Polin, who had been standing at Roose Bolton's side, stepped in with cool efficiency: "Lord Bolton has already consulted King Robb; your army must follow his command now."
"Robb." The name slid through Jon's mind like a stone dropped into dark water, widening circles of memory. He could not help but picture, from his previous life, the moment business partners turned their backs in the middle of a venture. Power, he thought anew, corrupts faster than money. Brotherhood curdles quicker than anyone expects.
I must change course, Jon decided quietly, re-steeling himself.
Martin straightened at his side, eyes flicking between Jon and Roose. If this were indeed King Robb's command, refusal would be dangerous—but Bolton's manner betrayed the wearing-down tactic, and Martin searched Jon's face for guidance.
Roose, sensing the pull of the moment, softened his tone, playing the accommodating statesman. "Polin! This is not your place to speak." Then he turned to Jon, arms wide in mock deference. "Jon, this is only my suggestion. Your talent in the field far exceeds mine; if you have a better plan, propose it."
Bolton understood what the others did not: Jon was no common lord. Even if Robb had issued an order, Jon might yet follow his own judgment. The possibility that Jon might defy a direct royal command made Bolton uneasy—if Jon refused, Bolton could send word to Robb and let the king enforce obedience. He was probing, testing.
Jon tore a dried fruit from the plate and let it drop into his mouth with an idle motion. "My lord Bolton," he said softly, "you are still only in your forties, are you not? How can you be so muddled?"
The words landed like a barbed jest. Bolton's pale face tightened. The smile slipped. Jon watched the expression and, not unkindly, continued.
"When Tywin leaves, he will take the bulk of his forces. He will leave at most a small garrison and some mercenaries to hold Harrenhal. Mercenaries fight for coin, not for cause—any commander who gathers a band of them is no fool; they can read the tides as well as any lord. If we can buy them, why needlessly throw away lives? If they prove obstinate, there will still be time enough to attack."
It was a clever refusal dressed as counsel. Bolton had no answer; Jon had given him the better course. Even if Robb's orders lay behind Bolton's plan, Jon's proposal made sense—and politicked around obedience while saving blood.
Jon knew Tywin would likely leave a force akin to the Brave Companions—two thousand hardened sellswords. Holding Harrenhal with such men would be a challenge only to be met on favorable terms. Tywin himself, embattled elsewhere, would be thinking of retreat and salvage. Jon had to seize time and space: control of Harrenhal would keep Tywin from regrouping quickly.
More than that, Jon calculated the arc of coming events. Catelyn's journey to secure an alliance with Renly in the Stormlands would change the political map. News of Renly's death might arrive suddenly; the Battle of Blackwater would follow, and casualties and chaos would rearrange loyalties. If Stannis failed at Blackwater, the Riverlands could deal a decisive blow. Jon could not rely on distant Robb for direction in that chaos. He needed positions—Harrenhal among them—that blocked Tywin and kept options open.
He could not idly wait for fate. While Bolton and others argued the merits of siege and raid, Jon moved.
Leaving Bolton's tent, Jon made his action public: he announced he had slain the Mountain and began conscripting soldiers across the Riverlands. Word of the Mountain's corpse and Jon's role in its fall was spread like a deliberate rumor; Jon paraded the trophy and let it be seen, an unmistakable show of power. Men drifted toward the banner—scattered Riverlands soldiery, small bands and hedge knights, all choosing where their survival looked likelier.
Within a month the forces under Jon swelled. The ragged host that had once been a few thousand now numbered over five thousand, most men preferring to march beneath the white wolf than to be fodder under some distant command. A bastard had become a commander of an army.
On that very day, Catelyn—who had been negotiating with Renly in the Stormlands—unexpectedly arrived at the Eastern Army's camp. Jon had assumed she would travel the western route and join Robb's forces; instead, both northern wings had achieved enough that she stopped to visit the eastern host. As the King in the North's mother, her arrival drew the customary ceremony: polite bows, formal speeches, and a small reception.
"Thanks to Lord Bolton's command, Robb was able to focus on the western front," Catelyn said with practiced warmth as she greeted Roose.
Bolton rose, stiff but composed. Around them, other lords cast subtle, hungry glances. Harrion was first to speak up. "My lady," he said loud enough that others heard, "Lord Jon is an excellent commander as well. Were it not for him, many of us would not be here to greet you."
That singling out made Bolton's composure fray for a heartbeat, but no one contested Harrion's words. Reports from the Green Fork had praised Jon, and tales of his slaughter of the Westerlands' heavy cavalry and the Mountain had traveled fast.
Catelyn, initially skeptical, had learned of Jon's deeds and felt a ripple of surprise. In her mind the best of her family—Robb, Brandon, and their blood—were the true center of power. Yet here was a young man, a bastard, clothed in the respect of nobles and praised for deeds that altered the balance of battle. She felt something like alarm, an old chord struck: Brandon.
Jon's bearing, his confident authority, suggested to her not Robb but Brandon—theirs had been a different temperament. Catelyn's maternal caution tightened. She favored Robb's kingship, but she could not afford to ignore a rival force growing at Robb's flank.
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