know where," Jon said. "Perhaps we could send a raven to Last Hearth?"
Howland nodded hesitantly. "Perhaps. One of my friends followed the trail and found that it split at the Last River, just a little south of the Umbers borders. One trail went northeast while the other continued north along the Kingsroad. Both had direwolf tracks."
"My brother's split up?" Jon asked, leaning forward even more now, his face covered with worry. "Why in the blazes would they do that?"
Howland shook his head. "I know not. My friend tried to follow one track, the one that headed northeast but lost it. When he retraced his steps to the Last River, the tracks heading north had been covered with snow."
Jon sighed, leaning back in his chair, gripping his tankard so hard that he thought he might crack the wood. His brothers had split up. Why? That was the biggest question on his mind. Why had they split up? Why wouldn't they simply head to the Last Hearth? Or why not Castle Black? Bran was too smart for this.
"Your friends….can they find Rickon or Bran?" Jon asked finally.
Howland shrugged. "They can try. They have their limitations, you should know. If they go to any of the three Night's Watch castles still in use, then I should know. But if they don't go to any castle, then don't expect me to work magic when I can't."
Jon nodded. "Fair enough."
Howland stood up, drained the last of his ale, and put a hand on Jon's shoulder. "Do not worry for your siblings. They have more help than you may realize. I will continue to search for them. You focus on bringing the fight to the Bolton's and ironborn."
Jon nodded, standing up and grasping arms with the older man. "Thank you, my lord."
Howland gave Jon a small smile. "Your father would be proud of you lad."
Jon returned the smile. "Which one." He joked.
"Both," Howland said before ducking out of the tent.