The night before Robb set out, a Northern lord the Starks held in especially high regard showed up in person for a visit.
This guy even got Catelyn to greet him herself.
"Sir Reed, you're saying you want to head over to Lord Bolton's side?"
"Yes, my lady. Us crannogmen are pretty handy with foot fighting and archery—maybe I can lend a hand."
This Sir Reed's full name was Howland Reed.
Eddard Stark had told every member of his family that if it weren't for Howland Reed, he'd have died at the hands of the Sword of the Morning, Arthur Dayne.
Robb had originally planned to take him along to Riverrun, but since Howland Reed asked for it himself, they respected his wishes.
"No problem, Sir Reed." After talking it over with her son Robb, Catelyn backed his request.
What neither of them realized, though, was that Howland Reed had his own reasons for wanting to join the army under Roose Bolton's command.
And that reason was Jon.
As far as he knew, he was probably the only person in the entire Seven Kingdoms who knew Jon wasn't Ned's bastard.
At the very least, he'd seen Ned leave the Tower of Joy with a baby in his arms.
And during their showdown with Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning had said straight up that Rhaegar had sent them to protect the prince!
That's right—the prince!
Lately, Jon's performance had been downright impressive.
Howland Reed couldn't ignore it.
He'd sworn to Ned that he'd keep this secret safe.
He needed to make sure Jon was really just out to "rescue his father," like he claimed, and not for some other reason.
...
Right now, Tywin's army was camped out on the south bank of the Green Fork, about five days' march from the Twins.
You had to hand it to Tywin—his eye for strategy was sharp as ever.
Positioning his troops there let him block the Northern army from the north and keep a close watch on the Vale to the east.
What Roose Bolton and Jon had to do was pin down Tywin's forces, buying Robb time to lift the siege on Winterfell.
To catch the Westerlands army besieging Riverrun off guard, Robb had already headed out early with his cavalry.
Sure, cavalry moved fast, but they had a longer route.
Under normal marching speed, Roose Bolton's main infantry force could show up in front of Tywin's army before Robb even reached Riverrun.
Inside Roose Bolton's tent, he was laying out pre-battle plans and rallying the troops.
Since Roose Bolton still held command over the main army, the tent was packed with big names from the North.
Like the Karstarks, the Cerwyns, the Manderlys, the Blackwoods.
And of course, the newly joined Freys.
Robb had only taken eight hundred cavalry with him—the rest of the thousand-plus infantry stayed under Roose Bolton's orders.
Roose Bolton was assigning tasks, figuring out the marching order and how to set up the center, left flank, and right flank.
As for the new addition, Howland Reed, slotting him in was no sweat.
His men got assigned to the archer units.
Now, the only thing left was the most crucial part of Roose Bolton's ambush plan: scouting.
In the original Battle of the Green Fork, Roose Bolton had run right into the Westerlands' Mallister cavalry and gotten spotted.
Which led to the ambush failing.
Roose Bolton spoke up: "Anyone willing to take on the scouting duty?"
Don't let these Northerners fool you—they talk tough, but when it comes down to life-or-death stuff, they're as sly as foxes.
Scouting was a crappy job.
Do it well, and no one notices your credit.
Screw it up, and you're the one taking the blame.
So, for a good while, nobody said a word.
That's when Jon stood up and volunteered:
"Lord Bolton, I'd like to handle scouting for the army—make sure the path ahead is safe and clear."
Jon's offer turned heads, especially Howland Reed's. He sized up this kid who looked so much like Ned with his green eyes, like he was pondering something.
"Make sure it's safe and clear? How? With that bunch of yours who just learned to walk?"
Mick Cerwyn was picking at Jon again, trying to make himself feel big.
But this time, Jon wasn't having it—he whipped his head around with a cold glare.
Cerwyn's smirk froze, and he awkwardly turned away.
That shut up anyone else thinking about mocking him.
They seemed to have forgotten that, bastard or not, and even after that "pie-in-the-sky" battle plan that turned into a joke, calling him the North's top warrior wasn't a stretch.
From his corner, Howland Reed muttered a name to himself: Lyanna.
Roose Bolton's eyes flickered as he said:
"A wolf's nose is always keen. Scouting's yours, then."
"Yes, my lord."
Jon nodded and accepted.
He'd already decided that if this attack didn't go smooth, he'd pin the blame on Jon.
Ease some of Robb's restrictions on him.
Of course, you couldn't just blame someone out of thin air—as commander, he couldn't make stuff up.
After all, the others weren't blind; if the battle went south for other reasons, he couldn't lie about it.
But in Roose Bolton's view, since Jon volunteered, he had no reason to turn him down.
That's when Howland Reed suddenly stood up:
"Lord Bolton, us crannogmen know this area pretty well. Maybe I can go with Jon."
"Fine, then it's up to you, Sir Reed, and Jon."
Everyone looked at Reed, puzzled.
Just moments ago, no one wanted scouting duty, and now two had popped up out of nowhere.
The name hit Jon like a thunderclap.
But to avoid raising suspicions, he didn't react much.
They just agreed to meet up when the time was right.
...
After the war council wrapped up, all the lords headed back to their own troops.
Next up, they had to pass on Roose Bolton's plan to their vassals.
Then the vassals would relay it down to the knights and frontline soldiers.
Jon, of course, had to go check in with his dynamic duo.
Right now, in Jon's camp, Old York was lounging around, bored out of his mind, watching those soldiers who were still drilling nonstop—left turn, right turn, advance, halt.
He racked his brain but couldn't figure out how troops like these were supposed to win a battle.
Sure, the formations looked sharp, but what about when it came time to actually kill the enemy?
As far as he was concerned, this campaign was probably the last one of his life.
He'd been hoping to rack up some battle honors, head home, and buy himself more land.
But now, it all seemed shot to hell.
Smack!
Old York slapped himself across the face, cursing himself for dozing off during that meeting.
He glanced over at his "teammate"—Tommen was always the same, either fussing over his armor or polishing his weapons.
It was like those simple tasks could keep him entertained forever.
Suddenly, Old York spotted Jon coming back to camp. He wasn't thrilled about it, but he got up to greet him anyway.
Tommen, after a nudge from a squire, came over to Jon's side too.
"My lord."
They greeted him in unison—or more accurately, Old York knew Jon was back with combat assignments in hand.
Deep down, Old York was clinging to a sliver of hope that this bastard commander, thanks to his ties to Robb, might snag them some prime battle positions.
"Everyone, I've got two tasks to hand out right now. The first is scouting—our goal is to ambush the Westerlands army, so we need to make sure our movements don't get spotted."
Old York heard that and thought, what the hell kind of job is this? Pull it off perfectly, and nobody gives you credit. Screw it up, and you're definitely getting the blame.
It was straight-up grunt work! So he pinned his hopes on the second task.
"The second one's for me to set up a dammed lake near the Green Fork—something we can flood at the key moment to hit the enemy or slow them down."
After hearing both, Old York's heart sank. He knew he wasn't getting anything out of this trip.
That's when Old York leaned in and whispered:
"My lord, did Lord Bolton force these on you? You could write to Lord Robb and let him know..."
In Old York's mind, Jon must've been set up by somebody.
Otherwise, it wouldn't be this bad.
Jon didn't pay any attention to the old schemer.
Next on his list was upgrading that [God's Eye View] ability, plus figuring out why Howland Reed was getting close to him.
Ned always said that without him, he'd have been killed by Arthur Dayne.
That old fox wouldn't have some kind of sorcery up his sleeve, would he?