The main camp of the Reach simmered under the late afternoon sun, which had begun its slow descent toward the horizon. The sky burned a fiery crimson, as if mirroring the tension that gripped the army.
Count Matthus of Goldengrove sat astride his horse, clad in dazzling golden plate armor. A large tree with thick roots was engraved on his chest, and delicate leaves decorated his golden helmet. Even the horse beneath him was draped in a brilliant golden silk mantle.
Had Jaime Lannister, the former Kingslayer, been present, the two might have competed to see who was more dazzling. Yet beside Matthus, Dickon Tarly sat on his own mount, staring helplessly at the battlefield below the city walls.
His plan had been simple and bold: to intensify the assault, surpassing the ferocity of the morning's attack. By drawing more attention and pushing Twin River City's defenders, he hoped the city walls could fall faster—especially once Roose Bolton's forces were in position.
But his proposal met almost unanimous opposition. Twin River City had received reinforcements, and its ranged attacks had grown more deadly. Ser Marldune was the first to object, warning of excessive casualties. A general assault could wait until Bolton's troops arrived, reducing losses while still maintaining pressure.
Many agreed, and even Count Matthus nodded in approval. Dickon suddenly realized how isolated he had become. Despite belonging to House Tarly, the strongest house in the Reach, and being the son of a legendary commander, he was only thirteen. He felt the weight of his youth and inexperience pressing down on him.
Count Matthus spoke calmly, his tone almost soothing. "My dear nephew, do not worry. Roose Bolton will appear on the other side of the river by tomorrow morning at the earliest, or tomorrow afternoon at the latest. We have time for a general assault. Your soldiers need rest after the heavy losses this morning."
"That's true," Dickon replied quickly, his frustration barely restrained, "but that's not how battles are fought. My father always said…"
"Your father has been captured," Matthus interrupted, his words sharp. "Thank the gods he has not been forced onto the city walls at swordpoint. Otherwise, could you truly order your soldiers to continue the siege?"
Dickon's heart quivered. "Of course I can," he blurted instinctively—the words drilled into him from years of training under his father's harsh hand. Yet as he spoke, doubt gnawed at him. Could he really?
Count Matthus' eyes glinted coldly as he pressed the question. "Suppose Eddard Karstark cut off Count Tarly's arm before your eyes and hung him on the city gate, threatening that only by retreating would a maester stop the bleeding. Otherwise, you would have to watch him die slowly. How would you choose then?"
"No, that… that would be dishonorable!" Dickon gasped, disbelief spreading across his face.
"Honor does not guarantee safety," Matthus said, eyes steely. "Some men are wicked, and cruelty runs in their veins. Your father may be rigid, but he is clever. As for you, child, you are too young to assume the world will play by the rules in your mind."
Dickon had no answer. He realized he truly did not know how he would act in such a situation.
Suddenly, two cavalrymen galloped toward them, their mounts slick with sweat, foaming at the mouth, panting from exertion.
"What news?" Matthus demanded.
The scouts, sent to track Roose Bolton, could barely speak. "My lord… the Dreadfort soldiers did not linger. They ride non-stop toward Karin Bay. By now… they are likely entering the Neck."
"What?!" Matthus' face paled. Shock quickly transformed into regret. How could he have believed Bolton's assurances earlier? These Northmen possessed skills and knowledge that the Reach forces could not match.
Dickon Tarly's mind reeled. How could the same Roose Bolton, who had appeared so honorable in the morning, now betray his allies in the blink of an eye? Worse, he had used the Reach soldiers as bait, exploiting thousands to protect his escape. Even Dickon, who had contemplated ordering an attack to distract the enemy for Bolton, felt a cold pang of disbelief.
Before darkness fell, the siege came to an abrupt halt. Eddard remained in the tower, peering through the murder hole at the slowly retreating enemy, understanding that the Reach nobles were finally realizing they had been deceived.
He muttered to himself, pondering the night's strategy. Perhaps he could exploit the Reach lords' confusion, sneaking out in a basket to burn their provisions. It had been long since he had employed the magic of the "Hand of Flame," but it remained a viable option.
Eddard's mind was filled with contingency plans. A solo night assault followed by a daring escape into the river. His physical strength and cold resistance far exceeded ordinary men, making such feats feasible. Training commoners to assist in minor tasks like transporting supplies or operating ballistae had been part of his strategy. He avoided forcing them into direct combat, as inexperienced fighters could easily cause chaos if pressed into front-line duty.
Every section of the city wall was vital. Sending the commoners forward to die or to force compliance would waste precious reaction time, creating vulnerability for the defenders. Eddard valued calculated defense over reckless heroics.
Night fell quickly. The moon hid behind clouds, while stars cast a faint, ethereal glow. A black feather drifted through the air, finally landing inside a brightly lit tent.
At the Reach camp near the Mander River, chaos reigned. Goldengrove, one of House Tyrell's most powerful vassals, had a grand tent, lavishly decorated, as large as a small house. Inside, angry shouts rose and fell.
"Roose Bolton, may he rot in hell! He abandoned us like beasts!"
"I curse him! I curse the Others to seize the entire Bolton family!"
"Even if he escapes, the Iron Throne will punish traitors like him once Stannis falls!"
For over ten minutes, curses and threats filled the tent. Eddard, observing invisibly, felt his patience tested. His magic could only last half an hour. If all this time was wasted in futile anger, he might have to reconsider his plan to burn their supplies.
Finally, Count Matthus bellowed, silencing the crowd. "Enough! Cursing Roose Bolton does not improve our situation. The decision is simple: continue the assault or retreat along King's Road to Ruby Ford."
Ser Marldune stood, indignation etched across his face. "That worm-like Roose Bolton lied to us all, weaving a web of deceit to manipulate our forces against Twin River City."
Others argued for retreat. Ruby Ford remained unguarded; by gathering boats, they could retreat safely.
Ser Holt of House Cemford agreed. "Even without Bolton, our forces are enough to deter Blackfish. He would not dare leave the city to attack us."
Ser Ross of House Caswell added, "The Green Fork River is receding. By the time we reach Ruby Ford, we may even cross on foot."
"Let's leave quickly while losses are still small!" one knight urged. "I do not wish to linger here any longer!"
Many agreed, but some waited for Dickon Tarly's consent—the heir of Horn Hill.
Finally, he nodded. Throughout the afternoon, he had questioned himself. If Eddard Karstark could threaten his father, forcing him to retreat, what would he do?
The answer had become clear: he could not stand idle while his father's life was at stake.
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