Chapter 22 — Over the River
The morning was foggy after the rain of the past day, it drifted lazily above the dark water as if reluctant to reveal the day's harsh truths. From my perch on a rise just beyond the construction site, I watched the first beams float downstream, thick oaken logs lashed into rafts, bobbing like giant toys beneath the pale dawn.
The clatter of axes rang out sharply through the cold air, a song of wood and iron, heavy and clear.
Men shouted orders, and children, young boys and girls from the camps, tugged at ropes with eager determination, their laughter carrying over the river. It was a sight that filled me with a fierce kind of pride, the raw power of the North made visible: axes singing, muscles straining, a people united by one purpose.
Crossing that fucking river without paying a copper.
Torrhen Slate stood below, overseeing the construction with a precise hand. His voice cut through the morning like a drill sergeant's, sharp but fair. Nearby, men of Barrowtown spun flax cords into thick lines, while the carpenters of White Harbor marked measurements with meticulous care. Every piece of timber, every nail, every pulley was a testament to Northern grit and resolve. Everything coordinated by my engineering and logistics corps.
Arren is doing a great job heading the logistics corp.
I was barely included in the construction, everything was overseen by my men. I was mostly preoccupied talking to Lords and ladies, making deals and planning our next moves.
The greatest magic of them all, delegation.
And yet, despite the hum of industry and the growing hope in every set jaw, a cold unease lingered in my chest. The Freys had been silent since our defiant decision to build this bridge. Their silence was a weight pressing on my thoughts.
They haven't even deigned to respond to my offer…
Every silence in war is a weight. You never know if it hides a trap.
As if summoned by thought, two figures appeared at the edge of the clearing: Dacey Mormont and Smalljon Umber. The two cut striking figures, Dacey, sharp-eyed and tall for a woman, her smile always reaching her eyes, and Smalljon, towering and boisterous, his laugh loud enough to echo off the distant hills.
"Prince Jon!" Dacey called out, her voice carrying that sharp edge of respect mixed with teasing that always made me grin. "If you wanted to show off your new bridge, this is the best spot! We came just to see if the stories were true."
I ran a hand through my tangled dark hair, shielding my eyes against the rising sun's glare. "Have you both been working on the bridge? You look like you've been run over by the cavalry."
Smalljon laughed, a booming sound that echoed off the trees like distant thunder. "It was hard work! But it is good to see the progress. They will sing about this day from Dorne to the Wall!"
"Maybe you could be the first to cross the bridge, Umber. That would give them something to talk about." I said.
"And get fockin' wet if it crumbles?! Only if you promise me a feast fit for a king once it's done. Or at least a cask of that northern fire, your fancy spirits. I need something to warm these bones."
"The only feast you will get is Greatjon's missing finger to chew on," Dacey quipped with a wicked smirk. "I heard he lost it wrestling the Grey Ghost himself. Those wolves have teeth like iron traps."
I chuckled, shaking my head. "The bridge will stand, Umber. Don't worry about that. But I am sure I won't have to give anything to make you all cross first, turn it into a contest and every lord will go running cock first to the other side."
Smalljon grinned wider, showing teeth like a wolf. "That's the North for you, stubborn as the ancient trees, and twice as hard-headed."
Dacey elbowed Smalljon playfully. "And twice as likely to argue just for the hell of it. A few days ago, you tried to teach those White Harbor lads to drink ale like a true Umber. You ended up on your back by sundown."
"Ha! They just didn't respect a man who drinks from a horn instead of a cup." Smalljon shot back, chest puffed out. "I'll have them all knelt before me before we get to King's Landing."
I laughed with them, the sound ringing free in the cool morning air. For a moment, the weight of war and politics fell away, replaced by the easy camaraderie.
"You two are trouble," I said, narrowing my eyes. "Keep this up and the bridge will build itself just to get away from your noise."
Dacey grinned, eyes sparkling. "And if it does, we'll just build another. Twice as big. Twice as fast. And with twice as many axes singing."
Smalljon lifted his fist high. "To the bridge! And to the stubborn, unbreakable North!"
I raised a hand in a quiet salute. "To the North, and the future we're carving from the very wood beneath our feet."
Together, we turned back to the river where the first beams floated steadily downstream, the sound of axes and laughter mingling with the rush of water, a promise that no wall, no raised bridge, could hold us back for long.
The camp was stirring as I walked its muddy paths, the smell of damp earth and wood smoke thick in the cool morning air.
