Roose Bolton's eyes were cold, pale as ice, yet his mind moved like a hidden current beneath still waters, calculating, weighing every possibility. The Young Wolf's intentions were difficult to read, shrouded in the bold confidence of youth, but Roose knew better than to underestimate a Stark.
"I understand, Your Majesty," he said, his voice calm, almost soft, yet carrying an unspoken weight. "The Bolton family will do their utmost."
Refusal was unthinkable. At this moment, more than twenty thousand soldiers looked to Robb Stark with unwavering loyalty, their respect for the Young Wolf's undefeated reputation solid. To disobey the King—even the Lord of the Dreadfort—would risk immediate arrest, charges of insubordination, and likely execution.
"Good!" Robb Stark exclaimed, drawing his sword and pointing at the Western Army still holding the ford. His voice was clear, commanding, and fearless. "Then I will trouble the warriors of House Bolton, House Ryswell, and House Dustin to clear the enemies blocking our path!"
The lords he named had suffered little to no losses in the battle so far. Robb's strategy, unspoken yet perfectly timed, struck a chord in the minds of his vassals.
In that instant, Robb's thoughts drifted briefly to an old saying he had once heard in the distant Yi lands: "Not fearing scarcity, but fearing uneven distribution." The phrase was vague, almost forgotten, yet it resonated now. If most of the Northern lords had lost men, then allowing the Dreadfort soldiers to suffer similar casualties would balance the scales. Strategy, justice, and psychology intertwined perfectly in his mind.
The Young Wolf scanned the faces of the lords. Their anger, once fiery and vocal, had transformed into cold, measured observation. No one dared challenge his authority or openly oppose the Bolton family. Silence, the quiet of reluctant compliance, settled over the battlefield.
Old Flayer understood instantly. His expression remained composed, calm, almost gentle in its outward demeanor. "Mission accomplished, my King," he said softly, bowing ever so slightly before mounting his horse and leading his men forward.
Resisting now would be foolish. Draw his sword openly, and he would be assailed by both the lords and their men. Submission, however, offered a glimmer of hope—something the Starks, known for their sense of fairness and mercy, were unlikely to deny.
The combined forces of the Bolton, Ryswell, and Dustin households advanced steadily down the hill. Nearly five thousand men in all, with Bolton alone fielding nearly three thousand infantry and five hundred cavalry—an army that could rival the forces of Winterfell itself.
From the sidelines, Greatjon Umber observed with barely concealed smugness. "My old man used to say that naked men had few secrets, but flayed men had none. Looks like the Lord of the Dreadfort has been flayed by me today," he muttered, completely unaware of the intricate web of planning behind Roose Bolton's movements.
No one answered him. The lords mounted their own mounts, ready to take command of their contingents should the battle shift against them. Even in their anger, they followed orders, each aware that personal involvement might become necessary.
Eddard Karstark, standing slightly apart, noticed something that caught his attention. The Tallhart family's banners had appeared among the advancing troops. These men, he recalled, had been left behind at Twin River City to ensure House Frey remained compliant. Why had they come now? Was it a deliberate act by Roose Bolton, or some chance alignment of circumstance? Could the Lord of the Dreadfort already be planning rebellion?
Questions swirled in Eddard's mind, but the war's progress left little room for speculation. Robb Stark's focus, for all his youth, was unwavering, yet his personal life—his needs and vulnerabilities—remained unaddressed. The Red Wedding, the treacherous culmination of political scheming, still loomed in Eddard's thoughts. But at this moment, the battlefield offered clarity. Victory here might stabilize everything.
He rode alongside Robb, lowering his voice. "Your Grace… the soldiers left in Twin River City—they followed the army. Was this your order?"
Robb shook his head. "No. I noticed the banners of Torrhen's Square as well. It does not concern me greatly. The war is proceeding smoothly. Half of the enemy forces have already been neutralized. Tywin will not confront us directly anytime soon."
Eddard nodded. "Still… Twin River City is critical. We need to ensure more troops guard it. With this crossing, movement between Karin Bay and Riverrun is swift. We cannot allow interception along the Trident. The bridge, built long ago by the Freys, is the only reliable crossing of the Green Fork River. Control here secures the Northern advance and future maneuvers."
Robb, absorbing this, nodded without anxiety. "We'll address that after the battle."
The sky deepened as dusk approached. Shadows stretched across the hills, the last sunlight sinking behind the distant mountains. Roose Bolton rode a measured perimeter around the Lannister formation, noting every detail, issuing silent orders to prepare for the next assault.
His infantry, heavily armored and disciplined, split into three units forming a formidable wedge. Mail-clad soldiers with greatshields and battleaxes led the charge, followed by spearmen and sword-and-shield units. Every step was deliberate, the beat of the drums keeping the formation steady, an audible rhythm of impending violence.
Over a thousand longbowmen, positioned on both flanks, checked their strings, nocked arrows, and advanced lightly, carefully maintaining line and rhythm. Their officer, commanding with authority, released a test shot; the arrow landed precisely ahead of the enemy. Satisfied, he raised his voice.
"Halt!"
"Raise bows!"
"Fire arrows!"
A storm of arrows erupted. The Lannister formation braced, greatshields raised, yet gaps appeared as some arrows found their mark. The wounded fell, quickly replaced by comrades stepping into position, the rhythm of death continuous.
"Forward! Forward!" came the next command. Lannister archers launched a counterattack, and soon, arrows filled the sky. The battlefield became a storm of flight, impact, and chaos. Wave after wave of Northern soldiers fell under arrow fire, yet the advance never faltered.
Roose Bolton observed, calculating every move. As soon as a slight disarray appeared among the Lannister lines—soldiers bending to retrieve the dead or wounded—he raised his longsword.
"Charge!"
Drums pounded faster, echoing across the slopes, thrumming into every soldier's chest. The Northern infantry surged, feet pounding the soft earth, blood racing in their veins, hearts full of fury and determination.
The hedgehog-like spear formations met them head-on. Spears pierced, shields shattered, and axes swung with brutal precision. Northern men fell, yet pressed forward, relentless. Roose Bolton's cold eyes calculated each strike, each movement of the battlefield, and at the precise moment, the Bolton cavalry—five hundred strong—formed their wedge.
Hoofbeats thundered across the field as lances struck, warhorses trampled, bodies fell. Some riders perished, others impaled the enemy before being thrown from their mounts. Battleaxes and warhammers found hands and heads in the desperate melee.
The cavalry's charge ripped a massive gap in the Lannister spear wall, and the Northern infantry streamed through, further splitting the enemy formation. The gap widened, merging with the wedge of Bolton infantry, the lines of Lannister soldiers segmented and vulnerable.
Eddard watched, shaking his head in awe and regret. The Dreadfort soldiers were devastatingly effective. Even after suffering casualties, they held formation, executed orders flawlessly, and Roose Bolton's timing of the cavalry charge shattered the enemy decisively.
The sky darkened fully, shadows swallowed the battlefield, and the clash of steel, the cries of the dying, and the stench of blood filled the air. The Red Fork River ran dark with the spilled lifeblood of soldiers on both sides.
The battle ended as decisively as it had begun. Ser Kevan, forced to surrender, signaled the end. Robb Stark's punishment of Old Flayer would soon follow. The Young Wolf's calculated command, paired with Roose Bolton's cold precision, had ensured a resounding victory.
The Northern banners fluttered in the twilight. Bloodied yet undefeated, the army of the North stood ready for the next challenge, their Young Wolf observing, learning, and preparing for the trials yet to come.
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