The Reach army departed under the cover of a bruised, grey dawn.
Perhaps to avoid the indignity of a jeering audience, or simply to take advantage of the most disorienting hour of the day, the Tarly and Rowan host melted away into the mist. Their scouts went first, cautious and low in their saddles. The archers and the remaining baggage wagons followed, flanked by a rearguard of heavy infantry that moved with a grim, mechanical order. Large cavalry units hovered on the peripheries, keeping a sharp eye on the towers of the Twins. It was a disciplined retreat, the hallmark of Tarly training even if the man who had instilled that discipline was currently sitting in a cell.
Eddard stood on the East Wall, watching the glitter of gold and green surcoats vanish into the southern treeline. He had too few cavalry to pursue them; a hundred riders against a retreating force of thousands would have been suicide, not a skirmish.
"Lord Tarly, your son has seen reason," Eddard said, not turning around.
Randyll Tarly stood beside him, his hands shackled in front of him. The morning light caught the smooth, bald dome of his head. He stared at the empty fields where his camp had stood only a day ago, his face a mask of granite.
"Ruby Ford is blocked," Eddard continued, his voice calm. "Brynden the Blackfish does not miss his marks. Your son and the Count of Goldengrove are heading into a dead end. Why not write a letter, Lord Tarly? Persuade Dickon to surrender. It would save a great deal of blood, and perhaps I could be convinced to let him keep his head."
Tarly didn't respond immediately. He watched a lone hawk circle the rising waters of the Green Fork. "You won, boy," he finally rasped, the words sounding as if they were being dragged over broken glass. "What is the price? For my freedom, for my life, and for the sword of my fathers? Name it. I will write a letter to Horn Hill, and your Maester can send the bird."
Eddard offered a thin, shark-like smile. "There is no hurry, Lord Tarly. Perhaps in a few days, your son will join us in this city. We can discuss the terms of House Tarly's survival then. I suspect the price will be much higher once Dickon realizes he has nowhere else to go."
Tarly's jaw tightened, the muscles bulging. He knew Eddard was right. Matthus Rowan was a political creature, a man of the Reach who preferred courtly games to muddy sieges. Once Roose Bolton had vanished, Rowan's stomach for a fight had clearly evaporated. If Tarly had been in command, the walls would have been taken or the moat would have been filled with the dead. But Tarly was in a cage, and history was being written by the "Wizard" standing next to him.
"Take him back," Eddard commanded the guards.
As Tarly was led away, the Twins began to wake up to the reality of the aftermath.
Post-war cleanup was a gruesome, necessary business. Scholar Bennett moved among the wounded with his medical team, their grey robes stained with a rainbow of fluids. Basins of clear water were brought up to the walls and returned blood-red, eventually being dumped into the Green Fork. The river, already swollen by the rains, became a feast for schools of silver-scaled fish that didn't care whose flesh they consumed.
Abel and Lando oversaw the labor gangs. Hundreds of townspeople, lured by the promise of gold and grain, were clearing the debris from the moat. Salvage teams, mostly strong swimmers from the local villages dove into the cold currents to recover the bodies of the Dreadfort and Reach men who had fallen from the rafts. Eddard knew that in this humidity, a pile of rotting corpses was a faster killer than a Lannister sword. He didn't want a plague to undo his victory.
Karas Snow and Matthew led small scouting parties to shadow the retreating army. They moved with two horses per man, maintaining a respectful distance but ensuring no surprise counter-attack was brewing.
Eddard, meanwhile, spent his morning in the town square. Accompanied by Paine and Rollger, he personally oversaw the distribution of the commissions he had promised. Each young man who had stood on the wall received his gold dragon. The commoners, who had lived under the stingy, suspicious rule of the Freys for generations, looked at Eddard with a mix of awe and burgeoning gratitude.
"The North Remembers," Rollger whispered to a group of local laborers as they pocketed their silver. "And Lord Eddard pays his debts."
Later that afternoon, Dita Calandre returned from the south. She had been sent to track Robb Stark's itinerary, and her report was short: the King was coming, and he was coming fast.
"Lord Eddard, may the Lord of Light bless your victory. I believe it is time for us to take our leave."
