Author's Note:
It occurred to me that I haven't expanded on the organization of the Winter Guard and the Greycloaks, so there will be a bit of an info dump in this chapter, but what can ya do?
And before someone complains because im sure they will, remember that Alaric had created the institution of the Winter Knights, who are knights who swear their oaths before the Old gods, not the Seven, to help create a warrior gentry and establish more of a martial culture for heavy cavalry and even the playing field. Plus, I like knights, so yeah.
[The Twins, The Green Fork, Dawn of the 4th Day of the 1st Moon, 299 AC]
Dawn came grey and cold over the Twins.
The mist clung low to the Green Fork, drifting slowly across the bridge and curling through the broken gate like a thing reluctant to leave, as though even the river itself wished to linger upon what had been done here, to take its time in carrying the memory of it away. The fires from the night before had burned low, their embers still glowing faintly in scattered pits across the yard, while above them the towers stood blackened in places where smoke had licked their stone.
The battle had ended.
The dying had not.
Ser Jory Cassel stood in the yard of the first keep, one hand resting against the pommel of his sword as his eyes moved over the scene before him, taking in not the clash of battle that had filled this place only hours before, but the quieter, heavier work that followed it.
Men moved steadily now.
Not rushing.
Not shouting.
Working.
Bodies were being gathered.
The wounded were being carried.
Armor was being stripped from the dead, cleaned where it could be, set aside where it could not.
The North did not waste.
Not even now.
A pair of Greycloaks passed by him, bearing a stretcher between them, a man lying upon it with his leg bound tight in cloth already darkened with blood. The wounded man's face was pale, his breath shallow, but he lived.
That was something.
Jory watched them go without speaking, then turned as another voice approached.
"Ser."
It was Ser Raymun Snow, Captain of the 1st Company of the Greycloaks, his cloak drawn tight around his shoulders, his helm tucked beneath one arm, his expression tired but steady.
Before the Northern forces had marched south from Moat Cailin, Alaric had seen fit to appoint a new Commander of the Greycloaks following Ser Torrhens'... untimely death.
And much to his own surprise, Alaric had chosen him to lead the professional soldiers of House Stark, bar the Winter Guard who answer only to the lord of course.
It was in the meeting following said appointment that Alaric had laid out the formation of the Greycloaks to him, and where he met the officers and men who would serve under him.
First had been the numbers, much to Jory's surprise, the Greycloaks numbered 8,000 in total, 2,000 having stayed behind in Winterfell as guards, fresh recruits who still would train every day.
Of the 6,000 that came south, they were divided into 6 companies of 1,000 men, each headed by a captain.
Not too dissimilar to the Winter Guard's composition, which had 2,000 men, all heavy foot armed with castle-forged steel for armor and weapons, split into 2 companies, the 1st Company of the heavy foot under Ser Desmond, and the 2nd Company of heavy foot under Ser Ellard.
Under those two were 4 serjeants as well, each responsible for 250 men each.
The Greycloaks, however, were a little more diverse in function.
You had companies 1-3, all footmen, not heavy but still armored with mail and leather, well equipped with spears and secondary swords. Then the 4th Company held 1,000 rangers/archers, many coming from the wolf's wood, acting as foot reconnaissance and skilled marksmen. Last, you have companies 5 and 6, 1,000 outriders/light horse each, responsible for screening and disrupting supply lines and enemy scouting and intelligence.
The captain of the 1st Company is Ser Raymun Snow, the bastard of Oldcastle, nephew to Lord Ondrew Locke.
The Captain of the 2nd Company is Ser Oliver Woolfield, one of the first officers to join the Greycloaks years back when they were established.
The Captain of the 3rd Company is Ser Ulrich Umber, cousin to the Greatjon and a kinsman of Alaric, he sports the characteristic umber size and strength, his company being moreso modeled after the umber shock infantry.
The Captain of the 4th Company is Ser Yorwyck Woods, hailing from House Woods, bannermen to the Glovers. Ser Yorwyck is a renowned forest hunter and tracker, his skill with a bow is unmatched.
The Captain of the 5th Company is Ser Waymar Royce, having been invested as Captain of the company just under a year ago after having proved his skill on a horse and with a blade.
The Captain of the 6th Company is Ser Rickard Ryswell, second son of Lord Rodrik Ryswell. Although House Ryswell still isn't on the best of terms with House Stark, courtesy of Lady Barbrey, they still answered the call to arms, and Ser Rickard had long shown his interest in serving Winterfell and getting away from his father and brothers.
