The third morning at the edge of the Neck brought no renewed fervor. It brought only the stark, unyielding reality of defeat.
The camp of the Faith Militant was a sprawling, silent graveyard of living men. Twenty-two thousand survivors huddled together in the freezing mud, their eyes hollow, their stomachs empty. The night had taken its toll. The crannogmen had stolen another handful of sentries, pulling them silently into the black waters of the bog, leaving only ripples and terror behind.
Pate sat near the cold ashes of a dead fire. His hands were numb, his feet swollen and black. He stared at the dull, rusted tip of his boar spear, but he no longer saw a weapon of holy justice. He saw a heavy, useless piece of iron that he no longer had the strength to lift.
Nearby, Septon Raynard was attempting to do what septons did best.
"Stand, brothers!" Raynard's voice rang out, though it lacked the booming, resonant authority of the previous days. It sounded thin, desperate, and ragged against the howling wind. "The Father tests us with hardship! The Warrior demands we rise! We must form the lines and strike the heathen walls once more! The Seven are with us!"
He swung his dented brass censer, walking among the huddled masses of the Poor Fellows.
There was no response.
Not a single man raised his wooden club. Not a single voice joined in a hymn. The men simply stared through him, their eyes fixed firmly on the mud. The blinding fanaticism that had carried them a thousand miles had been entirely crushed beneath the falling basalt blocks of Moat Cailin. They had seen their friends liquefied against the ironwood gates. They had seen that prayers did not stop northern arrows.
"Cowards!" Raynard shouted, his face flushing red as he kicked a broken shield. "Will you abandon the light? Will you let the Stranger take your courage?"
Pate didn't even blink. He just pulled his thin, blood-stained cloak tighter around his shivering shoulders. If the Stranger wanted his courage, the Stranger was welcome to it. Pate just wanted a hot loaf of bread and a dry place to sleep.
Suddenly, a sound cut through the bleak morning air.
It was not the shrill, chaotic blowing of the southern horns. It was a deep, resonating, earth-shaking blast. The war horns of the North.
Every head in the camp snapped toward the fortress.
The massive ironwood gates of the Gatehouse Tower, which had remained firmly shut throughout the slaughter of the previous day, were slowly groaning open. The heavy iron chains rattled, echoing across the frozen causeway.
"They come!" a knight of the Warrior's Sons screamed, his voice cracking with pure panic. "Shield wall! Form the lines! Form the lines!"
From the dark maw of the gatehouse, the Northern cavalry emerged.
They did not ride in a chaotic, screaming charge. They rode with terrifying, mechanical precision. Thousands of heavy Northern horsemen, clad in thick boiled leather, ringmail, and grey cloaks, rode out onto the causeway. Their massive, shaggy destriers stepped easily over the frozen, crushed bodies of the fallen zealots. They held heavy iron lances and broad axes, their shields locked.
Pate scrambled to his feet, his heart hammering in his chest. This was it. The wolves were coming to finish the hunt. The men around him began to weep, dropping their weapons and covering their heads, waiting for the thunder of hooves to trample them into the mud.
But the thunder never came.
The Northern cavalry did not lower their lances. They rode to the very edge of the southern camp, maintaining perfect formation, and simply halted. The sheer discipline of thousands of heavy horses stopping in unison sent a tremor through the ground. They formed an impenetrable wall of steel and muscle, effectively cutting off any escape down the causeway.
From the center of the Northern line, a single rider advanced.
Eddard Stark sat atop his massive black destrier. He rode forward until he was a stone's throw from the shivering, ragged vanguard of the Faith.
The silence that fell over the southern camp was absolute. Twenty-two thousand men held their breath, waiting for the Warden of the North to order their execution.
Ned Stark looked over the sea of starving, mud-caked faces. He saw no warriors. He saw exactly what his spies had reported: a hijacked population.
When Ned spoke, he did not shout, yet his voice carried effortlessly across the frozen expanse, amplified by the subtle, commanding resonance of the Force.
"I look upon your ranks," Ned Stark began, his voice calm, firm, and ringing with absolute authority. "And I do not see an army. I see bakers. I see cobblers, farmers, and daily workers. I see men who were swept up in a tide of religious fervor, lied to by their priests, and forced from their homes under threat of being named cowards or heretics."
