"What? Lord Bolton is also interested in our Reach military affairs?"
Count Matthus of Goldengrove's gaze was sharp, laced with suspicion. Roose Bolton—this man, who would betray his own liege for power—would certainly not hesitate to betray allies for his own advantage. Befriending him was out of the question.
"You have no right to speak here!" Matthus demanded, his voice heavy with disdain.
Roose Bolton's pale eyes blinked slowly. His tone was soft, unhurried, but carried an unmistakable weight. "I am merely stating a fact," he said, rising from his seat.
He walked to the center of the tent, glass of brandy in hand, scanning the sers and lords gathered around him. "My lords, you may not know much about the Trident, but now is the rainy season. The Green Fork River's water level will soon surge, and there are no safe fords for hundreds of miles. In other words… we have nowhere to retreat."
Ser Marldune, still chewing a chicken leg, wiped his greasy hands on his cloak before replying slowly, "Could we not just return the way we came?"
Roose Bolton shook his head, his voice calm but firm. "Lord Marldune, at that time, the water level had fallen, making your passage easier. Now, with the rivers swollen by rain, crossing Ruby Ford would require boats. And our plan… it has been exposed. Brynden 'the Blackfish,' stationed at Harrenhal, has likely already received word. He only needs a few hundred soldiers to block our return. If Robb Stark advances along Twin River City while we attempt to cross, we would be trapped, unable to advance or retreat."
He paused, looking at each lord in turn, his pale eyes sharp as steel. "I ask you, my lords… how good are you at swimming?"
A hush fell over the tent. The realization of the situation was sinking in. Retreat was no longer safe; even survival required careful calculation.
"Then what if we find a suitable place to force a crossing of the Green Fork?" Count Matthus asked cautiously.
Bolton shook his head again. "Then you would be trapped between the Blue Fork and the Green Fork Rivers, narrow banks mostly submerged in the flood. Villages are scarce, and the enemy could corner us from Seagard and Twin River City. I ask you again, how good are you at swimming? If we attempt a crossing there, it would be directly under the enemy's noses."
Even if Brynden 'the Blackfish' didn't know about the plan, Bolton's warning was starkly realistic. Any forced retreat to King's Landing might offer a slim chance of survival, but alone in the North? Certain death. With the unreliable support of Barrowton and Riverrun families, defeating Stark was impossible.
He had to find a way to trap Northern soldiers on the East Bank, preventing Robb Stark from crossing. Only then could he secure time to return to the North, gaining leverage for future battles. If all else failed, he could ally with Iron Islands raiders, offering coastal regions in exchange for support against Winterfell.
The tent erupted instantly. Arguments, rebuttals, and curses flew as the Reach lords realized their previously assumed safe retreat no longer existed. Panic and frustration electrified the air.
"It's actually simple to solve," a voice rang out. Young Dickon Tarly stood, his small frame almost lost in the crowd, but his voice rang with surprising confidence. "My lords, if we send word back to King's Landing, Lord Tywin will surely dispatch troops to drive away any enemy blocking Ruby Ford. The forces of King's Landing outmatch the combined strength of the Riverlands and the North. The enemy would never dare to engage them."
The tent quieted gradually. Ser Marldune sighed, dropping the bare chicken bone he had been gnawing. "Since we crossed the river, all we've seen are villages and inns, no towns or fortresses. To send a message, we must capture Twin River City and rely on the maester to send a raven. Correct, Young Master Dickon?"
Dickon's cheeks flushed; that was indeed his plan, but youth made him hesitant to speak so bluntly.
"Then we fight!" Count Matthus bellowed after weighing the risks. His voice shook the tent with authority. "Twin River City's garrison may be small, but inaction is no longer an option!"
He turned to Roose Bolton. "Lord Bolton, you once said the city has no more than four hundred men from House Karstark. Is that correct?"
"That is correct, Lord Matthus," Bolton replied, a faint smile curling the corner of his lips.