"1st Company's been accounted for," Raymun said. "A few dozen lie dead, nearly twice that wounded. Most'll live."
Jory nodded once. Ser Raymun had effectively served as his right hand since he became Commander.
"Make sure the wounded are seen to first," he said. "Not just our own. Any man who can be saved is to be saved."
Raymun hesitated, just slightly.
"The Freys?"
Jory's gaze held his.
"Aye," he said. "Them as well."
Raymun gave a short nod.
"Aye, ser."
He turned and went.
Jory watched him for a moment, then moved on.
The yard had been cleared enough now that the scale of it could be seen properly.
Northern banners hung where Frey colors had once flown, Stark grey and white snapping in the wind, flanked lower by the sigils of Manderly, Karstark, Umber, Dustin, and more besides, their presence alone enough to mark the change that had come here.
The Twins no longer belonged to House Frey.
They belonged to the North.
But the cost of that claim lay at Jory's feet.
He stepped carefully as he walked, boots finding ground between darkened patches of stone where blood had soaked in and begun to dry, the grooves of the yard still holding it in thin, dark lines that would not wash away easily.
A cluster of men stood near the wall, speaking in low tones.
Ser Desmond Manderly.
Ser Ellard Karstark.
Lord Willam Dustin.
And beside them, silent and watchful as ever, his friend, Lord Eddard Stark.
Jory approached, and their conversation stilled just enough to acknowledge him.
"Ser Jory," Desmond said, his voice carrying its usual weight even in quiet. "We were just about tallying what's left of us."
"What's left," Ellard muttered, wiping at his beard with the back of his gauntlet. "A fine way to put it."
Jory inclined his head slightly.
"Then let's have it done properly," he said. "No guesses. No half-counts."
Desmond grunted in agreement.
"Aye. No use lying to ourselves now."
He shifted his weight, glancing down briefly at the parchment in his hand, though it was already clear most of the numbers sat in his head.
"First Company," he began, "lost just under a hundred. Ninety-two, last count. Another hundred and fifty wounded, though most of those'll see another fight."
Jory nodded once.
Less than a hundred.
Considering the spearheaded assaults on both castles and the tower on the bridge, the numbers were rather good.
As good as such things ever got.
Ellard spoke next.
"Second Company fared similarly," he said. "Eighty-one dead. Close to two hundred wounded. Stair fighting took its toll, but we held formation."
His eyes flicked briefly toward Jory.
"Your Greycloaks did well holding the lines beneath us."
Jory gave no smile.
"They did what they were trained to do," he said.
"And did it better than most," Desmond added.
Jory inclined his head, but did not linger on the praise.
"Captains," he said, turning the conversation back. "What do we have?"
Ser Oliver Woolfield stepped forward slightly from where he had been listening.
"First three companies together lost just over two hundred," he said. "Mostly in the yard and initial push. Another three hundred wounded."
Ser Yorwyck Woods added from beside him, "Rangers took fewer losses. Better cover, less direct fighting. Fifty dead. Wounded near the same."
"And the outriders?" Jory asked.
Ser Waymar Royce answered that.
"Light horse didn't see the worst of it," he said. "Not even two dozen dead or injured between Ryswell and us. Mostly from the early volleys outside the walls, granted we didn't see much action considering our specialty," he added with a wry look, almost disappointed in not being involved in the assaults
Jory exhaled slowly.
"Total?"
A brief silence.
Then Desmond spoke.
"Including the levies from the various houses, near a thousand lay dead," he said. "Another thousand wounded. Most of those'll live."
The words hung there.
Heavy.
Measured.
Not triumphant.
Just… real.
"And the Freys?" Jory asked.
Ellard let out a short, humorless breath.
"Four thousand," he said. "Near enough. Maybe more once we count the ones in the river."
Jory nodded.
Four thousand.
Against one thousand.
A decisive victory where castle assaults were concerned.
And yet…
"It always could've been worse," Ellard muttered.
Jory's gaze shifted to him.
"Aye," he said. "It always could."
No one spoke after that.
There was nothing more to say.
Jory left them to their thoughts and continued on, moving through the keep as the work carried on around him.
Men spoke in low voices.
Some laughed, sharp and brief, the kind of laughter that came not from joy but from the simple fact of still being alive.