Pate's breath caught in his throat. The Lord of Winterfell was looking directly into the crowd, and his words were striking the absolute, undeniable truth.
"Your High Septon told you to march on my home," Ned continued. "He told you to burn my glasshouses and slaughter my people, claiming it was the will of your gods. He lied to you. He sent you here to die in the mud for his pride."
Ned gestured to the towering, flawless black stone of Moat Cailin behind him.
"You have seen the strength of the North. You have seen that your prayers do not break our walls. I could give the order right now, and my cavalry would ride you down into the bogs. The crannogmen would take whoever managed to flee into the trees. Not a single one of you would ever see the Trident again."
A low, terrified murmur rippled through the camp. Ser Lymond Peake swallowed hard, his hand resting uselessly on the pommel of his sword.
"But I am not the High Septon," Ned said, his voice dropping to a low, solemn promise. "And I take no joy in slaughtering starving men."
Ned raised his gloved hand.
"I am giving you a choice," the Warden of the North declared. "Lay down your weapons. Walk to the eastern side of the clearing, away from the road. Do this, and you have my absolute word as a Stark: no harm will come to you. You will be fed, and you will be allowed to live."
Ned let his hand drop to the reins of his horse, his grey eyes turning hard as flint. "But for those of you who still harbor thoughts of burning my kingdom... for those who choose to keep their steel in their hands... only death awaits you. Choose now."
For a long, agonizing moment, the camp was entirely still. The wind howled through the ruined banners of the seven-pointed star.
Septon Raynard stepped forward, his face purple with rage. "Do not listen to the heathen! It is a trick! The Father will protect us! Strike him down! Strike the wolf down!"
Pate looked at the Septon. He looked at the heavy, rusted boar spear in his freezing, blistered hands. He thought of Olyvar, crushed to paste beneath a block of basalt because a priest had told him the Maiden would protect him. He thought of the deep, black water of the swamp, and the monsters that waited in it.
And then, Pate looked at Eddard Stark. The man sat perfectly calm, his posture completely devoid of malice, offering a way out of the nightmare.
Pate didn't hesitate.
With a loud, metallic clatter, Pate threw his rusted boar spear into the mud.
He didn't look at Septon Raynard. He didn't wait for permission. Pate simply put his head down, stepped out of the ranks, and walked slowly toward the eastern side of the clearing.
The sound of Pate's spear hitting the mud was the pebble that started the avalanche.
To his left, a cooper from Gulltown dropped his wooden club. A farmer from the Reach threw his scythe onto the ground. Within seconds, the sound of dropping weapons became a deafening, continuous roar, like heavy rain falling on a tin roof.
The dam broke. The men of the Faith Militant, exhausted, starving, and broken, surrendered en masse. They abandoned their holy symbols and their makeshift weapons, shuffling in a massive, ragged tide toward the eastern edge of the camp, placing themselves under the protection of the very man they had come to destroy.
"Traitors! Heretics!" Septon Raynard shrieked, swinging his censer wildly at the passing men. "The Stranger will take you all! You are damned!"
No one listened to him. They just walked away.
Within ten minutes, the vast majority of the clearing was empty. Nearly twenty-two thousand commoners stood quietly on the eastern flank, completely unarmed, waiting.
The very second the peasants dropped their rusted scythes and pitchforks and moved to the side, a team of Northern quartermasters emerged from the gatehouse pushing heavy wooden handcarts. They moved with relentless, practiced efficiency, rapidly shoveling the surrendered weapons into the carts to be melted down for spearheads, treating the holy armaments like a convenient delivery of scrap iron.
Watching the massive host surrender without a single blow, Greatjon Umber visibly deflated. The giant Lord of the Last Hearth lowered his massive battle-axe, let out a long, heavy sigh of profound disappointment, and turned to Rickard Karstark.
"I polished my plate and greased my saddle for nothing," the Greatjon grumbled, thoroughly disgusted by the lack of bloodshed. "They drop their steel faster than a King's Landing whore drops her silks."
Only a very small cluster of men remained in the center of the camp, holding their weapons.