The ground beneath my boots was churned soft by weeks of rain and constant activity, the mud clinging stubbornly to leather and cloth. Around me, men busied themselves with the routine tasks that formed the backbone of any army: sharpening blades against whetstones, mending cracked leather straps, hauling heavy timber and sacks of nails to where the work was needed most. The clang of hammer on nail echoed alongside grunts and shouted orders, a relentless cadence marking the day's labor. Every sound was a note in a growing symphony of industry and war.
I had decided to walk the camp a bit before going to Robb's tent, feel the mood of the soldiers for myself, talk to a few of them. They needed to see I was just one more of them.
I paused beside a group of laborers unloading supplies from a creaking wagon, barrels of tar, bundles of rope thick as a man's arm, stacks of freshly hewn planks. The men were coated in sawdust and sweat; faces etched with fatigue but brightened by grim determination.
One of the younger lads caught my eye and gave a tired, knowing smile. "We'll have this bridge standing before the Freys even realize what we're doing, Prin— Lord Stark!" he said quietly, voice loud enough that it made the men near him cheer.
Further on, I stopped near the Tallhart encampment. The men stationed here moved with the steady, practiced rhythm of hardened soldiers. Before long I was back at the part of the camp designated for the newly renamed Prince's Swords.
Hopefully soon enough to be the King's Swords.
The captain of the Engineering Corp approached me, a broad-shouldered man with eyes like chipped flint, sharp and unyielding.
"Your Grace," Thorren said curtly, voice rough like gravel. "Progress is steady, but the men grow restless. The Freys will not sit idle while we build this affront under their noses. They'll strike when we least expect it, sabotage, raids, poison, any dirty trick the fuckers can muster."
I nodded slowly, absorbing the tension behind his words. "And what do you recommend? For the men's ease of mind."
"Keep patrols sharp. Double the guards around the work crews. If the Freys make a move, we'll be ready to meet them head-on."
"I will see it done, Captain. You will get your protection. For now I must go " I replied.
Satisfied Thorren Slate went back to his duties.
I turned toward the Manderly camp near the riverbank. The difference was immediate. Where the Tallharts were grim and silent, the Manderlys were boisterous, talkative, and ever eager to engage in politics and trade.
Their tents fluttered with banners, and their men laughed loud enough to carry across the water. Ser Wendel Manderly, a broad man with a ruddy complexion and a perpetual twinkle in his eye, stepped forward, wiping sweat from his brow and clasping my shoulder with a hearty grip.
"Ser Wendel. How are things going?"
"Prince Daemon," he said, voice full of both pride and calculation, "the bridge is an opportunity beyond battle. Trade routes, tariffs, new markets... The Freys think they hold all the cards, but the North has more to offer than steel and wood. When this war is done, we'll be the ones holding the future."
I allowed myself a brief smile, appreciating the man's keen mind behind his jovial manner. "A sharp mind, Ser Wendel. I hope you'll put those talents to good use once the fighting is behind us."
He grinned, eyes bright. "When the time comes, I'll make sure every northern coin finds its way home, and that the Freys pay dearly for every silver they think they've earned."
"That they will, Ser. That they will…"
As I moved on, the faint clink of armor announced Ser Cort's approach. His presence was steady, grounding, his armor worn but meticulously cared for. He fell into step beside me, his gaze drifting to the horizon where cranes and pulleys lifted heavy beams into place.
"How fares the bridge?" he asked, voice low, almost cautious.
"Steady," I replied, eyes fixed on the busy scene before us. "But steady can't lull us into complacency. I want you to double patrols. And prepare some small boats to defend the other side of the river. If the Freys dare send anyone to undo our work, we'll answer in kind, and harder."
Ser Cort nodded solemnly. "Sabotage is their weapon of choice, my Prince. They'll look for weaknesses, slip in under cover of darkness. We'll double the guards tonight, set watches in shifts."
I sighed. The work before us was the threshold into a new chapter of our war.
I could only hope the Frey did not do anything stupid. We could use those thousands of men they provided.
Even if it was just for canon fodder.
The canvas walls of Robb's tent did little to keep out the chill creeping in from the river. Maps were spread over the rough-hewn table, stained with ink and smudged from countless hands. Flickering candlelight cast long shadows on the faces gathered around, Robb, Roose Bolton, Lord Cerwyn, Maege Mormont, Lord Tallhart, and myself.
Robb's eyes burned with a restless fire, his frustration barely contained. He slammed his fist on the table, making the scattered papers jump.
