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298 AC
The pipes of the watchmen sounded once, then twice, and the courtyard stirred like a hive prodded with a stick.
"Boltons," Theon muttered beside Robb, squinting across from atop the wall. "You could march a war south with half the noise they're kicking up."
"Hush, Theon. They're honoring their vow to us."
The gates groaned open. Men-at-arms lining the yard straightened their backs, some gripping spears a touch too tightly. Even Grey Wind lifted his head with a low rumbling growl, nostrils quivering at the riders detaching from the large host halted outside Wintertown.
The sounds of drums and trumpets did not cease—the cascading rhythm continued even as what seemed to be Lord Bolton's retinue moved away from their line toward the Stark holdfast.
The banners of the flayed man on pink field snapped in the bleak wind. Five thousand strong, or near enough to make a large difference on any battlefield.
Their lamellar armor gleamed beneath the ash-gray sky; kettle helms and sallets caught what little light could be stolen. Pikes lifted as one and halted as one.
The townsfolk and Stark men alike were caught between surprise and amazement.
"They march like those Essosi the maester tells us about," Theon said again.
Robb said nothing, though he did not miss the undertone in his friend's voice—half admiration, half contempt.
"Let's go meet their lord," Robb stated as he made his way off the wall toward the main gate.
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At last Domeric Bolton rode through. Cloaked in red damask over black riding leathers, his hair trimmed and his face composed and still as stone.
He looked slightly pale, though not as much as his father before him.
Around him, among what appeared to be his martial retinue of commanders and advisers, rode twelve men armored in red plate with helms that obscured their faces.
His praetorian guard flanked him on black warhorses, their grim appearance making their presence uneasy.
The Bolton lord halted before the young Stark and dismounted with the ease of one raised to saddle and sword.
"Lord Stark," Domeric said, giving a small bow—just enough to honor, not enough to diminish himself.
"Lord Bolton," Robb returned, aware of all the eyes upon him.
"We march with five thousand men at your call. I do not claim to know your father best, but Lord Eddard has been fair with my house and so we shall ride to his aid," Domeric said, flattering while lying through his teeth.
"You've marched them well, Lord Bolton, and Winterfell thanks you for honoring our call. My father would thank you as well, but first we must rescue him," Robb admitted with a smile, the flattery breaking some of the facade he had worn.
"Winterfell has never lacked for gratitude," Domeric replied mildly, "nor memory." The older of the two lords recounted his time here months prior.
Bolton's gaze flicked briefly to Grey Wind, who growled at him, then around the courtyard in assessment—not suspiciously, but taking note of the preparations for war. Temporary smithies had been raised where none had stood before; wagons of food were being brought in to be loaded into the granary until the entire host was ready to march south.
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Later that evening, the great hall glowed with torchlight and hearthfire.
Salted pork, barley stew, roasted fish, and bread filled the tables, along with wine, beer, and rum.
A few of the smaller lords of the North had gathered—the mountain clans, the Cerwyns, the Tallharts—their voices rising in talk of war, oaths, and fathers gone south.
Domeric sat near Robb, but not directly at his side. A courtesy or maneuver. With Boltons, one never knew.
"You've called the banners swiftly," Domeric observed as he cut through his meal with precise, almost delicate motions. "Not all young lords would have dared. And fewer would have been obeyed."
Robb met the remark without flinching. "We do not sit idle while our fathers rot in chains, nor do we take threats lightly."
"And I expected no less from Lord Eddard's heir," Domeric said calmly, raising a cup to him.
Robb had read enough letters from King's Landing to know the truth of that. Joffrey's command to bend the knee still burned in his memory.
"The south wanted fealty," Robb muttered, "but we'll give them steel instead."
Domeric swallowed a sip of wine before answering. "That is one path."
"There is another?" Robb asked.
"There are always many," Domeric replied. "But unfortunately, you are forced into this choice."
"You've marched five thousand men here speaking about the dialect of war. What other choice could there be?"
Bolton's mouth curved faintly—humor too thin to be called a smile. "I would entertain for you the battle of coin, but you are outperformed there. War is inevitable now."
Robb noted the phrasing: not we, but I.
Maester Luwin, seated just behind Robb, exchanged a tight look with Ser Rodrik Cassel. Neither missed the subtext.
"You have your father and sisters to save, and in this it helps me settle my score with the Crown. They have been harassing our traders for some time. Your father had known of it and tried his best to resolve the matter, to no avail. I hope in this I can gain your support as well, Lord Stark."
"I see no reason why not. You have done much for the North and for my house, Lord Bolton, and your aid shall be rewarded," Robb declared.
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