"A ward!" Greatjon Umber laughed, the sound booming across the valley. "A pity case telling the Lords of the North what to do? I don't care what paper you have, boy. Wars are fought with steel, not ink!"
Rickard Karstark pointed at Bran. "And what about the boy? Lord Eddard's true son is right there. But he's just a child. You expect us to bleed for a kid and a ward?"
Alaric didn't move. He stood in the freezing mud as the wind whipped his cloak.
In the back, Roose Bolton sat perfectly still. His pale eyes watched, but Alaric saw his red aura pulsing. Roose didn't say a word. He just gave a tiny nod to one of his men.
A Dreadfort captain pushed his horse forward, cutting past the Karstark lines. He wore a pink cloak and looked down at Alaric with disgust.
"You heard the lords," the captain spat, his hand on his sword. "You have no name. Go back to the nursery with the little lord."
The captain's eyes moved to Roslin. He didn't know who she was; he just saw a beautiful woman. He gave her a cruel grin. "Leave the girl. You don't need camp followers for war. My men are cold, and she looks like she knows how to keep a bed warm. Hand her over, and maybe we won't skin you."
Roslin went stiff, but she didn't back away.
Alaric didn't reach for his sword. He didn't yell. Instead, a cold smile spread across his face. He looked up at the captain with empty eyes.
"nice," Alaric said softly.
He didn't need to give an order. The Blood Knight on his right stepped forward in a blur. The seven-foot giant drew a jagged, massive greatsword without making a sound.
Before the captain could blink, the heavy blade swung.
SCHLUCK.
The sound of tearing meat and snapping bone echoed through the valley. The knight's blade sliced through the captain's waist, cutting the man completely in half.
For a second, the captain's top half stayed in the air, his face frozen in shock. Then it hit the mud with a wet thud. Blood and guts spilled over the frozen ground. His legs stayed in the saddle for a moment before the terrified horse reared, dumping the rest of him into the muck.
The Blood Knight flicked the blood off his blade and stepped back behind Alaric. He stood perfectly still.
The entire army went silent. Twenty thousand men held their breath.
The Greatjon's hand froze near his sword. Karstark stared in shock. Even Roose Bolton's horse backed away from the blood. Roose's face tightened as he looked at his dead captain.
Alaric didn't look at the body. He kept his cold smile fixed on the lords.
"I wasn't asking," Alaric said, his voice cutting through the silence. "Dismount."
The sound of a hundred swords leaving their scabbards broke the quiet. Behind Roose Bolton, the Dreadfort men drew their steel, their faces pale and angry. Spears leveled at Alaric. The tension in the valley was about to snap.
Roslin let out a shaky breath and stepped behind Alaric's broad back. She gripped his cloak, hiding her eyes from the pile of gore.
Seeing the Bolton men draw their weapons, the twelve thousand Winterfell men behind Alaric moved. They let out a deafening roar. Shields locked together and spears dropped into place. Ser Rodrik drew his sword and stepped in front of Bran, ready to fight.
But the Greatjon and Karstark didn't move. They kept their swords put away, watching the Blood Knights and Alaric. They were brutal men who respected strength, and they were waiting to see if Alaric would blink.
Alaric didn't reach for his sword. He didn't stop smiling.
He took a slow, deliberate step forward. The four giant Blood Knights moved with him, their heavy iron boots shaking the ground.
Greatjon Umber's laughter died. The only sound left was the wet drip-drip of blood falling from the Blood Knight's blade into the slush.
Alaric didn't look at the Greatjon. He didn't look at Karstark. He kept his eyes locked on Roose Bolton.
"Three," Alaric said. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried through the silence like a whetstone on steel.
Roose didn't move. He sat atop his high horse, his pale eyes unblinking, his face a mask of cold indifference. Behind him, the Dreadfort men gripped their spears tighter, knuckles white.
"Two."
Alaric took another step. The four giants behind him moved in perfect unison, their heavy iron boots sinking into the mud with a rhythmic, bone-shaking thud. The air around them seemed to drop ten degrees. The horses of the Bolton vanguard began to whinny and pull at their bits, sensing the kill.
"One."
Alaric stopped. He was just a few feet from Roose's stirrup now. He didn't reach for a weapon. He just stared up at the Lord of the Dreadfort with that same empty smile.
"Get down," Alaric whispered. "Or I'll have them peel you out of that saddle."
The tension was a physical weight. Every man in the valley stayed frozen, fingers hovering over sword hilts. A single cough would have started a massacre.
Roose Bolton looked at the pile of meat that used to be his captain. Then he looked at the seven-foot monsters flanking Alaric. He saw no fear in Alaric's eyes—only a kind of hunger.
Slowly, Roose swung his leg over his horse. His boots hit the mud with a soft splash.
As if a signal had been given, the Greatjon and Rickard Karstark exchanged a quick, grim look. They slid off their mounts, too. One by one, the other lords followed. The clatter of armor and the squelch of boots filling the air as the high-born men of the North stood in the dirt, eye-to-eye with the man they had just called a ward.
Alaric looked around at the circle of scowling lords. He didn't look impressed.
"Better," Alaric said. He turned his back on them—a deliberate insult—and looked at the thousands of soldiers watching. "Now, let's talk about the war."