"They think it can't be done," he spat, voice thick with bitterness. "Half the North's workforce is building that damn bridge, and still, not a word from the Freys. They're convinced we'll fail."
Roose Bolton's voice cut through the noise, calm, cold, calculating.
"Or," he said slowly, "they wait to strike once it is done. Timing is their weapon. They'll come when we're most vulnerable during the crossing."
The room quieted. Even Robb, who had been ready to march to war at a moment's notice, regarded Roose with a hint of caution. I could feel the unspoken tension, Roose's reputation, his icy demeanor, the way his eyes seemed to miss nothing.
I cleared my throat, stepping into the center of the council's focus.
"We cannot afford overconfidence," I said evenly. "The bridge is halfway done, yes. But the Freys are unpredictable. We've seen no parley, no word, only silence after our... generous offer," That got some laughs out of them. "It could mean anything, but more likely Lord Bolton is right, it's a trap."
Robb's jaw tightened, but he nodded reluctantly.
"We need more eyes in the dark," I continued. "I have ordered my men to increase patrols along the river at night. Double watches. No worker moves without escort. And the engineers, keep them ready to respond to fire or sabotage at a moment's notice. I would appreciate if you all answered in kind, my Lords... And Lady."
Maege Mormont spoke up, her voice strong and unwavering.
"The wolves of the North don't cower in shadows. If the Freys think to catch us unprepared, they'll find more than they bargained for. I will grow my patrols too."
Lord Cerwyn added, "And if they strike, we'll show them the cost of betrayal, you have my swords Prince Jon."
I glanced at Roose as Cerwyn spoke. His face was impassive, unreadable. I weighed his presence carefully, Roose was a valuable strategist, ruthless when needed, but his loyalty was a blade that could cut both ways. I had learned to keep my distance, even as I used his talents.
We needed his men right now, just like we needed the Freys. But every moment he was beside us was another moment he could betray us. I had hoped that my actions would have saved his trueborn son Domeric, but it seemed destiny was against me.
I had no illusions about him; his ambition and cunning made him as dangerous to friends as to foes. Yet, despite every warning ringing in my mind, I couldn't afford to cast him aside. His men were battle-hardened, and numerous. In a war where every sword counted, Roose was a knife I needed close, even if the blade might one day turn against me.
Trust was a luxury I couldn't give, but leverage was a necessity I had to wield with care.
"I will send some of my men on patrol too, Lord Stark." Bolton finally added.
The difference in the tittles people gave me was a bit jarring. Jon, Daemon, Prince, Lord, Stark, Your Grace. No one knew what to choose it seemed.
A brief silence settled over us, the only sound the low crackling of the fire.
"Jon," he said, voice low, "what's your counsel? We cannot wait forever."
I met his eyes steadily.
"We hold the line, and we finish the bridge. But we prepare for every outcome. If they attack, we attack. If they don't we negotiate after the bridge is over. If the Freys refuse to come to us in parley even after they see us cross, we find another way to force their hand. Or just fortify the bridge and move on without them"
The room seemed to shift, the tension momentarily easing as each lord and commander digested the plan.
As the council broke, I lingered, thoughts heavy.
Roose's gaze met mine briefly. There was no warmth there, only a cold calculation I could never fully trust.
But for now, that mattered little.
The firelight flickered against the darkening sky as we settled by the riverbank. The air was thick with the scent of pine and wet earth, the gentle murmur of the Green Fork flowing just beyond our feet. Dacey Mormont, Smalljon Umber, Harrion Karstark and I shared a modest ration of ale, the taste sharp and warm in the chill evening.
I haven't seen Arren in three days, the Logistics Corp was working hard to keep the bridge building day and night.
For a moment, the war seemed distant. Our laughter echoed lightly through the camp as we swapped stories, old tales told and retold by northern hearths. Dacey's sharp wit cut through the shadows like a blade as she recounted a particularly absurd story about the Freys' notorious inbreeding.
"House Frey's so tangled up in themselves," she said with a grin, "I swear their family tree looks more like a knot than a tree."
Smalljon bellowed with laughter, slapping his knee. "Aye, and the politics, don't get me started. Freys scheming against Freys, like dogs fighting over the last bone. Might be why their bridges always stand; their big heads hold it up!"
I chuckled, shaking my head as the flames crackled beside us. "Seems the only thing stronger than their bridge is the family grudges that tear them apart."
