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Chapter Thirty-One: The Price of Victory
The scent of roasted meats and fresh bread filled the halls of New Castle as preparations for the victory feast continued. The sun had set, casting White Harbor into the cool embrace of night, but the city still pulsed with life. Fires burned bright, warming the streets as people celebrated their deliverance.
Wyman Manderly sat in the war room, surrounded by the commanders who had led White Harbor to victory mere hours ago. The atmosphere was thick with relief and triumph, the tension of battle replaced with joyous conversation and the occasional burst of laughter.
It had been an overwhelming victory.
They had faced a force nearly four times their size, yet their losses had been minimal. The pirates had been shattered, their leader cut down, and the city remained standing, stronger than ever.
Wyman let his gaze sweep across the room.
On the floor beside Robb and Jon lay the two direwolves, Grey Wind and Ghost. These beasts had torn through the enemy with a savagery that had spread terror among the invaders, yet here they lay, curled up like pups, utterly content.
It was easy to forget that they were still growing.
Just like their masters.
Wyman turned his attention to the two boys—boys who had become heroes in a single battle.
The people had already given them names.
Robb the Young Wolf.
Jon the White Wolf.
Both had more than earned their titles.
Robb had proven his mind for war, showing tactical brilliance well beyond his years. He had not only helped plan the city's defense but had also acted decisively, sending archers to the rooftops at the exact moment they were needed.
Jon… Jon had been something else entirely.
The reports were staggering—more than a hundred men had fallen to his bow alone.
A single boy.
Even Ser Walder, who had been a terror on the battlefield, couldn't match Jon's performance.
Wyman had seen archers in his time, some of the best in Westeros, but he had never seen anything like what Jon had done today.
The boy had rained death upon the enemy, striking down men with an impossible speed and accuracy. His arrows had never missed.
And then there was the moment that had already become legend.
The moment he had saved his father's life by putting an arrow through Euron Greyjoy's skull.
Wyman was pulled from his thoughts when Ser Marlon Manderly spoke up.
Ser Marlon, despite being injured in the battle, had insisted on attending this meeting. His left arm was bandaged, and there was a deep cut along his brow, but his voice was steady.
"We've completed the casualty reports," Ser Marlon began. "After adding the injured and the dead, our total losses amount to about one hundred."
A hundred.
Wyman let out a slow breath. It was far fewer than he had feared.
Ser Marlon continued, "Inside the city and near the Seal Gate, we counted over one thousand dead pirates. We're still counting the bodies from the cavalry charge outside the walls."
There were murmurs around the room.
A thousand dead enemies.
And that wasn't even counting the ones cut down by the heavy lances outside.
It was slaughter.
Wyman glanced at Ned Stark.
The Warden of the North sat quietly, his hands resting on the table, his face unreadable.
But Wyman saw something in his eyes.
A cold satisfaction.
Ned wasn't the type of man who took joy in killing, but he was a Stark. He knew what it meant to protect his people.
And today, they had sent a message to anyone who dared to threaten the North.
Ned turned to Ser Marlon. "You held the walls well. If the enemy had taken them, this battle would have ended very differently."
Ser Marlon bowed his head. "I only did my duty, my lord. The pirates had no proper siege weapons—just ropes. We were fortunate they lacked the means to breach the walls properly."
Ser Marlon then turned his attention to Jon, who sat beside Robb.
"And I owe you my life, Lord Snow," Ser Marlon said. "A pirate nearly took me from behind, but your arrow found him before his blade could find me."
Jon, ever humble, merely nodded. "You would have done the same for me."
Ser Marlon smiled faintly and returned the nod.
Then, the conversation turned to the spoils of war.
"The men will want to know what's to be done with the loot," Ser Marlon said.
Ned's voice was firm. "House Stark will take nothing."
Silence filled the room for a brief moment.
Then Ned continued, "Tell the men they may claim whatever they find from the dead inside the city and near the Seal Gate. The spoils from the dead outside belong to the cavalry."
There were nods of agreement. It was only fair. The riders had risked everything by charging into a numerically superior enemy force.
Then Ned added something else.
"The houses and landed knights who rode to our aid today, who answered Lord Wyman's call with whatever men they had, are exempt from taxes for the next two years."
That announcement caused murmurs of approval.
It was a generous reward—one that would not be forgotten.
Wyman himself felt a swell of respect for Ned.
The Stark lord was not just rewarding his allies; he was strengthening them.
Stronger bannermen meant a stronger North.
Wyman smiled. "House Manderly will also take nothing from the spoils," he declared. "Our prize is the victory itself."
That brought a round of nods and satisfied smiles.
The North had won.
The battle was over.
And now, they would celebrate.
Wyman raised his cup, his deep voice ringing through the chamber.
"To victory!"
The others followed, lifting their drinks in unison.
"To victory!"
The war room echoed with the sound of cups clashing together.
And for the first time since the battle began, Wyman allowed himself to relax.
Tonight, they would feast.
Tomorrow… they would decide what came next.