There were perhaps a hundred of them in total. Ser Lymond of House Peake stood with about fifty knights of the Warrior's Sons and lesser lords of the Reach. Beside them stood Septon Raynard and a core group of about forty deeply fanatic Poor Fellows and wandering holy men.
The knights had not kept their swords drawn out of a desire to fight. They kept them drawn because of the brutal, unforgiving politics of the South. A peasant could drop his pitchfork and return to his pigs, but a knight of the Reach who publicly threw his sword into the mud at the feet of a Northern lord would be stripped of his lands, his honor, and his titles the moment he returned home. They were trapped by their own pride.
The septons remained because they were entirely, irrevocably blinded by their own fanaticism.
Ned Stark rode his destrier slowly forward, stopping just a few paces from the small cluster of armed men. He looked down at them, his expression utterly unreadable.
"You are all that remains of the High Septon's holy crusade," Ned noted quietly.
Ser Lymond lifted his chin, trying to maintain a shred of dignity despite his rusted chainmail and mud-caked face. "We are anointed knights of the Seven Kingdoms, Lord Stark. We cannot simply cast our steel into the dirt like common beggars."
"And we are the voices of the true gods!" Septon Raynard bellowed, pointing a fat, trembling finger at Ned. "You may have tricked these weak-minded fools, but the Warrior stands with us! We will not bow to a tree-worshipping savage!"
Ned ignored the priest entirely, keeping his eyes on Ser Lymond.
"You led thousands of men to the slaughter, Ser Lymond," Ned said, his voice cold and flat. "You marched an army to my borders with the intent to burn my lands. You do not get to walk away."
Ser Lymond swallowed hard, his grip tightening on his sword. "What are your terms, Stark?"
"You have two options," Ned commanded, his voice carrying the inescapable weight of Northern justice. "You may surrender your arms, renounce your southern titles, and take the black. You will go to the Wall, where your martial pride might actually be of some use to the realm. Or, you may demand a trial by combat, here and now, and die in the mud."
Ser Lymond Peake looked at the Northern cavalry lines. He looked up at the massive, towering battlements of Moat Cailin. He thought about his chances of winning a duel against Greatjon Umber, or the legendary Arthur Dayne, or even the cold-eyed Lord of Winterfell himself.
He looked at his fellow knights. They were exhausted, starving, and suffering from bog-rot.
It was not a difficult choice.
"I choose the Wall," Ser Lymond said immediately, his voice devoid of hesitation. He unbuckled his sword belt and let it fall to the ground. "I will take the black."
A collective sigh of relief passed through the remaining fifty knights of the Reach. One by one, they unbuckled their swords and tossed them onto the pile.
Ned nodded in acknowledgment. "A pragmatic choice. Fall in with my men."
The knights quickly moved to the side, escorted by a dozen Wolfguards.
That left only Septon Raynard and his forty fanatics. They stood entirely alone in the center of the camp, gripping their clubs and crude iron stars.
"We do not fear your Wall, and we do not fear your blades!" Raynard screamed, his face a mask of spittle and rage. "The Seven judge the righteous! We demand a trial by combat! The Warrior himself will guide our strikes and strike you down where you stand!"
Ned Stark looked at the fat, screaming priest. He did not look angry. He simply looked tired.
"Very well, Septon," Ned said calmly. "A trial by combat. Who will represent you?"
Raynard sneered, turning confidently toward the group of knights who had just surrendered. "The Warrior's Sons shall champion the Faith! Ser Lymond, step forward and strike down this heathen in the name of the Seven!"
Ser Lymond Peake did not step forward.
In fact, the knight did not even look at the Septon. Ser Lymond suddenly found the grey sky fascinating. A few of the other knights began inspecting their rusted gauntlets with intense concentration. If we were sure of victory, we wouldn't be standing in this freezing swamp in the first place, a young knight muttered quietly to his companion.
One of the younger knights from the Florent lands puckered his lips and began loudly and cheerfully whistling The Bear and the Maiden Fair, actively ignoring the furious priest.
"Ser Lymond!" Raynard shouted, his voice cracking with shock. "I command you in the name of the High Septon! Pick up your sword!"
"I am a recruit of the Night's Watch now, Septon," Ser Lymond replied smoothly, not taking his eyes off the clouds. "The men of the Watch take no part in the quarrels of the realm. I'm afraid the Warrior will have to champion you himself."
