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"This isn't right!"
Eddard peered through the murder holes, staring down at the strangely feeble enemy forces below the city walls. Something was off.
Earlier, the enemy had advanced in tight shield formations, heavy infantry flanked by numerous skirmishers, filling the moat while attempting to cross via rafts or scaling ladders. Yet now, despite enduring three times the ranged attacks of the morning, they retreated almost immediately.
Then, there was nothing.
The skirmishers fell back, leaving only a small squad of heavy infantry with massive shields. They rotated positions to protect the retreating skirmishers filling the moat. Arrows seemed ineffective against their "turtle shell" defenses. The city's ballistae, limited to four or five on that wall section, fired so slowly that they could barely touch the enemy.
The battle had become strangely sluggish, almost ritualistic, as if both sides were playing a childish game. Normally, a slower siege could work to Eddard's advantage, but this abnormality screamed of a hidden trick—something connected to the missing Northmen.
Blackfeather perched calmly on his shoulder as Eddard retrieved a small oilcloth package from his satchel. Inside were pieces of fresh meat—his favorite treat. Over time, Eddard had learned from Scholar Bennet that feeding ravens properly ensured their loyalty and efficiency.
He scattered the meat before Blackfeather, watching the raven peck at it greedily. Once satisfied, he intended to send the bird south along the riverbanks to scout for Roose Bolton, preventing any sudden enemy maneuver or hidden river crossing. If reinforcements were attempting a flanking attack, Eddard would intercept them with his cavalry, taking advantage of his information superiority.
After Blackfeather finished eating, he lifted into the sky, heading south with powerful, precise wingbeats. Yet, despite hours of searching, no sign of Bolton's forces appeared. Eddard sent the bird north, circling the Green Fork River thoroughly, but still, nothing emerged.
Suddenly, an idea struck him—a daring and unexpected notion that perfectly suited Old Flayer's temperament. Blackfeather angled toward King's Road like a black lightning bolt.
Within ten minutes, the raven spotted movement. A troop advanced under a black banner emblazoned with House Karstark's white sunburst, but the soldiers were unmistakably Bolton men.
Eddard was not shocked. He had long suspected that Roose Bolton had found a clever excuse to escape, a plan entirely in character for the calculating Northern lord.
As the raven descended, Eddard identified Bolton in the crowd. He wore light-colored padded armor and lifted his gaze skyward, catching the reflection of Blackfeather's dark wings in his pale eyes.
"Worton," Roose ordered sharply, "send the archers. Shoot that damned raven out of the sky."
Worton, a loyal Dreadfort cavalry captain, hesitated only briefly. He could not understand why Bolton abandoned the Reach, impersonated House Karstark, or risked crossing Karin Bay, but questioning orders was unthinkable. Bolton's commands were absolute, and disobedience carried consequences.
By the time Worton gathered the archers, Blackfeather had disappeared among the clouds, vanishing from sight.
"Iron Leg, you're not imagining things, right?" Ural called out, wearing a green tunic and a longbow across his back. A scar ran diagonally across his face, and his single eye glinted as he stared at Worton. "There's no raven! Not even a sparrow!"
"You may doubt me," Worton replied calmly, tapping his iron greave, "but never question Lord Bolton's orders. Otherwise, you might not keep your skin."
Ural mumbled but fell silent. Despite Bolton's official claim of abandoning flaying, Ural had witnessed a corpse skinned alive. The memory haunted him still—those wide, terrified eyes fixed upon him, filling his nights with nightmares.
"My lord, the raven has disappeared," Worton reported humbly.
"I know. I saw it," Bolton replied, a rare edge of impatience in his voice. Worton sensed the weight of his lord's irritation, careful not to provoke further.
"You may leave," Roose said, dismissing him. The captain spurred his horse away, relieved to escape the lord's piercing gaze.
Roose Bolton's eyes returned to the sky. Finally, he was certain: Eddard Karstark had warged Blackfeather, controlling the raven's consciousness. Otherwise, none of these strange events could be explained.
He gestured to a nearby messenger. "Tell the officers to hasten their soldiers. We must reach Karin Bay immediately."
The messenger spurred his horse and galloped off, leaving Bolton to contemplate the perilous route ahead. He intended to exploit the Ironborn attack on Karin Bay, leading his troops across the causeway amid ruins. It was risky, but remaining on King's Road meant certain death.
Ruby Ford was likely blocked by "Blackfish" Brynden, leaving the North's army trapped in a meticulously laid trap. Meanwhile, the Reach's leaders, having lost Randyll Tarly, wasted time squabbling over command rather than seizing the city. Bolton, watching the chaos, could only shake his head at their incompetence.
He had made the only rational choice: retreat strategically, allowing the Reach lords to make token efforts while his own men withdrew safely. Crossing the deep, turbulent Green Fork River by raft would be madness. Sacrificing soldiers to exhaust the enemy would achieve nothing.
Alliances with Lannister and Tyrell remained solid. Tywin needed Bolton to contain Stark, and the Reach was too far south to pose an immediate threat. Once Warden of the North, controlling Karin Bay would secure his northern flank.
"A bunch of fools," he muttered, tightening his grip on the reins. He glanced at a few prisoners bound nearby before urging his horse forward. "Giddy up!"
Eddard, observing all this through Blackfeather, realized the truth. He rushed to the city wall to find Scholar Bennet tending the wounded.
"Scholar," Eddard asked, urgency in his voice, "does Twin River City have ravens that can reach White Harbor?"
Bennet paused, shaking his head. "No, my lord. Most cities cannot keep birds for every destination; messages are relayed between strongholds."
"Then are there any ravens that know the way to Winterfell?"
"Of course, my lord."
Eddard nodded gravely. "Then write a letter to Bran Stark in Winterfell. Inform him that Roose Bolton has rebelled and is attempting to pass through the Neck under House Karstark's banner. Notify the Karin Bay garrison and prepare for any rebellions."
He had killed Theon Greyjoy to prevent Winterfell, already weakened, from being overrun by the Ironborn. He ensured the safety of Bran and Rickon, children whose survival was paramount.
"Yes, my lord! Immediately!" Bennet replied, setting down his tools. Soon, several ravens flew northward, carrying crucial intelligence to Winterfell.
Eddard's eyes narrowed as he watched them depart, the weight of strategy and foresight pressing down on him. In this war, information was as lethal as steel, and in that truth lay the fate of the North.
Füll bōøk àvàilàble óñ pàtreøn (Gk31)
If you purchase this book, I will send you a gift. You will receive access to all the stories on my page up to the Silver Tier for one month. Once you complete the purchase, I will email you a coupon."