Thoros of Myr stood in the courtyard of the River Tower, his red robes looking slightly more vibrant now that he had been fed and rested. His skin, once sagging from the hardships of the road, seemed to have tightened. There was a spark in his eyes that hadn't been there when they first met in the forest.
"You're leaving?" Eddard asked. He was leaning against a stack of supply crates, watching his men sharpen their axes. "The Riverlands are stabilizing. The bandits are being hunted down. When the lords return to their holds, they won't look kindly on a 'Brotherhood' without a master. You'll be hanged as outlaws or forced into the Night's Watch."
Beric Dondarrion stepped forward from the shadows. His single eye was fixed on Eddard, his expression unreadable. "I will not return to Blackhaven while the realm is in pieces, and I will not abandon these men. We have our own path."
Thoros smiled, though the expression didn't reach his eyes. He had expected Eddard to offer them a permanent place in his service. He wanted to spread the faith of R'hllor, and the "Wizard-Lord" of Karhold seemed like a perfect vessel for the Red God's power.
Eddard, however, was a man of the System, not of the Flame.
"There are other places for men of your talents," Eddard suggested, his tone dry. "Stannis Baratheon has a Red Priestess of his own, a woman named Melisandre. He's converted his whole house. You'd find a warm welcome at Storm's End. Or... there is the Wall. Commander Mormont is begging for men. He says the dead are walking. I'm sure a priest who can light swords on fire would be quite popular in the frost."
Thoros's smile turned stiff. "We shall see where the fire leads us, Lord Eddard. But we thank you for the hospitality of the Crossing."
"Wait for the King," Eddard said. "Robb will want to thank the men who helped hold his bridge. After that, your lives are your own."
Robb Stark arrived at dusk the following day.
The sight was something out of a Northern legend. Three thousand cavalrymen, their armor caked in dried mud and their horses' flanks steaming in the cool air, emerged from the eastern mist. They looked less like soldiers and more like a force of nature. Robb had pushed them through the heavy rains, abandoning his baggage train and marching with nothing but steel and dry bread to reach the Twins before they could be retaken.
Eddard stood at the gatehouse beside Patrek Mallister to greet him. Patrek looked a bit disheveled, he had spent the last forty-eight hours largely in the company of Roslin Frey, a "negotiation" that Eddard had wisely chosen not to investigate.
"The enemy is gone?" Robb asked, dismounting his horse. His face was pale from exhaustion, but his blue eyes flared with a fierce, satisfied light when he saw Eddard standing unharmed.
Robb strode forward and gripped Eddard's shoulders. "I knew you could do it, Ned. I knew the Crossing was safe in your hands. You have never disappointed me."
Eddard bowed his head slightly. "It was a near thing, Your Majesty. But the Reachmen found the climate... disagreeable. Patrek's arrival with the Seagard men was the final weight that broke their resolve."
Patrek Mallister stepped forward with a nervous smile, already thinking of how to convince Robb to spare his new "acquaintance," Roslin.
"We have much to do," Robb said, his voice turning somber as he looked at the towers. Behind him, the Greatjon, Maege Mormont, and Galbart Glover rode in, their faces weary but triumphant.
And then, there was Harrion.
Eddard's half-brother rode toward him, looking more haggard than Eddard remembered. Harrion had spent months as a prisoner of the Lannisters before being exchanged, and the weight of the war showed in the lines around his eyes. He looked at Eddard, now a commander, a conqueror, and a Lord of a fortress with a complex mix of pride and disorientation.
"Ned," Harrion said, his voice a low rasp. "You've changed. You look... older."
Eddard looked at the man who should have been the heir to Karhold, seeing the shadow of the father they both shared. "The war has been a long one, Harry. For both of us."
Harrion nodded, his fierce face softening for a fleeting second. "Well done, brother. Father would have... well, he would have found something to complain about, but he would have been proud."
[System Notification: Main Force Rendezvous complete.]
[Quest Updated: The Reclamation of the North.]
[Soul Power Gained: 300 SP.]
As the Northern army poured into the Twins, Eddard felt the shift in the world's momentum. The Red Wedding was dead. The Leech was in flight. The Hunter was in a cage. For the first time since the war began, the North was no longer just surviving, it was ready to bite back.