After Dickon Tarly returned from the failed parley, the enemy camp erupted into a hive of predatory activity.
The surrounding forest was the first to suffer. Thousands of Reach soldiers, like a plague of iron-clad ants, swarmed the treeline. The lush green "cake" of the woods was gnawed away in chunks as axes bit into ancient oak and elm. By dusk, the King's Road was a chaotic parade of lowing livestock and creaking wagons, pulling massive, raw-timbered trunks back toward the flickering fires of the grand camp.
Even as night fell, the southern bank remained brightly lit, the orange glow of a thousand torches reflecting off the rain-slicked stones of the Twins. Eddard stood atop the East Wall, holding the Frey family's prized golden telescope. He extended the brass tubes, the rubies and sapphires inlaid in the casing catching the moonlight, and peered into the heart of the enemy host.
The scene was one of disciplined industry. Soldiers were stripping branches, binding them with iron nails and leather thongs to form long, flat wooden frames, makeshift rafts. They looked like narrow, skeletal boats. Eddard watched through the glass as they glued waterproof canvas over the frames with a dark, pungent resin. To try and cross the surging, hundred-meter-wide Green Fork on such flimsy contraptions was a fool's errand, but the moat was a different story. The moat was calm, stagnant, and less than eighty meters wide.
In another corner of the camp, burly men with heavy axes were splitting trunks into thick sections, while teams of carpenters used long saws to create heavy planks. These were being nailed onto the frames of the Reach supply wagons, creating "shield carts", rolling barricades designed to shrug off the castle's arrow-fire.
"Lord, it seems your son is a quick learner," Eddard said, collapsing the telescope with a sharp click. He turned to the burly man in shackles standing beside him. "He's a credit to the Tarly name. Martial valor in every hammer-stroke."
Randyll Tarly's face was a mask of suppressed fury. The shackles at his wrists clanked as he shifted his weight. "He is far from it," the Earl spat, his voice a low growl. "If it were me commanding that host, I would have split my cavalry into two companies. I would have ridden them ten miles upstream and downstream, forced a crossing in the shallows once the rain broke, and hit you from the West Bank before you even knew the gate was open."
Tarly looked at the walls, his eyes narrowing with a general's cold appraisal. "I would have compelled the local peasants to fill your moat with their own bodies if necessary. Your meager garrison would be exhausted in hours, crushed between two fronts. Dickon is playing it safe. He's giving you the chance to breathe."
Eddard nodded thoughtfully. "A sound plan. A pincer movement would indeed negate my tactical advantage. But there's a flaw in your logic, Lord Tarly."
"And what is that?"
"I was one step ahead," Eddard said, a faint smile playing on his lips. "I captured you first. A plan is only as good as the man executing it, and right now, the man executing it is a thirteen-year-old boy who is terrified of losing his father."
Tarly's expression grew even more ghastly. He gritted his teeth, the muscles in his jaw bulging. "Boy, if this were a fair battle between two armies on a field, you would be a smear on my boots."
"Lord Tarly, 'fairness' is a fairy tale told to children to make them sleep at night," Eddard replied, leaning against the crenellations. "Imagine if the Targaryens didn't have dragons. Could they have unified the Seven Kingdoms with 'honor'? If Robert Baratheon didn't have the support of the North, could his 'valor' have toppled the Mad King? You value rules because you've spent your life winning by them. I value results because I'm the one who has to live with them."
He looked at the Lord of Horn Hill, his gaze turning cold. "Keep your rules, Lord Tarly. They'll look great on your tombstone. For now, your 'fresh air' time is over. The Black Cells are damp this time of year, and I hear Walder Frey is a terrible conversationalist. Don't make me put you back in the hole."
Randyll Tarly said nothing more. He turned and followed the guards, his shackles dragging across the stone with a rhythmic, mournful sound.
The next morning broke with a clarity that felt like a mockery.
The sun was a brilliant, warming orb, burning away the morning mist and illuminating the slaughterhouse-to-be. Eddard was jolted awake in his tent by Abel's voice.
"Lord! They're moving!"
Eddard didn't waste a second. He was out of his bed, splashing cold water on his face to shock his nerves into focus. He had spent the previous night patrolling the walls, making sure every Karstark soldier, every Brotherhood ranger, and every terrified prisoner-turned-recruit saw his face. He needed them to see that their "Wizard-Lord" was calm. If he was smiling, they could believe they would live to see another sunset.
As he stepped onto the East Wall, the scale of the assault became clear.
Two thousand Reach infantrymen, armored in heavy mail and bearing the red hunter shields of Tarly, were marching in four distinct wedges. They pushed the shield carts ahead of them, clumsy, wooden monsters that rattled over the uneven ground. Behind them, a thousand archers in studded leather checked their strings, quivers adjusted for a rapid draw.
The banner of House Rowan, the golden tree fluttered in the center. Behind the main blocks was a sea of lightly armored skirmishers, carrying sacks of dirt and dragging the rafts Eddard had seen the night before.
At the very rear sat Dickon Tarly on his tall black horse. He looked small in his bright armor, surrounded by a forest of knightly lances and messengers.
"The brat is giving us the full parade," Eddard muttered, taking the telescope from Anguy.
The tactical math was grim. The Twins were a fortress built for two thousand men. Eddard had six hundred. Of his three hundred and sixty Karstarks, sixty were cavalry kept in reserve on the West Bank. The sixty-eight Brotherhood men were experts, but few. The hundred and twenty-eight recruits were a wildcard, dispersed among his veterans to prevent a mutiny. In total, Eddard could only put about three hundred men on the wall at any given time without exhausting his reserves.
WHOOOO—OOOSH!
The horns of the Reach blared, a vibrant, unstoppable sound that seemed to vibrate in the very stones of the castle.
"ADVANCE! STEADY!" the enemy officers screamed.
The heavy infantry moved as one, their shields forming an iron "turtle" formation. Hoo! Ha! Hoo! Ha! Their boots thudded in time with the drums as they approached the moat.
Then came the "ants." The skirmishers darted out from behind the shield-walls, carrying their sacks of dirt. They were agile, weaving through the formation to reach the water's edge, tossing their loads into the moat to build a causeway, then scurrying back for more.
Eddard raised his hand. "Sixteen ballistas! RANGE ONE HUNDRED! FIRE!"
The heavy gears groaned, then released with a sound like a giant's whip. THWACK! THWACK! Sixteen massive iron-tipped bolts tore through the air. They hit the Tarly shield-wall with the force of a falling star. The oak and iron shields shattered. One bolt punched through a lead infantryman, passed through his chest, and pinned the man behind him to the ground.
The man spat blood, his fingers clutching the bolt thicker than his thumb, his eyes wide with a shock that only lasted seconds. His teammate didn't even look down; he stepped over the dying man to close the gap.
TWANG.
A bodkin arrow took the replacement in the eye, dropping him instantly.
"Bullseye!" Anguy shouted, lowering his Summer Isles longbow. The golden heartwood of the weapon shimmered in the morning light.
"Good shot, Anguy!" Eddard yelled over the din. "Keep that up, and that bow is yours when the sun sets!"
Anguy smirked, already pulling another arrow from his quiver. "Consider it won, My Lord."
He drew the bow to his ear, his eyes narrowed as he looked for the next gap in the "turtle's" shell. The siege of the Twins had begun in earnest, and the water of the moat was already starting to turn red.