The Freys had prepared the camps for the Northern host, their control of the river crossing ensuring secrecy. Not a whisper of the army's movements leaked beyond the Green Fork. Robb's authority, burnished by Jon's trial by combat and the Frey alliance, held the lords in line. The camp spread across the northern bank like a great beast coiled for war.
When Catelyn entered the central command tent, she was greeted with respect. Every Northern lord present had once sent gifts when she married Ned, and over the years she had honored them in turn—letters of condolence, tokens of friendship, congratulations for their own marriages and births. Her reputation as a dutiful lady of Winterfell gave her a place among them that few women could claim.
She began with calm authority. "I have returned from the Eyrie. At first, I did not know that my husband had been falsely accused. You all know that my sister Lysa rules the Vale. I will write to her, urging her to bring the Falcon to the Direwolf's side."
Murmurs swept the tent.
"Good!" roared Greatjon Umber, thumping his meaty fist against his sword hilt. "The Direwolf and the Falcon together once slew the Dragon. This time we'll skin the Lion the same way!"
Rickard Karstark, tall and broad-shouldered with a beard like snow, stroked the white thicket upon his chest. "The Westerlands may have gold and men, but they cannot outmatch all Seven Kingdoms united. Victory will be ours."
Lord Severn of Seagard, more cautious, raised a hand. "My lady, should we not wait until the Vale gathers its strength? United, we would be unstoppable."
But his suggestion was drowned almost at once.
"Wait?" Lady Maege Mormont barked, her voice rough as gravel. "Wait while the Riverlands burn? While our banners grow idle and our honor rots? The North does not wait."
"Indeed," said Ser Wylis Manderly, his great belly quivering as he patted it with one hand. He could hardly ride a horse, but his booming voice filled the tent. "With our strength, we must at least strike the first blow, that others may follow!"
Robb stood then, tall and solemn. His words rang clear. "We march not only for my father. The Riverlands are aflame. Their people cry out beneath Lannister hooves. If we stand idle, we are no true allies. And secrecy cannot last forever—each day we delay gives Tywin Lannister time to prepare. We must strike swiftly."
The lords nodded, murmuring their assent. Confidence swept the tent like fire in dry grass. Even Catelyn's eyes softened, pride warming her face. Her son—her boy—spoke with the bearing of a true lord. Twice now he had shown firmness: once in disciplining his bannermen, again in securing the Frey alliance. He was proving himself every inch a Stark.
Yet on the edge of the gathering, Jon Snow stood silent, his gaze cool. He saw more than the others. They were brimming with hope, but he knew what the future held: victories, yes, but also losses written in blood. Riverrun would be freed, Jaime Lannister captured, and the songs would call Robb the Young Wolf. But at the Green Fork, Bolton would bleed the North dry—eighteen thousand men wasted, their deaths feeding only the Leech Lord's ambition.
Jon's jaw tightened. He could not let history repeat itself.
Robb outlined the plan again: the Northern host would split. He would ride west with the cavalry to relieve Riverrun. The infantry, led by Roose Bolton, would march east to confront Tywin and hold him at bay.
Now all eyes turned to Bolton, the pale lord with the soft voice and expressionless face. He inclined his head slightly, as if even the act of speaking were beneath him. "Our infantry is slow, but Tywin lies nearest. He does not yet know we have marched. I will attempt a surprise attack. If we strike swiftly, we may cripple his strength. If not, we will withdraw to the north bank of the Green Fork and still contain him."
Murmurs of approval spread. Bolton's words were measured, his plan seemingly sound. Seasoned commander, calm strategist. Praise followed him like shadows.
Jon bit the inside of his cheek. You fools. He means to waste men. He will fight where the Lannisters are strongest, and when the slaughter is done, his own will stand untouched while yours rot in the mud.
He glanced at Robb, then spoke softly. "Robb, may I speak?"
The lords turned, surprised. The bastard boy, daring to raise his voice in a council of lords? Robb opened his mouth to agree, but Catelyn cut in sharply.
"Jon, this is not your place. This is a war council of lords. You would do better to remain silent, lest others think the Starks cannot even keep their children in order."
The words were not loud, but they stung like arrows. Jon felt the weight of every gaze upon him. Robb shifted uncomfortably, caught between mother and brother.
But Jon did not retreat. He inclined his head respectfully and said, "As you command, my lady. Yet for the sake of Lord Eddard, I beg leave to ask a question."
The name of Ned Stark silenced the tent. Even Catelyn could not gainsay him now.
Bolton's pale eyes flickered. "Ask."
Jon stepped forward, voice steady. "You speak of surprise, Lord Bolton. But what if we are discovered? Our host is mostly infantry, slow and heavy. If the attack fails, we may be trapped in the open, unable to withdraw in time. What then?"
A murmur rippled. It was a fair question—too fair. Bolton's lips barely curved.
Before he could reply, Lord Severn snorted. "War is risk, boy. There are always losses. We cannot flinch from attack out of fear. That would be weakness."
"Indeed!" barked Lady Mormont. "Better to fight and fall than cower and wait. The North does not hide."
Jon almost laughed. Battle maniac with breasts, he thought sourly.
Bolton spoke at last, smooth as oil. "The lords are correct. War is cruel. Yet I believe our chances of success are high."
Jon's eyes narrowed. "Then will the men of the Dreadfort take the vanguard?"
The words dropped like stones into water. For the first time, Bolton's mask faltered, the faintest twitch of discomfort passing over his face. Around the table, lords exchanged glances. None had thought of it—yet the question struck too close to truth.
Catelyn's voice snapped like a whip. "Jon! Enough! Must you sow discord before battle is even joined?"
Murmurs rose, questioning Jon's character. He bowed quickly, feigning contrition. "Forgive me, Lord Bolton. I spoke rashly. It is only that behind each soldier stands a family. I would not see them wasted for nothing."
That softened the edge. Lords who cared little for peasants still cared for their own retainers. Jon's words sounded loyal, if naive. Bolton inclined his head, mask restored.
"I cherish men's lives as well, though war allows little mercy. If you have some notion, Bastard Snow, share it."
Jon drew a breath. Here was his chance. "I think the river itself may serve us. If we weaken the embankments of the Green Fork, we may turn the waters loose. Flood their camps, hinder their horses. Let the river fight with us."
For a heartbeat, silence. Then laughter broke out.
"Flood the Lannisters?" scoffed Lord Severn. "Shall we drown them in soup as well? Truly, only a bastard would dream such nonsense."
"Honor is not found in tricks of water!" Lady Mormont snapped. "If we fight, we fight with steel."
Mockery spread, lords chuckling, shaking their heads. A foolish boy's fancy, nothing more.
Jon stood impassive, letting their scorn wash over him. He had expected as much. But Robb, to his credit, lifted a hand. "Enough. Jon has command of his own men. If his scheme does not hinder Lord Bolton's battle, let him test it. We will see what comes of it."
Bolton's pale eyes lingered on Jon. He said nothing, merely inclined his head. To forbid the bastard would draw suspicion. To allow it cost him nothing—so he let it pass.
The council moved on, but Jon's mind burned. They laughed now, but water could be sharper than any blade. If it worked, he would save lives, and men saved by him would follow him. Prestige grew not only from victory, but from survival. One day, Bolton would find no easy prey in the North.
Jon folded his arms, silent once more. The unconventional bastard, mocked by lords, but holding fast to his vision.
The war had only just begun.
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