.
---
The march south was endless.
The Neck stretched before them, a vast tangle of swamps, narrow paths, and treacherous bogs. The Crannogmen led the way, their small, reed-cloaked figures moving like ghosts through the mist. They whispered warnings of sudden drops, hidden waters, and deadly sinkholes where men would vanish without a sound.
The Northmen grumbled but pressed on.
They were tired. Drenched from the rains. Feet caked in mud. Bones aching from the cold.
And yet, not one man turned back.
They were men of the North.
They had fought wars in blizzards, in forests, in the endless night of winter.
A little swamp wouldn't stop them.
---
Though he had been knighted, Ser Steven Rogers still marched with the soldiers.
And to them, he was still Captain.
"Captain, you ever fought in a place worse than this?" asked Wyl Stone, his boots squelching in the mud.
Steve glanced at him, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Once. A place with no sun, no ground beneath your feet. Only cold and darkness."
"Sounds like a nightmare," muttered Torrhen Flint, shaking the water from his cloak.
"It was," Steve admitted. And it nearly killed me.
But the past was the past. He was here now, walking beside these men. And he would not let them march into war unprepared.
---
Further down the line, Rickard Karstark rode with his men, his expression grim and silent. He was a warrior, a man of discipline and honor, but even he could not deny the harshness of this march.
"It should not take this long," he muttered to his second, Ethan Tallhart.
"The Crannogmen know the way," Ethan replied. "Without them, we'd be sinking in the bog."
Rickard scowled. "I'll take frozen ground over this cursed swamp any day."
Behind them, Garrick of White Harbor spat into the reeds. "Targaryens better pray to their dragon gods we don't arrive. This march is only making us angrier."
Laughter rippled through the ranks.
Even when suffering, the Northmen could still find humor in their misery.
---
At the head of the column, Eddard Stark rode in silence, his mind heavy with responsibility.
With his father and brother dead, the North looked to him now.
And yet, he did not feel like a leader.
"Brandon should have been here."
His older brother had always been the stronger, the bolder, the voice that could command men with fire and fury.
Eddard?
He was a quieter man. A man who thought before he spoke, who measured every word, every action.
And yet, here he was. Leading an army. Leading the North.
He glanced back at the men.
Despite the hardship, despite the cold and the hunger, they followed him.
And he would not fail them.
"Moat Cailin is close," Howland Reed said beside him, his voice soft but firm. "Once we pass it, we leave the Neck behind."
Eddard nodded. "And then, the war truly begins."
---
The ancient fortress of Moat Cailin rose before them, a ruined giant sinking into the swamp. The once-mighty walls were cracked and crumbling, but the towers still stood, watching the South like silent sentinels.
"First time seeing it, Captain?" Rodrik Cassel asked as he pulled his horse alongside Steve.
Steve nodded. "It looks… old."
Rodrik chuckled. "Aye. Older than the North itself, some say. It's kept invaders out for thousands of years."
"But it won't stop us from leaving," Steve muttered.
Rodrik's smile faded. "No. And the South won't be ready for us when we do."
The army passed through the ruins, their boots thudding on stones laid by forgotten kings. Some men touched the walls for luck, others simply marched with grim determination.
When the last of the Northmen passed beyond the fortress, a great horn boomed through the mist, signaling their departure.
The North had left its gate.
Now, it marched for war.
---
That night, the army camped on drier ground, the first in weeks.
The fires burned brighter, the men's spirits lighter now that the swamps were behind them.
Steve sat among a group of foot soldiers and knights, eating hard bread and salted pork.
"You ever think about what happens after?" Wyl Stone asked, staring into the flames.
"After?" Jon Liddle frowned. "After what?"
"The war," Wyl said. "What happens when we win? What do we do then?"
Silence fell.
Some men had never thought that far.
"I go home," said Garrick. "Back to my wife, my boys."
"You think we'll live long enough for that?" Torrhen Flint muttered.
Steve listened quietly.
These men were soldiers, but they were also people.
They had families. Dreams. Lives waiting beyond the war.
And yet, war was all they knew.
Steve had seen it before, in every battle, every war.
Some men would live to see peace.
Others would not.
And some… some would never stop fighting, even when the war was over.
That was the nature of warriors.
---
As the fire crackled, Steve looked around at the men beside him.
They were tired, cold, hungry—but they were also strong, unbroken, ready to fight.
This was his army now. His brothers in arms.
"I won't let them march into slaughter."
"I will make them ready."
For the war now.
For the war to come.
For the war that would decide the fate of everything.
---