Others said nothing at all.
He passed a group of younger soldiers, one of them sitting against the wall with his arm bound tight, his face pale but his eyes clear.
"We held, didn't we, ser?" the boy asked as Jory passed.
Jory slowed, looking down at him.
The boy couldn't have been more than seventeen.
Too young.
But they all were, in the end.
"Aye," Jory said. "You did."
The boy nodded, as if that was enough.
Perhaps it was.
Further on, near the inner gate, the bodies had been laid out in rows.
Northmen on one side.
Freys on the other.
Separate.
Deliberate.
A serjeant stood nearby, one of Ellard's men, Red Edric, a lowborn from Flint's Finger, earned his first kill back during Greyjoys failed rebellion, earned his spot on the Winter Guard through pure merit and talent, if Jory remembered right, giving orders as men moved among the dead.
"What of theirs, ser?" the serjeant asked as Jory approached, gesturing toward the Frey bodies.
Jory looked at them.
So many.
Too many.
"Separate them," he said after a moment. "Lord Stark shall decide what's to be done with the dead."
The serjeant nodded.
"Aye."
Jory lingered only a moment longer, then turned away.
He found himself drawn, almost without thinking, toward the gate.
The same gate they had broken through.
The same gate where men had died holding the line as the North forced its way in.
He stood there for a time, looking at the splintered wood, the iron bands twisted and broken, the marks of axes still fresh and raw against the surface.
And in his mind, He saw another gate.
Not here.
Not now.
The Red Keep.
The stories had been told more than once, by those who had made it out.
Ser Torrhen Stark, standing beneath the gate as the last of them fled.
Holding.
Not yielding.
"They said he never stepped back," Jory murmured to himself. "Not once."
He could almost see it, although he hadn't witnessed it, having helped lead the charge out of the Red Keep.
And yet, he still could imagine it.
The press of men.
The clash of steel.
Torrhen standing firm as the world closed in around him.
Buying time.
Giving his life for it.
Jory's jaw tightened.
"And now he's gone," he said quietly.
Gone.
And Ser Wylam Slate before him.
A Different man.
A Different kind of leader.
Wylam had not been a warrior like Torrhen.
Not first and foremost.
He had been a builder, a teacher, and a leader to the highest degree.
The one who had taken farmers and herdsmen and turned them into something more.
The one who had drilled them in mud and rain, who had taught them that discipline mattered more than pride, that a line held together was stronger than any single man's strength.
"Torrhen held the line," Jory said softly.
"Wylam built it."
And now… Now it was his responsibility to carry.
"Ser Jory," he heard a familiar voice call for him
Jory turned.
Alaric Stark stood a short distance away, Tempest and Cinder at his sides, the two great wolves still and silent as stone, their sharp eyes watching everything and nothing all at once.
Alaric's gaze settled on him.
"Losses?"
Jory did not hesitate.
"Near a thousand dead," he said. "Another thousand wounded. Most will live."
Alaric nodded once.
"See that they do."
No praise.
No condemnation.
Just expectation.
Jory inclined his head.
"It will be done, my lord."
Alaric studied him for a moment longer, then turned away, already moving toward the great hall where the Freys had been gathered.
Jory watched him go.
'He speaks as if it were always certain,' he thought.
And perhaps for him, it had been.
Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Jory soon followed after him.
The hall was already filling.
Not with feasting.
Not with celebration.
But with bloodied Northerners, itching for Frey heads to roll.
And along with them came the condemned.
Freys stood at the far end, guarded, disarmed, their faces pale and drawn, their eyes flicking from man to man as though searching for something that was no longer there.
Hope, perhaps.
Jory entered the hall, standing off to the side near a wall to catch the entire scene before him, watching as men moved past him, as the last of the wounded were carried away, as the dead were gathered, and as the North settled into the space it had taken.
They had won.
That much was certain.
But as Jory stood there, watching the fires burn, the men move, and the wolves pass silently among them, he felt no triumph.
Only the weight of it.
'Men will remember the victory,' he thought.
His gaze drifted toward the rows of bodies once more.
'I'll remember the cost.'
And as the first light of true morning broke through the mist, casting pale gold across the stone of the Twins, Ser Jory Cassel left the hall, leaving to return to his work, for the ensuing 'trial' was of no concern to a military man like himself.
While the battle may have been over.
The work, well… The work was not.