Jon had noticed that the Northern Army always repeated the same pattern—mutinies, coups, enthronements.
Their politics were as predictable as their battle songs.
He, too, had a plan to seize power—but not yet.
There was still time before Stannis Baratheon marched on King's Landing and the Battle of Blackwater began. Many variables could arise before then.
By preventing Robb from crowning himself King in the North, Jon had lost his brother's full trust. Worse, Roose Bolton could reclaim command of the army with a single letter.
What Jon sought was the right moment—to seize power when no one expected it, then strike immediately toward King's Landing before anyone could react.
If the Northern host aided in the city's capture, Stannis would have no reason to turn his wrath toward Winterfell, at least not right away. That breathing room was worth more than any title.
But since he had already conceived the thought of rebellion, Jon could not oppose the nobles' enthusiasm too harshly this time. He raised his hand, signaling for silence.
"My lords," he said evenly, "I am but a young man who has only just stepped onto the battlefield. My experience cannot compare to Lord Bolton's seasoned generalship. Lord Bolton has made no grave errors in command, and he remains the commander-in-chief of the Eastern Army—appointed personally by King Robb himself.
I trust none of you wish to defy your liege lord's orders?"
Before anyone could answer, Jon turned and walked away.
"Jon!"
"Lord Jon!"
"Jon—wait!"
The crowd called after him, but he did not stop.
Wendel Manderly watched him go, rubbing his chin. "He's gentler than last time," he said thoughtfully. "Perhaps if we press a bit harder, he might actually agree to lead us."
At that, realization spread among the gathered lords.
Last time, Jon had silenced them with a drawn sword. This time, he had reasoned with them instead. That could only mean progress.
They were convinced their "efforts" were working.
---
Jon, accompanied by Martin, made his way to Roose Bolton's camp.
The closer they drew, the more tense Martin became. The air itself seemed colder. Bolton's soldiers watched them approach with hard, suspicious eyes.
Men deliberately sharpened their blades by the roadside, or polished their armor with long, slow strokes. One soldier even slit open a wild boar in front of them, letting its death squeal pierce the camp like a scream from the abyss.
Hot, black-red blood splashed across the dirt.
"My lord…" Martin swallowed hard, his throat dry as dust.
"Just intimidation," Jon said calmly. "Ignore it."
Old Walder Frey had only dared to conspire with Bolton at the Red Wedding because they had already secured a new master. Now, however, the situation was different. The North had the upper hand; even if it wasn't a complete victory, Bolton wouldn't dare make a move here.
Jon suspected the display of hostility came either from fear stirred by the nobles' talk of rebellion—or simply from Bolton's paranoid subordinates trying to make a show of force.
When Jon finally stepped into the main tent, Bolton greeted him with all the pomp of an equal.
Inside, two banners hung side by side—the flayed man of Dreadfort and Jon's white wolf.
It was a symbolic gesture of equality, but Jon's all-seeing intuition—his "God's Perspective"—caught something else: twenty heavily armed soldiers concealed behind the rear partition of the tent, their armor gleaming faintly in the shadows.
Each stood alert, as though awaiting a signal.
Really? Jon thought dryly. Is he actually going to use the old "smash the cup" trick?
He almost laughed aloud. Roose Bolton was many things—cruel, calculating—but not a fool. Why would he attempt an assassination now?
Inside, Bolton sat calmly behind a table, his pale face arranged into a thin smile. His retainer, Polin, stood motionless beside him.
"Jon, you're here," Bolton said pleasantly. "Please, sit."
Martin hovered nervously behind Jon, but Jon himself remained perfectly composed. After acquiring the Mountain's "Great Strength" trait, he doubted anyone in the Northern army could best him in close combat.
They were barely a dozen steps apart. Bolton had only one guard visible—Polin.
Go ahead and smash your cup, Jon thought coldly. Do it, and you'll be flying out of this tent before your men can blink.
Even if he couldn't fight off all twenty hidden soldiers, Jon was certain he could decapitate Bolton before being subdued. And afterward, he could simply claim self-defense—Robb might even thank him for removing a snake from the North.
Bolton gestured for him to sit. Jon smiled easily and took the seat across from him. Martin stayed behind, standing straight.
They were now only three steps apart.
Bolton instinctively leaned back, his body bending slightly away like a reed caught in the wind.
A flicker of fear passed through his pale eyes.
He's afraid of me? Jon realized—and almost chuckled.
No wonder. The lords had been whispering about replacing Bolton with him for days, and the latest battle report—Jon personally killing the Mountain—had spread through every campfire from Riverrun to the Trident.
His power, his fame, and his unmatched skill with a blade had made Roose Bolton wary—terrified, even.
In his place, I'd sleep with one eye open too, Jon thought, relaxing slightly.
Now at ease, Jon's gaze drifted to the table between them.
Though the dishes were simple, there was no shortage of food. At the center sat a roasted suckling pig, glistening with honey glaze, an apple stuffed between its teeth.
"Honey-roasted suckling pig," Bolton said smoothly. "Made in the Dreadfort style. You should try it."
Jon studied the pig in silence. He could almost see the commoner it had been taken from. In wartime, a meal like this was more theft than feast.
He smiled faintly. "Lord Bolton, in times like these, isn't this a bit extravagant?"
Bolton paused, his lips twitching. "It seems our duke has taught you the virtue of frugality."
After a few pleasantries, Bolton got to the point.
"Before long, Tywin Lannister will be forced to retreat west to his den in Casterly Rock. His supply lines are cut, his forces dwindling. We have scored two great victories already, and both Stannis and Renly despise him.
I believe now is the time to strike—capture Harrenhal, and sever the Westerlands from the Crownlands entirely."
Jon breathed in the scent of roasted meat and looked directly at Bolton. His calm smile didn't waver, but his eyes gleamed with quiet amusement.
In that instant, Bolton felt naked—stripped bare by Jon's gaze.
"Lord Bolton," Jon said softly, "why don't we speak plainly? I'm not as clever as my father."
Bolton froze. His mouth twitched again.
In that moment, he was almost certain—this was the man advising Robb Stark from the shadows of Winterfell.
Even Eddard Stark, for all his honor, had never been this sharp.
Bolton hesitated, then forced another smile. "I was merely thinking—your army has just won a great victory. If we seize the moment while morale is high, we can take Harrenhal in one swift blow. Of course, the entire Northern host will move under your command."
Jon's smile widened slightly.
Ah, he thought, so that's it—send
me first to do the bleeding while he waits for the reward.
The same old game. The borrowed knife.
How very Bolton of him.
---
Yearly access offer 50 percent and monthly offer 25 percent
Ãdvåñçé çhàptêr àvàilàble óñ pàtreøn (Gk31)