That drew a grin from Dacey, who sipped from her flask and passed it my way. "Aye, the Freys hold grudges like they hold wine, tight-fisted, and with far too many mouths at the table."
"If they can even fit in their hall that is." Harrion added.
Smalljon's voice dropped lower, more thoughtful. He leaned in slightly, his broad frame casting long shadows against the firelight. "There are old songs I heard from the folk here," he said, almost in a hush. "About the river, about the Black Fish, and curses laid on those who cross without paying the toll in blood."
"You mean you heard it in the brothel in the little hamlet down the river…" Harrion muttered.
I raised an eyebrow, passing the flask back. "The Blackfish? I assume you're not talking about Ser Brynden Tully. Some spirit?"
Smalljon shrugged, his shoulders rising like the hills of the North. "Maybe. Or something older. Older than the Twins, older than the Freys. Something that watches the river. They say it remembers every wrong done on its banks, and it's not kind to those who cross with false hearts or bloody hands."
"It's just a fucking children tale, Umber." Harrion said. "The whore just wanted to distract you to steal your purse probably."
"The people are allowed their stories," I said, voice calm. "Doesn't mean they're true."
He grumbled in that way of his, somewhere between amusement and suspicion. "We mock the old tales right up until we're neck-deep in them."
Dacey snorted, jabbing her elbow lightly into my ribs. "Sounds like horseshite to me. You, half wolf, half dragon, what do you think of that? Would you go catch a lady one of this black fish?"
I turned to her with a crooked smile, raising an eyebrow. "For the right lady? I'd wade waist-deep into cursed waters and wrestle the bloody thing bare-handed."
She laughed, tilting her head toward me. "Would you now? I'd pay silver to see that. And gold to see you come out soaked and sulking after you failed."
"Oh, I don't let slippery things get away that easy," I said, my voice low, teasing. "Especially not the ones worth catching."
Her eyes glinted in the firelight, amused, curious. She didn't look away. "Careful, my prince. You'll have the whole camp thinking you fancy a spear-maiden."
I shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Uff. I can't have them thinking I've no taste at all. Royalty has high standards, you know?"
She chuckled again and grabbed her hammer. "I've broken bones for words like that."
Smalljon, oblivious or pretending to be, let out a belch that shattered the moment. "Gods save me from your courtly flirting. I'd rather bed the Black Fish than listen to more of this."
"I saw that whore you bedded, Umber. This spirit of yours is surely prettier." Harrion laughed.
Dacey barked a laugh, but her gaze flicked back to me for just a second longer, thoughtful.
A comfortable silence settled for a time. The kind of silence that speaks of trust. Of friendship building. The fire popped and cracked, casting sparks upward like stars in the night.
I looked toward the dark riverbank, just visible beyond the tents and trees. The water moved slow and steady, but deep. I could see the bridge half finished from here, the planks had already been nailed a quarter of the way through.
But then, a sharp shout broke through the calm, coming from downstream.
All three of us snapped to attention, eyes darting toward the river's bend. Movement, figures crossing the water's edge, too many to be simple fishermen or traders. Ghost growled in my mind, he always knew when there was something afoot.
I stood slowly, the weight of the moment settling back like a stone in my chest. "Trouble," I muttered, already reaching for my sword.
Dacey and Smalljon rose with me, the easy laughter vanishing as the night drew in a new shadow. Across the river, unseen eyes were watching. And whatever was coming, it meant that the Freys had finally decided to speak.
"Karstark, go seek help. Tell Cort I want a squad of my men here."
"Yes, I will bring some Karstarks too."
Ten minutes later we were riding towards the bank of the river. Dacey rode just ahead, torchlight glinting off her mail. Smalljon followed close, unusually quiet. Ser Cort flanked me, his hand never straying far from the hilt of his sword. Behind us came fifty mounted soldiers and silent veterans of the Battle of the Whale, Ser Myles among them.
We reached the low rise that overlooked the river bend, the place where the current narrowed briefly before widening again just south of the unfinished bridge. That's when I saw them.
A shadowed line stood still on the far bank. Five, maybe six men. Cloaks heavy and dark, horses snorting softly in the grass. Freys.
Their torches were unlit, but their silhouettes were clear, framed against the mist curling up from the water. They were close enough to see the how the support pilons stretched from our side to theirs almost.
We halted. Tense silence held between the banks.
The largest of them stepped forward slightly and cupped his hands around his mouth. "What's this, then?" he called. "Building toys out of driftwood, are you?"