The knights around him muttered their agreement, deliberately turning their backs on the core of fanatics. They had watched thirty thousand men die for this priest's pride. They were not about to join them.
Septon Raynard stared at the knights, his mouth opening and closing in absolute disbelief. He looked at his forty remaining followers. They were bakers and beggars, not swordsmen.
Ned Stark sat on his horse, waiting patiently as the silence stretched.
"Seeing as the Warrior has declined to make an immediate appearance," Ned stated, his voice calm and pragmatic, "you are currently without a champion. But the North respects the laws of the realm. You demanded a trial by combat, Septon, and I grant it."
Raynard's face twitched, a sudden glimmer of desperate hope battling the rising panic.
"You have until tomorrow morning," Ned declared, his grey eyes hard as flint. "You have the night to pray to your gods and find a man willing to bleed for your pride. If you cannot find a champion by sunrise, you will take up the sword yourselves."
Raynard went deathly pale. He looked at his soft, plump hands, then at the heavily armored Northern cavalry surrounding them. "We are holy men! We do not spill blood!"
"You marched fifty thousand men to my borders to do exactly that," Ned replied coldly. He raised his hand, signaling the captain of the Wolfguard.
"Disarm them and place them under guard," Ned ordered. "Give them water and a fire. Tomorrow at dawn, we see if the Warrior truly guides their strikes."
The Wolfguard moved with ruthless efficiency. The forty fanatics, realizing that their wooden clubs were useless against Castle-forged steel and coordinated discipline, broke instantly. They were wrestled into the mud, stripped of their weapons, and marched away to a secured perimeter near the gatehouse. Septon Raynard stumbled along with them, his blustering rage entirely replaced by cold, suffocating terror.
Septon Raynard was dragged away by two massive Umber soldiers, kicking and screaming curses into the freezing air until he was hauled through the heavy gates of Moat Cailin and tossed into the freezing dark of the lower cells.
The center of the camp was finally quiet.
Ned Stark turned his destrier and rode slowly toward the eastern edge of the clearing, where the twenty-two thousand surrendered commoners stood waiting. They watched him approach with wide, terrified eyes, unsure if the mercy he promised was real, or just a trick to round them up for the slaughter.
Pate stood near the front of the crowd. He clutched his thin cloak, trying to stop his hands from shaking as the massive black warhorse stopped just a few paces away.
Ned looked down at them. He saw the frostbite. He saw the starvation. He saw men who had been pushed to the absolute breaking point of human endurance.
"Your war is over," Ned announced, his voice steady and calm, carrying none of the harshness he had directed at the knights or the priests.
Pate let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.
"You marched here as an invading army, but you have laid down your arms," Ned continued. "Therefore, you are no longer enemies of the North."
"Before we move forward, there is work to be done," Ned said, gesturing back toward the causeway. The narrow stone road was still blocked by the massive, horrific mountain of the dead from the previous day's assaults.
"Those men were your brothers, your neighbors, and your friends," Ned said quietly. "They died for a lie, but they deserve the dignity of rest. Gather your dead from the causeway and the edges of the swamp."
Ned's voice hardened, carrying a grim, absolute authority. "But do not dig graves. Every man must be committed to the flames. It is the new law of the North. No bodies go into the earth."
Pate looked at the causeway, a lump forming in his throat as he thought of Olyvar.
"By the time you have finished," Ned promised, his voice carrying a warmth that cut through the freezing wind, "my quartermasters will have the fires lit. We are preparing hot stew, fresh bread, and clean water. When you have laid your fallen to rest, you will eat in peace."
The crowd stared at him in stunned silence.
For a moment, all Pate could hear was the howling of the wind. Then, a man near the back of the crowd began to weep quietly. It was not a weep of terror, but of profound, overwhelming relief.
Pate looked up at Eddard Stark. The Lord of Winterfell gave a single, respectful nod to the gathered men, then turned his horse and rode back toward his cavalry lines, leaving the commoners to their grief and their salvation.
Pate wiped a tear from his frostbitten cheek. He didn't know what gods the North worshipped, but as he turned and walked toward the causeway to find the body of his friend, Pate decided that he liked the wolf's gods far better than his own.