"But we have ten thousand men!" Matthus shouted. "Surely, we can take the city in a short time!"
"Yes!" another lord roared. "Even if we cannot defeat Robb Stark, capturing Twin River City will prevent the Northern army from returning to the North! The Iron Islands raiders will trouble them, forcing them to take alternate routes!"
In less than ten minutes, the mood had shifted. The previously hesitant lords had transformed into a pre-siege war council, eager for action. Roose Bolton sipped his wine quietly, pale eyes watching the scene like a detached observer witnessing yet another absurd performance.
---
Outside, the rain lasted two full days and nights. The Green Fork surged, waves crashing as if a furious beast raged beneath the surface. The city's moat doubled in width, looking more like a long, narrow lake than a defensive barrier.
Eddard Karstark stood atop the city wall, squinting at the sun breaking through the clouds. The warmth of the sun did little to lift the weight in his chest. Heavy rains had delayed enemy movements, but likely delayed reinforcements as well. No general in his right mind would march through such conditions, and ordinary soldiers would collapse long before reaching the battlefield.
Scouts had been patrolling the East Bank of Twin River City since morning, braving the tail end of the storm. They wore green armor with golden roses embroidered on their cloaks, and even their horses' caparisons were decorated with greenery. Despite no banners, Eddard recognized them immediately as cavalry from Highgarden.
By afternoon, an army of ten thousand emerged from the King's Road, tents rising in a sprawling camp across from Twin River City. Rather than attacking immediately, they sent a negotiating party to test the city's defenses.
"Eddard Karstark! I want to talk to you!"
Dickon Tarly rode forward on a black steed, his domed greathelm and sky-blue armor glinting in the dim sunlight. Behind him, a small cavalry escort followed, but his voice alone carried across the moat.
Eddard leaned over the wall, shouting back with authority. "Dickon! For your father's sake and the usefulness of 'Heartbreaker,' I have no desire to talk to you!"
"I want to speak to Roose Bolton!" Dickon shouted, his voice cracking slightly with anger. "That king-betraying carrion worm! That vile wretch worse than a pig or a dog! A man utterly devoid of honor!"
Eddard's fury was clear, yet controlled. He had given orders to his soldiers: if Bolton appeared, he would be shot without hesitation. These insults were merely for the boy's sake, to ensure the young Tarly understood the danger of underestimating Northern wrath.
"Lord Bolton refused my proposal," Dickon continued, young pride driving him. "He won't come out." Ser Yohn Gullen quickly grabbed the boy's arm, whispering a reminder to state only the terms, not insult.
Eddard chuckled, projecting his voice once more. "Boy, so blunt, yet strangely refreshing. Go tell Old Flayer that I've prepared crossbow bolts smeared with filth for him. Sooner or later, he'll meet the tip of a Northern bolt."
Dickon's face froze as he listened to the string of curses, yet he obediently followed his pre-planned lines. "Lord Eddard, you see our army—ten thousand strong—while you have less than four hundred men. There's no hope of victory!"
Eddard leaned slightly over the wall. "Oh, boy, what clever advice do you have then?"
"If you leave my father and House Tarly's ancestral sword unharmed, we will allow you to exit Twin River City with your soldiers and spoils. We will not pursue."
Eddard shook his head. "I refuse. Unless I see Old Flayer's head, I won't believe a single word of your promises. That dog's words are less useful than my own fart!"
Angai, standing beside Eddard, drew his bow with a smooth motion, embedding an arrow into the ground directly in front of Dickon. Even the polite and measured Northern man could curse vividly—an invigorating display, in Eddard's eyes.
"Leave now," Eddard warned. "Any longer, and you'll be greeted by our giant crossbows."
Reluctantly, the Tarly contingent began to withdraw, Ser Yohn guiding Dickon back as the massive crossbows slowly pivoted toward their figures. Eddard had kept his word.
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