The Reach's main camp was bathed in the dying light of a fiery crimson sunset. The clouds, heavy with the remnants of the storm, looked like bruised fruit against the horizon.
Count Matthus of Goldengrove sat astride his horse, looking less like a soldier and more like a gilded statue. His plate armor was a dazzling, polished gold, embossed with the thick-rooted tree of House Rowan. Emerald silk leaves decorated his golden helm, and even his stallion was draped in a brilliant yellow mantle that shimmered with every movement. Beside him, Ser Maldor and the other Reach knights looked similarly ornate. If the Kingslayer, Jaime Lannister, had been present, the field would have been blinded by the sheer vanity of the assembly.
Beside Matthus sat Dickon Tarly. The boy looked tired, his sky-blue armor dulled by mud and his eyes fixed on the distant towers of the Twins. His heart was full of a bitter, mounting helplessness.
His plan for the afternoon had been simple: a relentless, ferocious assault. He wanted to scream at the walls until they crumbled. He wanted to drown the Karstarks in a sea of pikes. In his young mind, a fierce attack would not only avenge his father's capture but also provide the perfect distraction for Roose Bolton's flanking maneuver.
But the "Lords" of the Reach had other ideas.
As soon as the Mallister banners had appeared on the West Bank, the appetite for blood among the southern knights had vanished. Ser Maldor had been the first to object, citing the "unacceptable" casualty rate. They argued that it was wiser to wait for Bolton to establish a foothold on the other side before committing more men to the meat grinder.
Now, as the sun dipped below the trees, Dickon realized he was utterly alone. Despite the Tarly soldiers being the most disciplined and numerous part of the host, he was still just a thirteen-year-old boy in a tent full of weary, cynical veterans.
"My dear nephew, do not fret," Count Matthus said, his voice smooth and condescending. "According to Lord Bolton, he will reach the narrowing of the river by tomorrow morning. There is no sense in throwing away more good men today when the battle will be decided by a pincer move tomorrow. The men need rest. A siege is a marathon, not a sprint."
"But that isn't how my father would fight!" Dickon blurted out, his frustration bubbling over. "He said that if you give a defender room to breathe, they'll use it to sharpen their knives. We should be hitting them now!"
"Your father has been captured, Dickon," Matthus interrupted, his eyes turning cold. "And thank the Seven he hasn't been dragged onto the battlements with a rope around his neck yet. If he were, would you truly be able to order the archers to fire? Would you watch him die for the sake of a bridge?"
The words struck Dickon like a physical blow. He opened his mouth to say yes, because that was what a Tarly was supposed to say but the word died in his throat.
"What if Eddard Karstark cut off your father's arm right before your eyes?" Matthus continued, leaning in. "What if he hung him from the gatehouse and told you that if you didn't retreat, he'd watch him bleed out slowly? How would you choose then, boy? Honor? Or the man who raised you?"
"Eddard Karstark is a nobleman! He wouldn't... he wouldn't do something so foul!" Dickon's eyes were wide with horror.
Matthus let out a sharp, dry laugh. "You can uphold honor, child, but you cannot force a desperate man to do the same. Some men have filth in their veins. They scheme while you pray. Your father is a stern man, but he is shrewd enough to know when the rules have changed. You are still seeing the world through a child's storybook."
Dickon was silenced. He looked at the mud, feeling the weight of the command he hadn't asked for.
Suddenly, the rhythmic thud of hooves broke the silence. Two scouts galloped into the center of the command group, their horses lathered in white, viscous sweat, their flanks heaving with exhaustion.
"My Lord! Lord Matthus!" one of them gasped, nearly falling from his saddle.
"Speak," Matthus commanded, his golden armor catching the last ray of sun.
"The Bolton men... they didn't stop at the narrowing," the scout wheezed. "They didn't build rafts. Lord Roose ordered a forced march. They've bypassed the Twins entirely. They're riding for the Neck, My Lord. They're going home."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Matthus Rowan's face went from pale to a deep, bruised purple. He felt the phantom sting of the "Old Leech's" betrayal. He had believed the Northman's logic, had believed that they were all trapped together. Instead, Roose Bolton had used the Reach army as a wall to hide behind while he made his escape.
Dickon Tarly felt a cold, hollow void open in his chest. Roose Bolton, the man who had spoken with such conviction that morning, had abandoned them. He had used the blood of a thousand Reachmen as bait to distract the Karstarks while he fled.
Inside the Twins, the night was settling in.
Eddard stood in the high tower, watching the Reach camp through a narrow arrow slit. He had seen the siege stop prematurely, and he knew why. The "Lion" and the "Leech" had played their parts, and now the Reachmen were left holding a bag of broken promises.
He considered his options. He had the [Hand of Flame] magic ready. He could slip out in a basket, swim the moat, and turn their supply wagons into a funeral pyre. His enhanced constitution meant the cold river water was nothing more than a brisk autumn chill to him. But first, he needed to hear what the "vultures" were planning.
He extended his mind, the familiar headache thrumming behind his eyes as he connected with Blackfeather.
The raven glided silently over the Reach camp, eventually landing on the central pole of Matthus Rowan's grand tent. The structure was as large as a manor house, luxuriously appointed and currently filled with the sounds of screaming.
"ROOSE BOLTON! MAY THE OTHERS TAKE HIS SOUL!"
"THAT VILE BEAST! HE'S LEFT US TO DIE IN A SWAMP!"
Eddard listened through the bird's ears, his patience wearing thin as the lords spent ten minutes simply inventing new ways to curse the Bolton name.
Inside the tent, Matthus finally roared for silence. "Enough! Cursing the Leech won't mend our bridges! We have a choice to make, and we make it now. Do we stay and batter our heads against these stones, or do we retreat to the Ruby Ford before the Blackfish cuts us off?"
Ser Maldor was the first to stand. "The Ford is our only hope. Bolton lied about everything else; likely he lied about the Blackfish's strength too. Let's go home while we still have enough horses to carry us."
"The water is dropping," Ser Ross of House Caswell added. "If we move now, we can cross on foot at the shallows."
"Let's leave this disgusting place!" another knight cried out. "I'm done with Northern magic and Northern mud!"
The majority were in favor of retreat, but they all turned to look at the boy in the blue armor.
"Let's go," Dickon Tarly whispered, his voice sounding older than his years.
He had spent the afternoon asking himself the question Matthus had posed. He realized he couldn't watch his father die. If the only way to keep Randyll Tarly alive was to let the Karstarks have the bridge, then the Tarlys would retreat. Honor was a heavy cloak, but a father's life was heavier.
High above, Blackfeather took flight, heading back toward the Twins. Eddard snapped his eyes open, his vision returning to the dark tower.
"They're running," Eddard said to the empty room, a tired but victorious grin spreading across his face.
He had held the bridge. He had captured the general. He had exposed the traitor. He had saved the North from the Red Wedding. Now, he just had to wait for the King to arrive and see the mess he'd cleaned up.
"Abel!" Eddard shouted down the stairs. "Tell the men to get some sleep! The Reach is packing their bags!"
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