"Is that so?"
Jon Umber's eyes widened as he scanned the approaching infantry phalanx. Displeasure twisted his face, but as he observed the orderly march of soldiers, his confusion gave way to rage. He clenched his fists and cursed under his breath, "Damn it, Roose Bolton! That dog—he's using my soldiers as bait, isn't he?!"
Turning to Eddard Karstark, he added sharply, "You, Eddard, you are clever, yes, and skilled in command—but you are too young to truly grasp the treachery of men. Spend more time learning from your father before you trust others blindly!"
With that, Jon Umber wheeled his horse and rode off, leaving Eddard behind, suppressing a wry smile. From his vantage point, he watched as Jon approached Maege Mormont, Earl Glover, Ser Wendel Manderly, and the other family commanders. Within moments, they had clustered together, surrounding King Robb Stark to voice their grievances.
Earl Glover's voice trembled with indignation. "Your Majesty, we have no objection to Roose Bolton acting as Marshal. We entrusted our family's soldiers to him with full confidence. Yet, look at the infantry returning—it is clearly abnormal!"
Maege Mormont's tone was sharper, almost sarcastic. "I had heard that Lord of Dreadfort is kind even to stable boys, gentle in word and deed. I did not expect him to wield such cruelty against his own people on the battlefield."
Rickard Karstark remained silent, but the chill in his eyes sent a shiver down Robb's spine. Ser Wendel Manderly, an outsider to the North, muttered only that he hoped the King would ensure justice.
Jon Umber's voice cut through the murmurs, loud and furious. "Why speak in riddles? Look closely! Hundreds of Hearth Hall's men are dead, and House Karstark has suffered the gravest losses—nearly a thousand men! Other families with strength lost at least five hundred! Are you blind?"
He gestured toward the orderly ranks of Dreadfort soldiers. "And what of them? Not a single casualty! Are we expected to serve like mindless Others?!"
The complaints grew louder, voices overlapping. "Roose Bolton must answer for this!"
"Return his soldiers to us!"
"Pay us compensation!"
"Give us land for our losses!"
Robb Stark's patience strained. The clamor of his vassals, normally loyal, now gnawed at his nerves. Only gradually did he understand the truth.
He cast a careful gaze toward Greatjon Umber, following the direction the northern lord was pointing. It became clear: Roose Bolton had deliberately held back his own troops while letting the other houses bear the brunt of the fighting. The casualties of Dreadfort were astonishingly low—fewer than ten men lost—while almost every other Northern banner had paid a steep price.
At the division of forces at Twin River City, Robb had already sensed Roose Bolton's unnerving calm. That composure, he now realized, masked something far more strategic—and potentially ruthless. Bolton had been entrusted with command of the Eastern Army precisely because of his steady demeanor. Yet his true cunning was revealed now: he had allowed other family soldiers to lead the charge, suffering massive losses, while preserving his own force.
A wave of indignation rippled through the lords. They had come to Robb seeking justice, and now it was clear that the Marshal's actions were deliberate. The Young Wolf, inexperienced in matters of courtly politics, felt both overwhelmed and helpless. He had never faced a test like this, where the loyalty of his vassals was shaken not by enemies but by his own commanders' discretion.
Eddard watched silently, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He could have spoken to clarify the situation, but Robb's youth, honor, and tendency to trust openly made him susceptible to deception. By letting the lords voice their grievances, Eddard realized, he was letting them entangle themselves in Roose Bolton's scheme. Robb would now have to confront the issue personally, making any resolution far more impactful.
Robb's gaze swept over the restless lords. Their anger and frustration were almost tangible, and his eyes met Eddard's briefly, silently asking for guidance. Eddard shook his head and raised his hands in helpless refusal. There was nothing he could do; to intervene would reveal his own subtle role in orchestrating Bolton's maneuver.
Robb's momentary frustration hardened into determination. He raised his hand, signaling the lords to cease their shouting. His voice, deep and resolute, carried across the assembled commanders. "I understand your concerns," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument, "and there will be a reasonable explanation for all actions taken."
The lords fell silent, their murmurs stilled. Robb's reputation as the Young Wolf, forged in battle and upheld by his honesty, ensured that his words carried weight. Even now, his prestige allowed him to command authority simply by speaking.
Meanwhile, on the battlefield below, the Northern cavalry attempted repeated charges against the hedgehog-like Lannister formation, only to be repelled by a relentless hail of arrows. Dozens of men fell, but the remaining cavalry held back, patient, waiting for the infantry to arrive.
At the ford, Ser Kevan Lannister commanded the spearmen with unwavering authority. Only he, as the younger brother of the Duke of Casterly Rock, possessed the prestige necessary to maintain discipline among the troops. His leadership ensured that the men remained steadfast, giving Tywin time to escape.
To further maintain order, lords and officers kept watch over their families' soldiers, making sure that no one acted rashly. Fear and reward were combined to keep morale intact. Ser Kevan shouted, "Think of your families! If you flee, your wives and children may hang. But if you hold, Lord Tywin promises double compensation—and if captured, Lannister will pay ransom to return you!"
The common soldiers, motivated by these words, obeyed. Ser Vivant of Fair Isle, angered by the loss of his father, still relayed Tywin's promises to steady the men. Every noble did the same; the weight of Lannister prestige and the lure of reward ensured compliance.
Kevan knew the situation was temporary. His brother's forces were already distant, vanishing into the night. The five thousand men left at the ford were pawns in a much larger game. He steeled himself, recalling that this was not cowardice—it was strategy, designed to preserve strength for future engagements.
From afar, dense figures appeared on a distant hill—over ten thousand enemy troops, their numbers enough to unsettle even seasoned warriors. Ser Kevan raised his voice again, rallying his men. "You are the finest soldiers of the Westerlands! Remember Lord Tywin's promises! Hold fast!"
The soldiers, reassured, regained their composure. The tension ebbed slightly, though their bodies remained tense, ready for the coming clash.
Roose Bolton, meanwhile, maintained his usual cold, calculating demeanor. To onlookers, he appeared calm, courteous, and meticulous, speaking gently even to commoners. Yet beneath that calm exterior lay a mind attuned to strategy and survival.
When King Robb called him forward, Bolton bowed. "Your Majesty, I heed your summons and congratulate you on the victory over the Lannisters."
The battle below had left little doubt of Stark's advantage. Tywin had abandoned some of his men, fleeing in a calculated retreat, while Bolton's forces remained largely intact.
Robb looked at Bolton with a mix of disgust and cautious respect. The man's calmness in the face of such controversy was almost infuriating. "How can he act as if nothing is amiss? Does he think I am too young to discern his methods?"
Yet Robb was pragmatic. He had no desire to quarrel unnecessarily, and he withheld any chance for Bolton to speak further. Instead, his words were measured and commanding. "Thank you for your efforts, Lord Bolton. There is, however, another matter that requires your loyalty and resolution."
For the first time, Robb felt a surge of authority and self-assurance. The presence of Roose Bolton, intimidating though it was, no longer inspired fear. Instead, it reinforced his resolve to command decisively, as a King must..
The battlefield lay tense, the Northern cavalry watching, the Lannister spearmen unmoving, and the lords waiting for justice. In the midst of this, strategy, patience, and the careful balance of fear and loyalty would determine not only the outcome of the ford but the future of the Riverlands themselves.
Füll bōøk àvàilàble óñ pàtreøn (Gk31)