——————
For Advance Chapters
Join My Patreon https://www.patreon.com/c/gs9gosohard/membership
————————-
Winterfell
The raven had come at dawn, black wings cutting across a paling sky still streaked with violet. Robb Stark had been awake since before first light, Wolf's Wood fog clinging to the air just beyond the walls. The day smelled of yard-baked bread and wet earth as it always did, and it was the sort of morning that meant hunting, dealing with lordly matters, or running the castle.
Maester Luwin found him in the yard, leather jerkin laced, practice sword in hand. Theon was taunting a pair of boys with his archery, laughing as he split shafts at forty paces. Grey Wind prowled the perimeter restlessly.
"Robb," Luwin called in dread. He did not scream or shout, yet his tone seemed enough to worry the young lord. "A message."
Since his mother's departure, Winterfell had become a silent, patient place. Waiting for her return. Waiting for word of his father and his wellbeing as Hand of the King. Waiting for news of King's Landing, where courtiers and sycophants smiled with knives tucked behind their teeth — and his sisters were held in that same cesspool.
Robb wiped his brow with the back of his arm. "Let me wash," he said. But Luwin only held the cylinder closer.
"It cannot wait, my lord," he urged.
Theon lowered his bow, smirk fading. Even the boys stopped fumbling at their quivers.
They moved inside, Grey Wind following at Robb's heel, never separating from his master.
The Great Hall was warm from the brazier, heavy with the smell of wood and smoking incense.
Robb unfurled the paper before sitting at the raised table, eager to see what had made the old maester look so troubled.
Lord Eddard Stark the former hand of the king is charged for Treason. And king Joffrey Baratheon First of his name, commands the heir of Winterfell to swear fealty to the crown.
"Traitor? Treason?" He couldn't believe his eyes as he read it a third time.
"Sansa wrote this?" He recognized his sister's hand.
"It is your sister's writing, but the queen's words. You're summoned to King's Landing to swear fealty to the new king," Maester Luwin recounted.
"Joffrey puts my father in chains, and now he wants his ass kissed?" The young wolf almost growled.
"This is a royal command, my lord. If you should refuse to obey…"
"I won't refuse," Robb cut him off sharply, before speaking again after a steady pause. "His Grace summons me to King's Landing, and I'll go to King's Landing. But not alone. Call the banners."
He handed the letter back to Luwin.
"All of them, my lord?"
"They've always spoken of defending my father, have they not?"
"They have," Luwin admitted.
"Then we'll see what their words are worth," Robb said evenly.
"By your will, my lord." Luwin bowed and turned away to do as he was bid.
By late evening, ravens flew from Winterfell in every direction, to every house of the North. The time for war was afoot.
---
Five Weeks Later — The Dreadfort
The Dreadfort's image looked even scarier as five thousand men stood assembled beyond the walls of the town. Their ranks were so neat and symmetrical they might have been carved from dragonglass itself.
Infantry in steel lamellar, kettle helms gleaming dully beneath the gray sun, pikes upright like a bristling forest. Behind them, light cavalry in breastplates checked saddles and stirrups; heavier knights in black plate rested their sallet helms against their thighs, lances upright and waiting. The banners above them snapped in the cool air. The army of the flayed man was ready.
Five thousand would march south to Winterfell, while the other eight thousand remained to guard the lands and serve as reserves. In truth, Domeric Bolton would not overcommit men or resources to Robb Stark's campaign — especially when he held plans to depose him later down the line.
A horn sounded once from atop the barbican, deep, slow, and resonant — shaking the surroundings.
The columns stirred as though roused from slumber.
Bolton officers rode the line, white and red capes marking ranks beneath the common black. Corporals barked orders, sergeants checked their lines, and the captains shouted rhetoric along the formations.
Pavisers tested the grips of their broad shields, while crossbowmen cranked strings and counted secured bolts.
The gynours marched with the siege train — great oxen pulling steel-wheeled wagons fitted with spring suspensions to ensure smoother travel.
Then came the drums.
A baseline beat, steady and unyielding as a heartbeat, rolled across the yard and out through the Dreadfort gate — *doom-doom… doom-doom… doom-doom* — and the column began to move.
Lord Bolton, flanked by twelve of his red-plated praetorian guards, cantered out of the stone fort.
And so the army of the richest man in the North marched — the Black Legs marched in lieu of their lord.
The cavalry followed with thunder in their hooves. Light horsemen rode with scouts' speed and scouts' eyes, spears and short bows against their backs. The heavy riders clattered forward in all their black armor, sallets closed, lances upright like a forest of steel among the old. The riverlands feared knights such as these — for they took control wherever they roamed.
Hundreds of boots struck ground in perfect cadence. No stragglers, no men out of line; even their breath seemed synchronized, steaming in measured pulses as if the cold itself feared to interrupt their discipline.
The infantry led, pikes lifted at identical angles, helms glinting like rows of metal teeth.
Behind them, archers in lamellar marched with crossbows slung; longbowmen among them walked taller, proud of the craft learned in their weeks of training.
The logistics train rolled not far behind, astonishing in pace for its size — numerous wagons laden with foodstuffs stretching a quarter of a mile, along with arrows, timber, tools, smiths, fletchers, chirurgeons, and cooks. Horses hauled water casks lashed to sleds; oxen strained against siege gear. And yet all of it kept pace with the main body — no breach, no halt.
This was not how levies marched.
Levies stumbled, gossiped, slept in hedgerows, and ate what they could steal. These men — paid, drilled, and hardened — marched as though under fanatical servitude to their lord.
Travelers fled to the roadsides and treelines as the column passed along the smooth road. Those of Bolton lands were not unfamiliar with bands of marching soldiers, but this was far larger than any they'd seen, and they took pause.
The drums did not cease. Children peered from behind mothers' skirts, eyes wide; women bowed their heads; old men spat or prayed, depending on which gods they favored. But all watched.
Bolton's captains and commanders watched as well, proud of the force and formation they rode beside.
The wind began to howl harder halfway down the western road leading to the kingsroad — soft as wool at first, then sharper, brushing faces rather roughly.
Night found them still moving, torches flaring in long parallel lines. The horns called then — sharp blasts in sequence — and the column pivoted with astonishing precision, peeling into camp formations. Fires were built with the same discipline they fought with. Salted meats seasoned and mixed with oats simmered in iron pots.
Winterfell loomed a mere four days ahead if the steady pace could be kept.
Domeric had advised them to push hard yet steady, not wanting to outpace the logistical chain behind. There was no true rush — the other houses would take even longer to arrive.
He wouldn't arrive too fast and wouldn't arrive late.
——————
For Advance Chapters
Join My Patreon https://www.patreon.com/c/gs9gosohard/membership
————————-