His voice was high and sneering, carrying across the river in the wind. The others chuckled; all forced amusement and no mirth.
"Didn't your mothers tell you boys not to play in the water?" he added, louder. "The current's hungry. It'll take your pretty dreams with the next rain."
I could feel the stillness harden around us. Ser Cort said nothing, but his jaw tightened. Dacey looked to me, her expression calm but sharp.
I took a step forward, letting my voice carry cleanly, every word deliberate.
"Walder Frey sends boys to do a man's work. But I suppose that's all he has left, bastards, cowards, and grandchildren bred like pigs in a pen. The man's house has more names than it has honor."
A few of the men chuckled darkly. Smalljon barked a laugh.
"Old Walder's probably too busy counting his daughters' teeth and measuring dowries to care," I continued, voice dripping ice. "And he'll keep hiding behind those stone walls, praying someone else bleeds in his stead. That's no lord, it's a bloated tick, clinging to the Twins until someone crushes it flat."
I turned toward the bridge, where the first beams were beginning to span the water. "Go tell your Lord that if he tries something funny, he will have thirty thousand northmen knocking at his gates!"
That quieted them. One of the Freys shifted in his saddle, uncertain. Another spat into the water and muttered something I didn't catch.
Smalljon snorted. "They're nervous," he said, low and steady. "That's the way of the little rats. Squeak loud when they think someone's watching."
"Or they're stalling," Dacey added, frowning. "Trying to goad us into rushing. Into making a mistake."
I didn't answer right away. My eyes were fixed across the river, but my thoughts moved faster than the current. Scouts wouldn't come this close just to mock us. No, this was a test. A measure. They were trying to read us. Trying to see if the North would blink.
We can't allow the Freys to control the other side of the river, it would be hard to finish the bridge under volleys of arrows…
"I want a hundred men at the other side, Cort." I said, quietly but firmly. "Make it two hundred. Protect the bridge from the other side. If the far bank is clear, we take it and hold it."
Ser Cort inclined his head, eyes already scanning the darkened tree line beyond the far bank. "The boats you ordered are ready, I will send our best to fortify the other side. They'll have pickets watching the ford," he said. "Maybe archers in the trees. You want me to send our own bows ahead first?"
"Yes," I replied, without hesitation. "Tell the crossbowmen to fan out along the trees. If they draw fire, they fall back. But if the Freys want to test us… let's give them a reason to remember why the North is feared as invincible."
With some luck I would be adding to that legend.
The men behind us stirred, officers stepping into motion, quiet words passing down the line like a current through cold steel.
I turned my gaze back to the far shore.
The Freys were still there, barely visible through the low river mist, their pale grey surcoats mottled by damp and distance. One of them leaned forward in his saddle, raising a hand in a slow, mocking gesture, two fingers parted, tongue pushed between them. Crude. Childish. And calculated.
He turned his horse, showing me his back like a dare, and rode off into the trees. The others followed, their mounts kicking up shallow sprays of riverbank mud as they disappeared into the gloom, vanishing like vermin into the underbrush.
Beside me, Smalljon spat into the river. "Fockin' cowards," he muttered. "They'll skulk and piss in the bushes 'til someone else dies first. That's the Frey way."
"Maybe," I said. "But never mistake cowardice for weakness. They'd poison the well if it meant denying us a drink."
Ser Cort adjusted his bracers, jaw set tight. "If they plan a trap, we'll sniff it out, my prince. The Reeds know how to stalk through woods in the dark better than most."
"Myles! Tell Lord Howland to get his… Special unit to scout the other side." I said.
"Yes, my prince!" Myles turned his horse and went back toward the camp.
I stared at the place where the Freys had vanished. Time was no longer our ally. If we hesitated, they'd send word to the Twins, maybe even to Harrenhal where Tywin was surely holed up.
We had one chance to take the riverbank, to anchor this bridge in enemy soil. If we failed, the whole crossing would be vulnerable. Every log, every rope, every man working by day would be a target.
But if we succeeded…
"If Howland and our men clear the other side, signal at once," I told Ser Cort. "And send word to Captain Slate. If we get the bank, I want the first timber brace sunk by dawn. No delays."
He saluted. "It'll be done."
As he mounted and rode off, Ghost pressed against my leg, nose twitching toward the river again. Somewhere beyond it, our enemy waited, silent, watching, uncertain.
Not for long.
"Come on, then," I murmured, eyes fixed on the darkness ahead. "Let's see who blinks first."