The Crossing camp.
The army returned to camp, each man carrying his own thoughts and worries.
On one side, Edmure began preparing for the journey to the Twins.
On the other, Roose made his way toward the Ironborn encampment.
Unlike the soldiers of the Riverlands and the North, the Ironborn had only recently invaded the North.
Their camp had been placed on the outer edge of the army and was under constant surveillance.
It seemed that if the Ironborn made even the slightest suspicious move, they would be slaughtered on the spot.
Since the previous night, Rodrik and his men had even found their movements restricted.
When Rodrik heard that Roose had arrived, he immediately pushed aside the tent flap and strode out to meet him.
"Lord Bolton," he said angrily, "are you planning to break the alliance and kill us?"
A fire of irritation burned in his chest.
If not for Galon's instructions, he would have abandoned this entire affair and sailed away long ago.
"Captain Harlaw."
Roose gave a subtle glance to the northern guards watching the Ironborn, signaling them to leave.
Only after they had disappeared did he continue.
"That is precisely why I've come."
"We need to talk."
Rodrik's eyes narrowed slightly, as though something had occurred to him.
After studying Bolton for a moment, he said,
"Come with me."
Without another word, he turned and headed back into his tent. Roose followed him through the hostile stares of the Ironborn and entered.
The moment they were inside, Roose wasted no time.
"Captain Harlaw, I believe you've already guessed. Yes. Our king, Robb Stark, was killed by Stannis's sorcery."
"The future of the North will now belong to someone new."
After weeks of probing and observation, Roose had become convinced that the alliance between Winterfell and the Iron Islands was nowhere near as solid as it appeared.
The relationship existed only out of necessity.
Both internally and externally, opposition surrounded it.
Most importantly, he had learned from Patrek Frey that Harlaw deeply resented Galon Glover for storming Pyke.
Now he fixed his gaze upon Rodrik and made his final test.
"I think the Iron Islands should consider choosing a future with greater prospects."
Rodrik widened his eyes in apparent shock. Yet beneath the performance, a flash of greed appeared.
Roose noticed it immediately.
His voice grew lower and more persuasive.
"Captain Harlaw, after spending so much time together, I think we've reached a certain understanding.
The northern army is now under my control. I believe I have the authority to continue our cooperation.
And I promise you this... Whatever the Starks can offer, I can offer more."
The greed in Rodrik's eyes seemed to intensify.
"Oh? That boy Glover may be insufferable, but he did give Asha a crown."
What about you, Lord Bolton? What can you give us?"
"Land."
Roose answered without hesitation.
"When everything is finished, Sea Dragon Point and the Stony Shore can belong to the Iron Islands.
They are rich in timber for building warships.
And I give you my word. When the time comes, I will help you deal with Galon Glover."
Rodrik visibly stiffened.
Even his breathing grew heavier.
"Sea Dragon Point and the Stony Shore? Would Winterfell really allow that? Lord Bolton, surely you aren't deceiving me?"
Roose's pale face remained unreadable.
"Winterfell may not be willing... But House Bolton is. If we cooperate, the future North will answer to me."
Silence settled over the tent.
As Rodrik lowered his head in thought, Roose watched him with faint contempt.
Of course, he had no intention of handing northern territory to the Ironborn.
It had nothing to do with willingness.
If House Bolton seized Winterfell and immediately surrendered northern lands, every lord in the North—including Bolton's own allies—would view him as a traitor to northern interests.
Such a man could never hold the position of Warden of the North.
These promises were nothing more than bait.
Rodrik understood that perfectly well. Yet remembering Galon's instructions, he deliberately appeared conflicted.
Finally, he extended a hand.
"Agreed?"
Roose clasped it firmly.
"Agreed."
The two men exchanged knowing smiles.
They spent the next hour discussing details of future cooperation.
Only after confirming that Harlaw and the Ironborn would accompany the army to the Twins did Roose finally leave the camp.
Not long afterward, Edmure completed preparations for the march.
"Lady Mormont, Lord Cerwyn, Lord Tallhart..."
Roose surveyed the gathered Stark loyalists.
With practiced ease, he pushed them into a position from which retreat would be impossible.
"Please ensure that the bodies of King Robb and Rickon Stark are properly protected.
You are the bravest warriors of the North. The men House Stark trusted most.
You must hold the Crossing camp and await Lord Glover's arrival.
Once I escort Lord Edmure safely to the Twins, I shall return immediately."
The speech worked perfectly.
Even the cautious men of White Harbor, despite their fear of Stannis's sorcery, swore to protect the bodies of the Starks with their lives.
Edmure, however, felt only sorrow.
He had no desire to continue speaking. Mounting his horse, he rode west along the Kingsroad toward the Twins.
At Roose Bolton's command, roughly five thousand troops departed with him.
More than ten thousand remained behind at the Crossing camp.
Two days later, news of the split reached Harrenhal.
...
Harrenhal.
Even beneath the midday sun, the cursed giant fortress radiated a cold gloom from its black stone walls.
Above the towering Kingspyre Tower, a crimson banner bearing the golden lion of House Lannister fluttered lazily in the wind.
Kevan Lannister stood atop the tower platform, overlooking the camp below.
His brow was furrowed.
His face, bearing more than a passing resemblance to his brother Tywin, was filled with frustration.
Directly below him stood five thousand soldiers from the Westerlands.
Their ranks were orderly. Their armor gleamed in the sunlight. They represented the true pride of House Lannister.
The other half of the camp presented a very different sight.
More than six thousand sellswords filled the area. Mercenaries from across the Narrow Sea.
