Roose Bolton's eyes were the color of dirty ice. He stood there, perfectly still, as the gears turned behind that pale, mask-like face. He knew exactly what Robb was doing. This wasn't a tactical necessity; it was a public execution of his power base.
But Roose was a survivor. He looked at the twenty thousand Northern and Riverland troops surrounding him, men who worshipped the "Young Wolf" and his undefeated streak. If he refused, Robb wouldn't just take his command; he'd take his head for mutiny.
"As you command, Your Majesty," Roose whispered, his voice as soft as a breeze through a graveyard. "The Dreadfort will do its duty."
Robb didn't blink. He drew his sword and pointed it at the Lannister pikes by the river. "Then I'll leave the clearing of the ford to House Bolton, House Ryswell, and House Dustin."
Those were the three houses that had miraculously suffered almost zero casualties while the rest of us were being bled white.
Robb glanced at me, then looked back at the lords. "Like my Hand told me once, people don't fear a struggle; they fear when the struggle isn't shared fairly. Since the rest of us have paid our dues in blood, it's only right that the Dreadfort catches up."
I almost laughed. Robb was actually quoting that "ancient Essosi" proverb I'd fed him. He was growing up fast, learning how to use "fairness" as a weapon to keep his bickering vassals in line.
The Greatjon let out a loud, mocking cheer. None of the other lords offered to help. They just sat on their horses, ready to watch the "Old Leech" get his hands dirty for once.
Roose turned his horse and rode back to his lines. He didn't scream, he didn't rant. He just started moving his men.
While the Boltons were forming up, I noticed something that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
The Tallhart banners were in the mix.
"Wait," I muttered, squinting at the horizon. "Tallhart? They're supposed to be at the Twins."
Robb had left Helman Tallhart and four hundred men at the crossing to make sure Walder Frey didn't get any funny ideas. If they were here, it meant the back door to the North was unguarded.
I rode up to Robb's side. "Robb, did you order the Tallharts to leave the Twins?"
Robb shook his head, his eyes fixed on the Lannister lines. "No. I noticed them too. Roose probably brought them along to bolster the numbers for the march. Why? Is it a problem?"
Is it a problem? Robb, you sweet summer child. You just left the most untrustworthy man in the Seven Kingdoms alone with the only bridge home.
"The Twins are our lifeline," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "Without that bridge, we're trapped in the South if the weather turns or the Ironborn hit the coast. We need to get eyes back on that crossing the second this fight is over."
Robb gave a noncommittal nod. He was riding the high of the Oxcross victory, feeling invincible. "We'll handle it after we break Tywin's rearguard. Look, they're moving."
The sun had finally dipped behind the mountains, leaving the valley in a deep, purple twilight.
Roose Bolton didn't waste time with fancy maneuvers. He divided his three thousand infantry into a massive wedge. The front rank was a wall of heavy mail, greatshields, and wickedly sharp battle-axes. Behind them, a thousand longbowmen moved into position on the flanks.
"FIRE!"
The Bolton archers unleashed a hail of arrows. The Lannister rearguard raised their shields, the wood clattering under the impact. Kevan's archers fired back, and for a few minutes, the sky was a ceiling of black streaks and sudden screams.
Then, the drums changed rhythm. A fast, thumping beat that sounded like a racing heart.
"CHARGE!"
The Bolton infantry hit the Lannister pikes with the force of a landslide.
It was a meat grinder. The Lannister spears were three meters long, designed to keep enemies at a distance. The first wave of Northmen was skewered, spears punching through necks and chests, but the Boltons didn't stop. They climbed over the bodies of their own men, using their shields to push the pike-tips aside so they could get into axe range.
CRACK. THUD. SCREAM.
The air was thick with the smell of wet iron and mud. The Bolton infantry was terrifyingly disciplined. Even after losing hundreds of men in the first few minutes, the line didn't break. They just kept hacking away at the Lannister shields, slowly widening the gaps.
Then came the hammer.
Roose signaled his five hundred heavy cavalry. They lowered their lances and slammed into the center of the Lannister formation. Horses screamed as they ran onto pikes, but the momentum was too much. The "hedgehog" formation buckled, then shattered.
I watched from the hill, shaking my head. The Dreadfort soldiers were legit. They fought with a cold, robotic efficiency that made even the Umbers look like amateurs.
"It's over," I muttered as the Lannister line collapsed into a chaotic rout.
Ser Kevan Lannister, seeing his men being slaughtered in the dark, finally raised a white flag. He offered his sword to Roose Bolton, ending the slaughter.
I felt a twinge of regret. Roose had taken heavy losses, maybe a thousand men but he still had a core of veterans left. Robb's "punishment" had worked, but it hadn't finished the job. The Leech was still breathing, and now he had a very good reason to hate the King.