"Is that so?"
Jon Umber's eyes went wide, and for a second, I thought he was going to swing at me. But then he turned his head and looked at the infantry phalanx marching toward us. As he watched the rows of pristine Bolton soldiers, not a dent in their shields, not a speck of blood on their surcoats his face went from pale to a deep, bruised purple.
"Gods damn it," he growled. "Roose Bolton. That leech. He's been using my boys as bait, hasn't he?"
He looked at me with a mix of respect and annoyance. "Eddard Karstark, you're too damn smart for your own good. You've got skill, kid, but you don't know how dark a man's heart can get. Stick close to your father, you've still got a lot to learn about real treachery."
With that, he kicked his horse into a gallop.
I stayed where I was, a small smile playing on my lips. I watched the Greatjon storm over to Maege Mormont, Lord Glover, and the Manderly heirs. It didn't take long for the spark to turn into a forest fire. Within ten minutes, the King was surrounded by a mob of his most powerful lords, and they were all screaming for blood.
"Your Majesty!" Glover yelled. "We didn't say a word when you made Roose Bolton Marshal of the East. We trusted him with our sons. But look at that formation!"
Maege was even more sharp-tongued. "I heard the Lord of the Dreadfort was 'gentle.' I didn't realize that meant he was only gentle with his own men while he fed ours to the lions."
My dad, Rickard, didn't say a word. He just sat on his horse, his eyes like two chips of ice, staring at the Bolton banner. His silence was more terrifying than the Greatjon's shouting.
"Why are we even talking about this?" Jon Umber roared, pointing his good arm at the approaching pikes. "Look at the numbers! Hundreds of my Hearth Hall boys are dead. The Karstarks lost a thousand! Every house here is bleeding out, but the Dreadfort? They haven't even broken a sweat! Are they treating us like brainless thralls?!"
"We want an explanation!" "Give us his soldiers!" "Make him pay!"
Robb Stark looked like his head was about to explode. I could see him struggling to process it. He'd given Roose the command because the man was calm and experienced. He'd hoped the "Old Leech" would be a steady hand against Tywin. He hadn't expected the man to be too steady, preserving his own strength while the rest of the North was gutted.
Robb looked through the crowd, his eyes finding me. He gave me a look that was a silent plea for help.
I just shook my head and spread my hands. Sorry, Your Majesty. I'm just a second son. I don't know anything about high-level mutinies.
If I spoke up now, the Greatjon would realize I was the one who planted the seed. I needed Robb to handle this. Being a King meant dealing with the snakes in your own garden, not just the lions across the river.
Robb's face hardened. He realized I wasn't going to bail him out. He raised his hand, silencing the lords. "I hear you," he said, his voice dropping into that low, "Ned Stark" register. "There will be an explanation. My word on it."
The lords went quiet. Robb's prestige was at an all-time high after Oxcross and the Tooth. He was a man of his word, and if he said he'd handle the Leech, they'd wait.
While the North was eating itself alive, Ser Kevan Lannister was holding the line.
He stood at the center of the pike formation, his face a mask of grim determination. He was the only man who could keep these five thousand soldiers from bolting. He was Tywin's brother; he represented the gold and the fear of Casterly Rock.
"Think of your families!" Kevan's officers were shouting as they moved through the ranks. "If you run, they hang! If you stand, Tywin pays double for your sacrifice! If you're captured, the Lannisters buy you back! There is nothing to fear!"
Kevan looked back and saw Tywin's banner disappearing into the night. He felt a pang of bitterness, is this what we've come to? Fleeing from the North? but he suppressed it. It was strategy. The core must survive.
He looked toward the hills. Ten thousand Northmen were looming over them now. He knew he couldn't hold forever. He just needed to hold long enough.
Roose Bolton rode up to the King's circle, his expression as smooth and pale as a marble statue. He spoke softly, his voice barely a whisper, as he bowed to Robb.
"Your Majesty. I see you have returned from the West. Congratulations on your victory."
The lords nearby were practically vibrating with rage, but Roose didn't seem to notice. He had an excuse for everything. He was ready to talk about "tactical positioning" and "unfortunate maneuvers." He assumed he could talk circles around a sixteen-year-old boy.
Robb looked at Roose, and for the first time, he felt a wave of pure, unfiltered disgust. He saw the "gentle" Lord for what he was: a parasite.
"Lord Bolton," Robb said, his voice cutting through Roose's pleasantries like a blade. "I appreciate the hard work. It's just that there's a new problem. A very 'troublesome' matter that requires your absolute loyalty to solve."
I watched from the edges, and for a second, I saw Roose's eyes flicker. He realized the game had changed. Robb wasn't afraid of him anymore.
"What is the task, Your Majesty?" Roose asked.
Robb pointed toward Ser Kevan's pike formation at the river. "The Lannisters have a rearguard. Five thousand men. I want them broken before the sun rises. Since your Dreadfort men are so 'well-rested' and 'undamaged,' you will lead the first wave. No cavalry support. Just your infantry against their pikes."
The Greatjon let out a loud, bark-like laugh.
Roose Bolton stayed silent for a long time. He'd spent the whole war preserving his men, and now Robb was ordering him to throw them into a meat grinder.
"As you command, Your Majesty," Roose whispered.
I leaned back in my saddle. Robb was finally learning how to use a Skinner.