Barrowlands of the First Men, between snowfields and scorched earth.
The cold wind howled, whipping up flurries of snow that lashed against Galon's face.
Five days had passed since the army split.
Now he led a force of a thousand Northern soldiers from House Glover, House Karstark, and several minor houses, sweeping across this ancient and desolate land like a gray tide.
For five straight days, Galon conducted relentless and efficient purges of the Ironborn.
Like a comb dragging through tangled hair, his forces scoured barrows, hills, and valleys, defeating four scattered groups of Ironborn remnants.
These raiders, having lost all coordination, were in disarray.
Some still tried to flee toward the western coast.
Others had become little more than beasts, occupying abandoned villages or ancient caves, surviving by looting.
Yet as the campaign continued, Galon began to notice something troubling.
It was not only the Ironborn.
A growing number of displaced farmers had also turned into bandits. They roamed the North in desperate groups, dragging others into chaos.
"What in the world is Barrowlands doing?"
"Has Lady Barbrey lost her mind?"
"At a time like this, she is still dragging her feet and undermining the Starks?"
Galon quickly realized the truth.
Lady Barbrey was following her usual pattern, doing the bare minimum and avoiding real effort.
But this was no longer a time of peace.
When the North was stable, such behavior might have been tolerated, even by Lord Stark.
Now, with Ironborn invading and chaos spreading, her inaction only allowed the raiders to roam freely and turn more farmers into outlaws.
Galon burned with anger, yet he had no authority to command her directly.
He was only in charge of military operations against the Ironborn, not internal governance.
"Send word to Barrowlands."
"Tell Lady Barbrey to mobilize her forces immediately and restore order."
"And tell her this: if the farmers become bandits, then when winter ends, she will have no one left to plant her fields."
Suppressing his anger, Galon sent messengers to urge her to act.
Once they departed, he led his troops onward toward Torrhen's Square.
He needed to find out why there had been no news from there.
After another half day of marching, the army reached a small village called Acorn Hamlet.
Galon pulled his horse to a halt.
His red eyes swept over the devastation before him, and he let out a quiet sigh.
Only a few charred wooden beams remained, stubbornly pointing toward the gray sky.
The air was thick with a sickening mixture of burnt wood, scorched grain, and something far worse.
The snow was fouled with chaotic footprints and drag marks.
Dark patches of frozen blood stained the ground.
At the village entrance, the frozen body of a peasant woman hung from a tree. Her empty eyes stared upward, as if questioning the gods themselves.
Jon Snow, riding beside Galon, clenched his teeth in fury.
"Those damned animals!"
Galon said nothing.
In the past few days, he had seen too many scenes like this.
He raised his hand, and a squad of soldiers entered the ruins, searching carefully for survivors.
Soon, faint sobbing was heard from a half-collapsed cellar.
The soldiers cleared away debris and pulled out a boy, no more than ten years old.
He was thin as a skeleton, shaking violently, his face smeared with soot and frozen tears.
His wide eyes were filled with terror.
"There's a survivor!"
Galon dismounted immediately and walked over.
He removed his gauntlet, took a waterskin from his belt, and knelt beside the boy.
"Drink slowly."
His voice softened, in stark contrast to his hardened armor.
The boy gulped down a few mouthfuls of water, then coughed violently as tears streamed down his face.
"They… they killed my father… took my sister… my mother…"
He could barely speak, trembling like a leaf in the wind.
Galon placed a hand on the boy's shoulder and removed his heavy cloak, wrapping it around the child.
He could feel the sharpness of the boy's bones beneath his grip.
"Are there any others?" Galon asked quietly.
The boy shook his head, too afraid to speak.
At that moment, an old farmer emerged slowly from behind a broken wall, leaning on a charred stick.
One of his arms hung uselessly, wrapped in bloodstained cloth.
"My lord… Lord Stark?"
The old man mistook Galon for a Stark.
A flicker of hope appeared in his clouded eyes, only to be swallowed by despair.
"What happened here?" Galon asked, stepping closer.
"The Ironborn… three days ago…"
The old man's voice rasped like a broken bellows.
"There weren't many… a few dozen… like starving wolves…"
"They took everything. The granary, the cellar… even the seed grain…"
"Any man who resisted was killed. The women and older children were dragged away…"
He choked, unable to continue.
"My poor son…"
With his remaining strength, he pointed toward a dark stain in the snow.
Galon followed his gaze and saw a crude wooden toy half-buried in the ice.
His fists clenched tightly, nails digging into his palms.
Since arriving in this world, Galon had experienced many things. He had grown accustomed to his identity as a noble.
He believed his heart had hardened enough to decide life and death without hesitation.
But now he realized the truth.
In the face of such suffering and injustice, he still could not remain indifferent.
"Which way did they go?" he asked, his voice heavy with restrained fury.
Compared to the devastation before him, Lady Barbrey's inaction angered him even more.
"West…"
"They said… they were heading back to the Iron Islands… following the river south along the western lake…"
The old man gasped for breath before pleading.
"My lord… please… kill them…"
"Avenge us…"
Galon took a deep breath.
"...The North remembers."
He nodded to the old man, then turned to Jon Snow. "Give them food. Send a squad to escort them to the nearest safe village."
Jon nodded.
"I'll see to it."
Galon cast one last look at the ruined village. Then his voice turned cold as steel.
"Send the order. Increase our speed. I want to reach the nearest crossing before sunset."
"I will see that those beasts stain the river red with their blood."
"Remember this. I want no prisoners."
"Anyone bearing arms is to be killed."
The army moved at once, driven forward like a whip had struck them.
Carrying a chilling killing intent, they surged westward toward the crossing.
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