"This isn't right!!"
Through the narrow murder holes of the East Wall, Eddard watched the shifting tides of the battlefield, his brow furrowed in deep suspicion.
The afternoon sun was warm, but the fighting had turned cold. At first, the Reachmen had advanced with their heavy shield formations and a flurry of skirmishers, seemingly determined to continue the brutal pace of the morning. But after suffering a few volleys of Karstark and Mallister arrows, the latter much more accurate and frequent now that Patrek's men were on the wall, the assault had withered.
Now, the battle had devolved into a sluggish, half-hearted affair. Only a few squads of Tarly heavy infantry remained near the moat, holding their massive shields aloft to protect a handful of skirmishers who were lazily dumping dirt into the stagnant water. Due to the high angle of the walls, only a few ballistas could reach them, and with their slow reload times, the attrition was negligible.
Compared to the frantic, blood-soaked slaughter of the morning, this felt like a children's game. It was as if both sides had made a silent agreement to wait for the sun to set.
A slow siege favors me, Eddard thought, tapping the hilt of Heartbreaker. But Tarly's boy isn't a fool, and Roose Bolton is a snake. They wouldn't waste daylight unless they were looking elsewhere.
He looked at Blackfeather, who was preening its oily feathers on his shoulder. Eddard reached into his surcoat and pulled out a small oilcloth package. Inside were scraps of fresh, raw mutton, a bribe he had learned to carry after several long talks with Scholar Bennett about the psychology of ravens.
"Eat up, you greedy thing," Eddard whispered.
He needed to know where the Northmen were. His earlier scouting had shown the Bolton contingent breaking camp, but he hadn't seen them move toward the walls. He feared a pincer attack, if Roose had found a way to cross the Green Fork upstream, the West Bank would be vulnerable.
Once the bird had gorged itself, Eddard leaned his head against the cold stone of the tower and closed his eyes.
[Active Skill: Animal Friend (Warging) triggered.]
His consciousness surged upward. The smell of blood and wet stone vanished, replaced by the biting, clean scent of the upper atmosphere. Through Blackfeather's eyes, the Twins looked like a toy model trapped between two silver ribbons of water.
He flew south first, searching the King's Road for Roose's trail. Nothing but the slow-moving baggage trains of the Reach. He turned north, his wings beating with a rhythmic, powerful grace. Blackfeather was a champion among ravens, and under Eddard's direction, the scenery below blurred into a rush of green and grey.
He circled the banks of the Green Fork for miles, searching for rafts or hidden crossings. Nothing. The river was a surging, impassable torrent.
Then, a flash of inspiration hit him, a thought so cynical it could only belong to a man like Roose Bolton. He turned Blackfeather back toward the King's Road, flying far past the Reach camp, deeper toward the Neck.
Ten minutes later, he found them.
A troop of nearly five hundred riders and infantry was marching north with terrifying speed. At the head of the column, a black banner with the white sunburst of House Karstark fluttered in the wind.
Eddard felt a jolt of ice in his soul. He's impersonating me. He's using my name to get through the Neck.
Roose Bolton had abandoned the Reach lords. He had realized that without Randyll Tarly, the siege was a lost cause, and with the Blackfish holding the Ruby Ford, the path south was a death trap. He was fleeing back to the North, planning to use the Karstark identity to slip past the crannogmen and seize Moat Cailin or "Karin Bay" before anyone knew he had turned cloak.
Below, the man himself looked up.
Roose Bolton, wearing light padded armor and his signature pale pink cloak, seemed to sense the weight of the gaze from above. His ghostly, pale eyes fixed on the raven circling in the grey clouds.
"Wharton," Roose whispered, his voice thin and cold. "Order the archers to shoot that bird down. I've seen enough of it."
"Iron Leg" Wharton, the Dreadfort captain, signaled a squad of longbowmen. "You heard the Lord! Bring it down!"
Ural, a scarred archer with a single eye, squinted at the sky. "Lord Bolton's seeing ghosts, Wharton. There's nothing up there but clouds and bad luck."
"Scarface, you can doubt your eyes, but you don't doubt the Lord's orders," Wharton snapped, tapping his iron greave with his sword. "Unless you want to see what your skin looks like on a drying rack."
Ural grumbled but drew his bow. He loosed a shaft into the grey, but Blackfeather was already ascending, diving into the thick cover of the rain-clouds where no arrow could reach.
Eddard snapped his eyes open. He was back on the battlements, his heart hammering against his ribs.
He understood now. Roose Bolton wasn't just a traitor; he was a survivor. He had seen the farce in the Tarly tent, the bickering lords, the incompetent boy-commander and he had decided to let the Reach die so he could live. He was heading for Moat Cailin to fortify the North against Robb's return.
"Scholar Bennett!" Eddard shouted, spotting the Maester as he moved among the wounded near the gatehouse.
Bennett stopped his work, his hands stained with the blood of a Mallister archer. "My Lord? What is it?"
"Ravens," Eddard said, his voice urgent. "Do we have a bird that knows the way to White Harbor?"
Bennett shook his head apologetically. "No, My Lord. A city as small as the Twins cannot keep birds for every house. We relay messages through the larger hubs."
"Then Winterfell? Do we have a bird for the Starks?"
"Of course. Old Walder kept constant tabs on his 'liege'," Bennett said with a touch of irony.
"Write a letter. Now," Eddard commanded, his eyes turning to flint. "Address it to Bran Stark. Tell him that Roose Bolton has rebelled. Tell him the Dreadfort men are marching north under the Karstark banner to seize the Neck. Tell him to alert the Moat Cailin garrison, whoever is left there that any man flying the sunburst who is not Eddard Karstark is a traitor to be shot on sight."
He thought of the timeline. He had killed Theon Greyjoy, which meant Winterfell was still in Stark hands, but the North was empty of soldiers. If Roose took Moat Cailin, Robb would be trapped in the Riverlands forever.
"I'll do it immediately, My Lord!" Bennett wiped his hands on a rag and hurried toward the tower.
Eddard watched the ravens take flight a few minutes later, their black shapes disappearing into the northern mist. He had saved the North from the Kraken, but now he had to save it from the Leech.
"Winter is coming, Roose," Eddard whispered, looking at the feebly attacking Reachmen below. "But I'm the one who's going to bring the frost."
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