The air inside the Tarly command tent at noon was stifling. It smelled of damp wool, spilled wine, and the acrid scent of nervous sweat. Outside, the rain had finally subsided into a heavy, oppressive mist, but the mood inside was far stormier.
"My Lords, I saw only the silver eagle of House Mallister," Roose Bolton began, his voice a soft, whispery thread that forced every man in the room to lean in just to hear him. "The reinforcements are a small contingent from Seagard. Likely five hundred men, no more. They are a gnat on the back of a giant."
Roose sat perfectly still, his pale, milky eyes scanning the faces of the Reach lords. He needed them to stay. He needed them to bleed the Karstarks white so that his own path back to the North would be clear.
However, the lords of the Reach were not in a listening mood. To them, Roose was an outsider, a traitor who had flayed his way into an alliance they didn't entirely trust.
Ser Maldor of Highgarden stared at Roose with bulging, bloodshot eyes, looking like an angry toad ready to snap. "Five hundred?" Maldor spat, slamming a fist onto the map-strewn table. "If five hundred arrive this morning, what's to stop another thousand from arriving tonight? Every hour we sit here, more Riverlords find their spines. Do you expect ten thousand Reachmen to die for this bridge just so you can have a comfortable ride to the Dreadfort?"
Maldor had never wanted this fight. He was a man of the fertile Reach, used to sunshine and easy victories. The grit and magic of the Twins had unnerved him. "If you ask me, we should leave now. While the path to the Ruby Ford is still open. Once the 'Young Wolf' arrives with his riders, we won't be able to flee even if we wanted to."
As soon as Maldor spoke, the tent was filled with the low, buzzing murmur of agreement. It was the sound of an army's morale curdling.
Dickon Tarly, only thirteen and looking far too small in his father's high-backed chair, spoke up tentatively. "But... my father is in there. And Heartbreaker. We can't just leave them. Should we not attack again this afternoon? The sun is out now."
Dickon wanted to fight. He was a Tarly, and "First in Battle" was a command, not a suggestion. But he was surrounded by men three times his age who saw only the mounting butcher's bill. Despite the Tarly soldiers making up a third of the host, the lack of a supreme commander meant that the loudest voice usually won.
"My grand-nephew," Count Matthus Rowan of Goldengrove said, his tone patronizingly kind. "Fighting isn't the issue. Valor is not in short supply among the Reach. But Ser Maldor is right. A siege is a meat grinder. We lost four hundred men this morning to a boy throwing stones and sixteen ballistas. The enemy's casualties were likely less than twenty. We cannot trade Reach lives at that rate."
The murmuring stopped. When the Count of Goldengrove spoke, the authority in the room shifted.
"We should try our luck at the Ruby Ford," Matthus continued, looking at the maps. "If we must die, let it be in the Reach, not in this gods-forsaken swamp."
Dickon's face went pale. He realized with a jolt of terror that he was being abandoned. These lords didn't care about Randyll Tarly or the ancestral sword. They cared about their own survival. If they left, Dickon would be left with a fractured vanguard and a dead father.
"My Lords."
Roose Bolton stood up. He moved to the center of the tent, holding a glass of pale brandy. His eyes were like chips of ice, unblinking and devoid of warmth.
"You speak of the Ruby Ford as if it were an open gate," Roose said, his voice slow and deliberate. "But it is the rainy season. The Green Fork is rising. There are no fords for a hundred miles that won't drown your infantry. If you turn your backs now, you will be trapped between a flooded river and the Blackfish's scouts at Harrenhal. And when Robb Stark arrives at your rear? You won't be marching; you'll be swimming. And I doubt your plate armor floats particularly well."
The silence that followed was heavy. The lords looked at each other, the reality of their "safe retreat" evaporating.
"Then what would you have us do, Leech?" Matthus demanded, his voice tight with suspicion.
"I have a proposal," Roose said. "North of the Twins, near the Neck, there is a section of the river that narrows. I know the terrain better than any man in this tent. Let me take my five hundred Bolton men and cross there tonight. We will slip past their scouts, cross the river, and strike the West Bank of the Twins."
He scanned their faces. "A two-pronged attack. While I tie up Karstark's reserves on the west wall, your assault on the east will find a much thinner defense. We trap the 'Wizard' in his own castle."
Dickon's eyes lit up with sudden, desperate hope. "A pincer move! It's brilliant! If we had done this from the start, the wall would be ours by now!"
Count Matthus, however, kept his gaze fixed on Roose. "Lord Bolton, you don't intend to just 'cross' and then keep riding north to save your own skin, do you? I've heard you were the first to flee when the Karstark boy charged your vanguard."
The accusation was a slap in the face, but Roose didn't even blink.
"Count Matthus, I am not a fool," Roose whispered. "If I abandon this host, I offend the Tyrells, the Lannisters, and the Iron Throne in a single day. That is a recipe for the extinction of House Bolton. I have already betrayed the Starks to serve the Lion; I have nowhere else to go. I want the Twins taken more than anyone, for only then can I truly claim my reward as Warden of the North."
The logic was cold, but it was sound. Roose was a traitor, yes, but he was a traitor with a vested interest in winning this specific battle. Matthus Rowan felt his suspicion begin to ebb, replaced by the realization that Roose was the only one offering a way out that didn't involve a retreat through a swamp.
"Fine," Matthus said, clearing his throat. "We will stay. This afternoon, we will begin a feigned assault—enough to keep the Karstarks busy on the East Wall. Meanwhile, the Dreadfort army will slip away to the north. Cross the river, Lord Bolton. Bring us the West Bank."
"As you command, My Lord," Roose said, offering a shallow, bloodless bow.
Dickon Tarly grinned, his confidence restored. He didn't realize that in agreeing to the plan, he had effectively handed the tactical authority of the army over to Matthus Rowan. He was now a figurehead, a young hawk being steered by older, craftier vultures.
The Twins.
Eddard stood on the high battlements, the sun finally burning through the last of the mist. He felt the mental strain of the morning's magic usage, but he couldn't rest. He closed his eyes, extending his consciousness to Blackfeather.
The raven soared high above the Reach camp. From the aerial perspective, the camp looked like a sprawling, colorful wound on the earth. Eddard scanned the banners, counting the units.
Suddenly, he noticed a movement in the northern corner of the camp. A dark smudge of soldiers, the men of the Dreadfort were breaking camp. They weren't heading for the front lines. They were moving quietly into the deep woods to the north, their flayed-man banners furled and hidden.
Roose is leaving, Eddard thought, his heart skipping a beat. Is he retreating? No... he's too smart for a blind retreat. He's flanking.
Before he could follow the Bolton movement further, the Reach camp erupted. The horns blared, a deep, resonant sound that signaled the return of the heavy infantry. Thousands of Rowan and Tarly men were forming up again, their shields catching the afternoon light.
The "probing" was over. The Reach was committing to a sustained, brutal assault.
Eddard snapped his eyes open, the connection to the raven severing.
"ALARM!" he roared, his voice cracking. "MAN THE WALLS! RESERVES TO THE EAST GATE!"
The bells of the Twins began to toll once more, the frantic iron rhythm matching the pounding of Eddard's heart. He didn't have enough men to cover both sides of the river if Roose crossed. He had to end this fight on the east wall, and he had to do it before the Leech could sink his teeth into the West Bank.
"Abel! Tell the Mallisters to prepare the longbows! The second wave is here!"
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