They drank, gambled, shouted, and brawled.
Their camp was a mess of disorder. The air stank of cheap ale and sweat.
These men fought only for gold.
Not banners.
Not honor.
Kevan looked upon them with open disdain. To him, they were little more than rabble.
Yet he had no choice.
Part of the western army remained in the Westerlands. Another part protected King's Landing.
The five thousand western soldiers under his command were the limit of what Tywin could spare.
To challenge the northern alliance, he needed these mercenaries.
"My lord." A guard approached. "We have a visitor from the north."
Kevan's eyes sharpened instantly. "Bring him. And make sure no one else sees him."
The guard nodded and departed.
A short while later, a messenger dressed as a peasant appeared behind him and bowed respectfully.
"Good day, Lord Lannister."
Kevan turned and carefully examined the man. "What does your master want?"
Without speaking, the messenger produced a letter.
Kevan accepted it.
The seal immediately caught his attention.
A red flayed man.
House Bolton.
His gaze sharpened. Opening the letter, he read:
"Stark has been murdered by Stannis's sorcery.
Under the pretext of Edmure's wedding, I will lure the remaining Stark loyalists to the Twins.
By command of the Lord Paramount, I shall fulfill my task.
To ensure success, I request that you attack and eliminate the stubborn northern loyalists remaining at the Crossing.
Once this is accomplished, the North shall return to the rule of the Iron Throne."
Kevan reread the letter several times. Then carefully folded it and tucked it inside his coat.
He intended to send it to King's Landing.
Still, he found the contents difficult to believe.
Robb Stark...
Dead?
The Young Wolf who had defeated him and his nephew multiple times?
The northern boy who had humiliated House Lannister? Gone? Killed by Stannis's sorcery?
Eventually, Kevan forced himself to focus.
Looking at the messenger, he nodded. "I understand. Tell your master that I will act soon."
The messenger bowed and departed.
After he left, Kevan summoned several guards and gave quiet instructions. Then he returned to considering every word of the letter.
'Roose Bolton... Can he be trusted?'
His thoughts drifted back to discussions in the small council.
Tywin had spoken of Bolton before.
Lord of the Dreadfort. A man famous for cold calculation and ruthless ambition.
'Tywin said he was someone who could be won over. It seems he was right.'
'Bolton's plan is efficient... And vicious.'
Destroy the Stark loyalists left behind. Then eliminate the new leadership at the wedding.
It was, without question, the cheapest and most effective way to solve the northern problem.
And yet Kevan hesitated.
The risk was enormous.
If it was a trap... If Bolton intended to lure him into an attack and then strike from both sides...
This patchwork army could be destroyed.
He paced across the tower, weighing every possibility. On one side stood glory and success.
On the other, disaster.
Then he thought of Tywin.
'As long as Tywin has already reached an agreement with Bolton, he must have his reasons.'
'Tywin never acts without preparation.'
'My duty is to execute his plans. Not question them.'
That settled it.
As he had done countless times before, Kevan chose to trust his brother's judgment.
Hear Me Roar.
The Lannister words echoed in his mind.
His eyes hardened.
Descending the tower, he returned to his command tent and immediately summoned his officers.
"My orders are simple."
His voice rang with authority.
"Break camp."
"Our destination is the Crossing camp fifteen miles to the north. We will send those northerners to hell before they know what is happening."
The camp exploded into activity.
The western soldiers moved with practiced efficiency.
The mercenaries complained loudly, but gold and threats from their captains soon got them moving.
Kevan watched it all with cold satisfaction.
He disliked sellswords.
But that did not prevent him from using them to absorb arrows and die in place of his own men.
As the Lannister host poured out of Harrenhal and marched northward, two sharp eyes watched from the ruins of a burned-out house nearby.
"They're moving, ser."
Hugh Hill spoke quietly to the man beside him.
Barristan Selmy nodded.
Age had weathered his face, but his eyes remained as sharp as ever.
"Prince Gendry never appeared at Harrenhal. I suspect he's still hiding somewhere in the Crownlands."
"We'll return to the place where we found the tracks and search again."
Hugh's exhausted face showed his weariness.
Still, he nodded.
"Agreed. We'll find the prince."
The two men slipped away unnoticed and continued their search along the shores of the Gods Eye.
...
Two days later, on the Red Fork.
A gentle wind swept across the plains near the Trident, causing the silver fist banner on a red field to snap proudly in the breeze.
Galon stood at the prow of his ship, staring across the sparkling waters.
A powerful sense of unease churned within him.
"How much farther to the Crossing?"
He turned toward one of the Riverlands sailors steering the vessel.
The man bowed respectfully.
"Lord Glover, with favorable winds, we might arrive tomorrow morning. At the latest, tomorrow afternoon."
Galon nodded.
"Send orders to every ship behind us."
"Increase speed. I want to reach the Crossing as quickly as possible."
"Yes, my lord."
The sailor hurried off to relay the command.
After he left, Sparta, standing nearby, spoke up. "What is it, my lord?"
Galon frowned.
"I don't know."
"...I just have a very bad feeling."
He offered no further explanation. Instead, he stared northeast...Toward the Crossing camp.
"Sparta. Double the watches tonight."
"At once."
Without hesitation, Sparta departed to carry out the order.
Galon remained alone at the bow.
Unaware that a great battle was about to begin. Unaware that he stood only a single step away from truly taking control of the North.
One more step.
And from that moment forward, the fish would enter the sea. The bird would soar into the skies.
Never again to be bound by chains.
The waters of the Red Fork rolled onward, carrying Galon toward the battlefield waiting ahead.
__________
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