"What? Is Lord Bolton suddenly an expert in the Reach's military affairs?"
Count Matthus of Goldengrove didn't even try to hide his disdain. He looked at Roose Bolton as one might look at a particularly persistent stain on a favorite surcoat. To a man like Matthus, who valued traditional hierarchies, a man who would stab his own King in the back for a promotion was a creature devoid of honor. Useful for a moment, perhaps, but never worth befriending.
He glared at Roose, his hand gripping a cup of warming brandy. "With all due respect, Lord Bolton, it is not your place to speak of our retreat."
Roose Bolton didn't flinch. He sat there, pale and still, his eyes like two chips of dirty ice. He took a slow, deliberate sip of his wine before standing up. He moved with a quiet, unnerving grace toward the center of the tent, the orange firelight reflecting off his bloodless skin.
"I am merely stating a fact, My Lord," Roose whispered, his voice barely rising above the rhythmic patter of the rain against the canvas. "You may not know the Trident as well as a Northman does. We are in the heart of the flood season. The Green Fork is not a river right now; it is a monster. There are no fords for a hundred miles that won't swallow a horse whole."
"We can go back to the Ruby Ford," Ser Maldor countered, tearing a piece of meat from a chicken leg and licking the grease from his fingers. "We crossed it once; we can cross it again."
"You crossed it when the water was low and the sun was out, Ser Maldor," Roose replied softly. "Now? You would need a fleet of boats to move seven thousand infantry across. And don't forget, our plan has been exposed. Brynden 'the Blackfish' holds Harrenhal. He only needs to send five hundred men to the Ford to turn your retreat into a slaughter."
Roose scanned the faces of the Reach lords, seeing the first seeds of doubt begin to sprout. "If Robb Stark crosses the Twins while you are mired in the mud of the King's Road, he will hit your rear like a hammer. You would be trapped between a rising river and a vengeful King."
He leaned in, a faint, predatory smile touching his lips. "May I ask, My Lords... how well can you swim in full plate armor?"
The tent erupted into a cacophony of arguments and curses. The earlier bravado of the "Great Reach Army" had been punctured by the cold needle of Bolton's logic. They realized they weren't just a vanguard anymore; they were an island in a sea of enemies.
Dickon Tarly stood up, his young voice cracking with a forced authority. "If we can just get word to King's Landing, Lord Tywin will send reinforcements! The City Watch and the Lannister veterans could clear the road for us!"
Ser Maldor snorted, tossing a bone into the fire. "And how do we send that word, boy? There isn't a maester's tower between here and the Ford that hasn't been burned or emptied. To send a raven, we have to take the Twins. To take the Twins, we have to fight."
"Then we fight!" Matthus Rowan roared, slamming his cup down. "Bolton, you said the Karstark boy only has four hundred men. Is that right?"
"That is my information, Lord Matthus," Roose nodded.
"Then we have ten to one!" Matthus barked, his face red with a mix of fury and desperation. "I don't care if he's a wizard or a god. Ten thousand men can take a bridge. If we take the Twins, we block the Wolf from his home and we get our raven to Tywin. It's the only way out."
Roose Bolton sat back down, returning to his wine. His pale eyes watched the "farce" of the Reach lords working themselves into a killing frenzy. Inside, he was already calculating. If the Reachmen took the bridge, he had his path North. If they failed, he would have to find a way to offer the Tyrells' heads to Robb Stark as a peace offering.
The rain finally broke after two days of relentless assault.
Eddard stood on the high western battlements, squinting against the sudden, blinding warmth of the sun. The world was a mess of mud and mist. The Green Fork had swollen so much it was lapping at the base of the bridge's stone pillars, and the moat had widened into a narrow, treacherous lake.
"They're here, My Lord," Lando said, pointing toward the southern horizon.
A line of steel was emerging from the trees. It was a majestic, terrifying sight. First came the scouts, cavalry in green enameled plate with the golden rose of Tyrell stitched into their cloaks. Then came the banners: the red-clad hunter of Tarly, the golden tree of Rowan, and the flayed man of Bolton.
Ten thousand men. They moved like a slow, glittering snake along the King's Road, settling into a massive camp just outside the range of the Twins' ballistas.
By afternoon, a small party of riders detached themselves from the main host and trotted toward the moat.
"Eddard Karstark! I want to talk to you!"
The voice was loud and clear. Eddard looked down to see Dickon Tarly. The boy was decked out in sky-blue plate armor and a bright red cloak, looking like a storybook knight. He was escorted by Ser Aenys Farwynd and a handful of Tarly veterans.
Eddard stepped to the edge of the crenellations. He didn't need the tin megaphone his carpenters had fashioned; his voice, boosted by his enhanced physique, boomed over the water.
"Dickon! For the sake of your father being a polite guest in my dungeon, and for 'Heartbreaker' being such a fine addition to my collection, I don't think I have much to say to you, boy!"
The Karstark soldiers on the wall let out a raucous cheer.
"I want to talk to Roose Bolton!" Eddard continued, his voice dripping with venom. "Tell that king-betraying carrion worm to show his face! I want to see the man who sells his honor for a patch of dirt. Bring me the Leech!"
Dickon Tarly's face flushed a deep crimson. "Lord Bolton refused to come! He says he has no business with a rebel!"
Ser Aenys Farwynd whispered something to Dickon, trying to keep the boy on track.
Eddard laughed, a cold, echoing sound. "Of course he didn't come! I guessed that worm wouldn't dare stand in the light. Go back and tell the 'Old Flayer' that I've prepared special bolts for him, smeared with the filth of my stables. Sooner or later, I'm going to skewer him like a piece of bait for the river fish!"
Dickon stared up at the wall, his expression stiff and shocked. He had expected a noble parley, not a barrage of insults.
"Lord Eddard," Dickon shouted, trying to regain his composure. "Look at the field! We have ten thousand men. You have a handful of survivors. There is no hope of victory for you. Surrender the Twins!"
"Oh? And what are your terms, Young Master Tarly?"
"Leave my father and our ancestral sword," Dickon called back. "I give you my word as a Tarly: you and your men will be allowed to cross to the North. We will not pursue. You have my honor on it."
Eddard leaned over the railing, a shark-like grin on his face. "I refuse. Unless I see the Old Leech's head on a spike, your promises are worth less than my own farts. With a Bolton in your camp, I wouldn't trust a Tarly if he swore on the Seven and the Old Gods at once."
Eddard glanced at Anguy the Archer, who was standing beside him. The Brotherhood archer didn't wait for a command. He drew his longbow and loosed a single, whistling arrow. It thudded into the mud mere inches from Dickon's horse.
"Go!" Eddard roared. "If you stay another minute, I'll greet you with the giant crossbows! My hospitality is at an end!"
He watched as the Tarly party scrambled back toward their camp. On the walls, his men began to crank the heavy gears of the ballistas, the massive machines groaning as they turned to track the retreating riders.
Eddard watched the ten thousand men across the water and felt the adrenaline beginning to hum. The "negotiation" was over. Now, the real test of the Crossing was about to begin.
[System Notification: Siege Commencing.]
[Current Soul Power: 812 SP.]
[Suggested Action: Upgrade Garrison Units.]
"Let them come," Eddard whispered to the wind. "I have enough gold to bury them, and enough lightning to burn them all."
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