Deepwood Motte.
Gray clouds pressed down over the open fields.
Hundreds of gray-brown tents stretched from the North Keep training ground toward the land beyond the castle walls.
Along the muddy paths, the clatter of armor mixed with the neighing of horses, echoing without end.
Galon wore a suit of leather armor, a longsword hanging at his waist.
Accompanied by Robett, Maester Beckman, and Steward Morman, he inspected his army.
The moment he received Robb's letter, Galon had ordered the sons of the four great clans within the Steel Fist to return to their respective clans and begin mustering new troops.
In just two days—
Nearly two thousand men had poured into Deepwood Motte, turning it into a place of constant noise and motion.
"Do we still have enough food?"
Galon asked as he walked along the training ground toward the encampment outside the castle, occasionally checking on conditions with the three beside him.
Steward Morman calculated silently for a moment before answering, "We have enough. The clans brought some of their own supplies, and combined with our stores, it will last for more than half a year."
He paused, then glanced toward the western side of the castle. "On top of that, the oats are about to be harvested, so there's no need for you to worry about shortages, my lord."
Galon said gravely, "After we leave, set aside forty percent of the new harvest as reserve grain. Do not trust those who claim winter will be short."
Morman nodded gloomily. "I will obey, my lord."
The four passed the archery range.
Seeing Mihawk still drilling the archers, Galon asked Maester Beckman, "How many new bows do we have now?"
Beckman replied, "My lord, we've completed more than six hundred new bows, but only five hundred have been issued, all to Mihawk's men."
Galon nodded.
"That will do for now. After I leave, Maester, you can continue your work on armor-piercing arrows."
In an age without machines or automation, every craft relied entirely on manpower. Especially the gathering and processing of raw materials.
Just rendering fish-bladder glue alone had consumed hundreds of man-days.
Galon understood this well.
Since the new bows were already sufficient for his forces, he decided to halt further production for now and let the maester focus on armor-piercing arrows.
Beckman sighed when Galon mentioned them.
"There's very little room left to improve the craftsmanship of the arrows themselves. We can only make progress through better materials."
He looked at Galon. "Deepwood Motte has plenty of wood, but we lack the metal needed for arrowheads. If you could obtain some dragonglass, my lord, we might make real progress."
Galon was momentarily speechless.
Training the army and developing new bows had nearly drained Deepwood Motte's reserves.
On top of that, watch posts had been built at Sea Dragon Point, each equipped with telescopes.
Even with Jorel's hundred gold dragons, Galon had still spent a great deal of his own coin.
At present, the treasury of Deepwood Motte was utterly empty. Even rats would leave it in tears.
"I'll think of a way to get dragonglass," Galon said at last.
Still, he did not refuse.
After a brief moment of thought, he agreed to secure dragonglass for Beckman.
Whether for researching armor-piercing arrows or for facing the Others in the future, weapons of dragonglass were indispensable.
"If I don't have it here," Galon thought, "then I'll have to do as the nomads do and seize resources from the south."
"Once I've dealt with the Iron Islands, I'll make sure to skin the Westerlands and the Reach for everything they're worth."
His gaze grew deep as he laid out his future plans.
The four did not disturb Mihawk's training.
They passed through the workshops, crossed the training ground, and continued toward the main gate of the castle grounds.
After integrating the original six hundred men of Deepwood Motte into the Steel Fist, Galon now planned to use the same method to organize the newly recruited two thousand.
The training field was filled with shouting men and restless horses, chaotic and noisy.
Galon paused to watch for a while, then shook his head slightly.
He turned to Robett. "Uncle, at this rate of integration, we'll delay our departure."
"Let Jon and me help with the training."
Robett nodded with a smile. "With the two of you helping, things will move much faster."
He hesitated, then asked, "Galon, why did you make Jon stay behind?"
Galon turned his head slightly. "Jon came to see you, didn't he?"
Robett hummed in acknowledgment and continued, "Lord Stark is imprisoned in King's Landing. Even as a bastard, Jon naturally wants to rescue his father.
Why stop him from marching south?"
Galon shook his head faintly. "It's precisely because he is the his bastard that I must keep him at Deepwood Motte."
As for Jon, Galon had long since made his plans.
On this journey to Winterfell, Galon had already decided to remain in the North to guard against the Iron Islands.
And now Jon had become one of the few truly capable men under his command.
Keeping him in the North greatly increased Galon's chances of defeating the Ironborn.
But if he took Jon to Winterfell, Jon's temperament might lead him to beg Robb to let him march south.
Once Robb spoke, Galon would find it difficult to refuse.
Rather than risk that, it was better not to bring Jon at all.
These thoughts were not something Galon could share with anyone, so he gave only a vague explanation.
Robett thought for a moment, then lowered his voice. "Are you worried that letting Jon earn glory on the battlefield would anger Lady Catelyn?"
Galon froze for a heartbeat. He had not expected Robett to see it that way.
But it gave him a convenient excuse.
"Yes," he said. "Lady Catelyn despises bastards, and the battlefield is not like other places. Internal discord would only unsettle the army."
"In that case, it's better to keep Jon here."
Robett nodded, suddenly understanding.
At that moment, a gloomy-faced Jon approached with a group of men.
"Lord Galon, the men who arrived yesterday have all been settled," he reported, then looked expectantly toward Robett.
But after hearing Galon's explanation, Robett had already given up the idea of speaking on Jon's behalf.
Noticing Jon's gaze, he shook his head slightly, signaling that there was nothing he could do.
Jon's heart sank even further.
Since their last conversation, he had tried again and again, in roundabout ways, to make Galon change his mind, only to be turned back each time.
Gradually, he had begun to accept that he would not be marching south with Galon. Yet the worst possible news, foreseen by Galon, had come to pass—
Ned Stark was imprisoned in King's Landing.
The moment Jon learned that his father was trapped there, whatever reason he had left collapsed entirely.
He went straight to Galon, pleading once more to be allowed to march south and rescue his father.
Galon refused him again, with the same words as before.
Left with no choice, Jon sought out Robett, hoping he might intercede.
Now it was clear that this plan had failed as well.
For an instant— Jon felt the urge to abandon his post as a squire altogether and return to Winterfell.
But his sense of honor and duty quickly bound him in place once more.
"Jon, don't worry," Galon said, patting his shoulder in reassurance. "I promise I'll bring lord Stark and Arya back safely."
"These men have only just arrived. They can't even form ranks yet.
This afternoon, train them with me. We need to teach them basic discipline as quickly as possible."
Jon nodded in dejection, then led his men away.
Galon watched him go, then continued inspecting the rest of the camp.
By afternoon, he led the Steel Fist in integrating more than a thousand newly recruited soldiers into the existing military structure.
Training lasted only five days.
On the one hand, the new troops had been roughly integrated. On the other, Galon truly could not delay any longer.
And so—
The Glover host set out, marching toward Winterfell.
__________
Upto 20 chapters ahead on patreon :-
patreon.com/Xorath