It had only been clear for a few days, and now the heavens had opened again.
Lando stood in the high tower of the Twins, looking out at the world with a scowl. The rain didn't just fall; it fell in sheets, a relentless grey curtain that turned the horizon into a blur. Huge raindrops hammered against the stone, soaking the Karstark banners until they hung limp and heavy. Below, the Green Fork was a churning, angry beast, its waters rising so fast that the splashes from the rain were swallowed by the current.
It must be snowing in the North by now, Lando thought. He closed his eyes for a second, imagining the warm hearth of his cottage in Karhold, the smell of woodsmoke, and the laughter of his children. An inexplicable surge of anger rose in his chest, hot enough to rival the fireplace he missed.
Damn the Lannisters. Damn Joffrey. Damn the Iron Throne and everyone sitting on it. They were the reason he was standing on a damp bridge in the middle of a swamp instead of being with his wife.
"Captain, look over there!"
A soldier's shout broke his reverie. Lando squinted through the rain toward the south. A troop of cavalry was emerging from the gloom, their horses' hooves throwing up plumes of mud as they labored along the waterlogged road toward the gates.
"Alert! Prepare for battle!" Lando roared, his voice nearly drowned out by the thunder.
The Karstark men, who had been huddling for warmth inside the tower, grumbled as they stepped back into the deluge. Their gear was barely dry from the morning shift, and now their spear shafts were slick with rainwater again.
But as the riders drew closer, the black-and-white sunburst finally cut through the grey.
Eddard pulled back his hood, his face pale and set in a mask of exhaustion. Even with his system-boosted physique, the cold and the constant moisture were a physical drain.
"It's Lord Eddard! Open the gates! Lower the drawbridge!"
Lando didn't wait for the guards. He scrambled down the stairs, reaching the courtyard just as the heavy iron-bound gates creaked open. Eddard dismounted, his boots sinking into the muck, and tossed the reins to Lando.
"Anything happened while I was out?" Eddard asked, his voice rasping.
"Yes, My Lord. About half a day after you left, rumors started spreading. Someone told the townspeople that Tywin Lannister was coming with fifty thousand men. They told the workers to flee or face the gallows once the Northmen were driven out."
Eddard narrowed his eyes. "Who?"
"The Frey steward and his son," Lando whispered. "They'd been hiding in a cellar since we took the place. They thought they could spark a riot while you were away. Freya caught them this morning. They're in the hole now."
Eddard walked through the cold stone passage of the gatehouse. "Tell Freya to hang them. Both of them. Right at the East Gate for everyone to see. As for the families who hid them? Drag them to the square. Twenty lashes today, twenty tomorrow. If they survive, put them in the labor gangs on the walls. I want them too tired to gossip."
"Yes, My Lord."
"And Lando," Eddard said, stopping to pat the horse carrying the bound and gagged Randyll Tarly. "Spread the word. Tell the city I've captured the Great Hunter. Tell them the Earl of Horn Hill is my prisoner and his Valyrian steel sword belongs to House Karstark. Have Scholar Bennett make the story sound like a legend. I want the people to think the enemy is a leaderless flock of sheep waiting for the slaughter."
Lando stared at the man slumped over the horse's back. He recognized the grey-gold surcoat. "That's... that's really Tarly?"
"It's him," Eddard said, a tired smile touching his lips. "Let's get inside. I need a fire and a bowl of soup."
Ten miles south, inside a thick, water-repellent tent, a different kind of storm was brewing.
A bonfire roared in a fire pit, but it did little to ease the tension in the room. Dozens of Reach lords and knights sat around a table, the aroma of wine and roasted chicken doing nothing to mask the smell of damp wool and defeat.
"Dickon, listen to reason!" Matthus Rowan, the Count of Goldengrove, shouted, spittle flying from his lips. He was the most powerful lord left in the host, and he looked like a man who had seen his own execution. "Your father is gone! Tywin's plan is a shambles. The Northmen hold the bridge. This war is over for us! We should fall back to King's Landing, regroup, and try to ransom your father."
Dickon Tarly, only twelve years old and looking utterly lost in his father's shadow, stared at the broth in front of him. He was the commander of three thousand elite Tarly soldiers now, and every one of them was looking to him for a miracle his father usually provided.
"Matthus is right," Ser Maldor of Highgarden added, tearing into a chicken leg. "The villages are empty. The Karstark kid burned everything he couldn't carry. If we stay on this road for another week, we'll be eating our own horses. We have enough grain to get back to the Crownlands, but that's it."
The tent erupted into chaos. Some knights shouted about honor and their oaths to the Iron Throne, while others argued that "face" wasn't worth starving in a ditch.
"We cannot leave!" Ser Aenys Farwynd roared, his face red with fury. "Count Randyll is a prisoner! If we tuck our tails and run without striking a blow, House Tarly will be the laughingstock of the Reach for a thousand years!"
"I won't leave," Dickon said quietly, finding a shred of his father's iron. "The Tarlys will attack the Twins."
"Nephew, you're being a fool!" Matthus Rowan stood up, slamming his cup down. "The ambush proved they know we're coming. We don't have the numbers to storm a fortress like the Twins in this weather. If you want to throw your lives away, do it. But the men of Goldengrove will not follow a boy into a meat grinder."
The room went silent. The threat of desertion was the final blow to morale.
That was when Roose Bolton, who had been sitting in the corner like a shadow, finally spoke.
"My Lords," Roose said, his voice soft, whispery, and terrifyingly calm. "There is no need for such conflict. Because none of us can leave. We can only choose to attack."
The lords turned to the Leech, the silence in the tent suddenly feeling colder than the rain outside.
"What do you mean we can't leave?" Matthus demanded.
Roose offered a faint, bloodless smile. "Because while you were arguing over chicken legs, I received word from my scouts. Robb Stark's main host has already left Riverrun. And behind us, the Ruby Ford has been retaken by the Blackfish. We are no longer a vanguard, My Lords. We are an island. And the tide is coming in."