CHAPTER 183
The Trident Crossings Camp.
The army returned to camp, each man carrying different thoughts.
On one side, Edmure Tully began making preparations for the journey to the Twins.
On the other, Roose Bolton had already made his way toward the Ironborn encampment.
Unlike the Northmen and Riverlords, the Ironborn, having only recently invaded the North, had been placed on the outer edge of the camp.
Northern guards watched them day and night.
The atmosphere was so tense that even the slightest suspicious movement could have resulted in bloodshed.
Since the previous night, Lord Rodrik Harlaw and his men had even found their movements restricted.
At that moment, Rodrik received word that Roose Bolton had arrived.
Without delay, he pushed aside the tent flap and strode forward.
"Lord Bolton."
His voice carried open anger.
"Do you intend to abandon the alliance and slaughter us?"
Rage burned within him.
Had it not been for Garon Glover's instructions before leaving Riverrun, he would have withdrawn his men long ago.
"Lord Harlaw."
Roose calmly glanced toward the Northern guards surrounding the camp.
He motioned for them to withdraw.
Only after they had disappeared from sight did he continue.
"I've come precisely to discuss this matter."
Rodrik's eyes flickered.
Pretending to hesitate for a moment, he nodded.
"Come inside."
Turning around, he returned to his pavilion.
Roose followed him through the ranks of hostile Ironborn.
The moment they entered the tent, Roose spoke directly.
"I believe you've already guessed what has happened."
"King Robb Stark was killed by Stannis Baratheon's shadow sorcery."
"The North will soon belong to new rulers."
After days of careful probing, Roose had become convinced that the alliance between Queen Asha Greyjoy and the North was built entirely upon mutual necessity.
Neither side truly trusted the other.
There were opponents to the alliance within both camps.
Most importantly, Petyr Frey had previously told him that Lord Rodrik Harlaw deeply resented Garon for conquering Pyke before placing Queen Asha upon the Seastone Chair.
Looking directly at Rodrik, Roose made one final attempt.
"I believe the Iron Islands should choose a more promising future."
Rodrik deliberately widened his eyes.
Then, after only a brief moment, unmistakable greed appeared upon his face.
Roose immediately seized the opportunity.
"Lord Harlaw."
"After everything that's happened..."
"I believe we've reached an understanding."
"The Northern army is now under my command."
"I can continue the alliance in place of House Stark."
"And I promise you this."
"Whatever House Stark offered the Iron Islands..."
"I'll offer even more."
The greed in Rodrik's eyes appeared to deepen.
"Oh?"
"Garon may be insufferable..."
"But he gave Queen Asha her crown."
"What can House Bolton offer us?"
"Land."
Roose answered without hesitation.
"When everything is finished..."
"Sea Dragon Point."
"And Stony Shore."
"Both can become yours."
"They're rich in timber for building fleets."
"And when the time comes..."
"I'll personally help you remove Garon Glover."
Rodrik appeared visibly shaken.
Even his breathing seemed heavier.
"Sea Dragon Point?"
"Stony Shore?"
"Would Winterfell truly allow such a thing?"
"Lord Bolton..."
"You aren't deceiving me?"
Roose's pale expression never changed.
"Winterfell wouldn't."
"But House Bolton will."
"As long as we cooperate..."
"The North will belong to me."
Silence filled the tent.
Roose quietly observed Rodrik.
Deep inside, he felt nothing but contempt.
Naturally, he never intended to surrender Northern land.
If House Bolton replaced House Stark and immediately handed territory to the Ironborn, every Northern lord would condemn him as a traitor.
Such a ruler could never securely hold the title of Warden of the North.
Everything he had said was merely intended to keep the Ironborn cooperative a little longer.
Rodrik understood this perfectly.
Yet remembering Garon's earlier instructions, he deliberately wore a conflicted expression.
Finally, he extended his hand.
"Then we have an agreement?"
Roose firmly grasped it.
"We have an agreement."
The two men exchanged meaningful smiles.
Over the next hour, they discussed the details of their future cooperation.
Only after Roose became convinced that Rodrik would lead the Ironborn to the Twins did he finally depart the camp.
Not long afterward, Edmure completed preparations for the march.
Roose immediately began addressing the remaining commanders.
"Lady Mormont."
"Lord Cerwyn."
"Lord Tallhart."
"Lords of White Harbor."
"You've always been among King Robb's most trusted supporters."
"I entrust His Grace's body and Prince Rickon's remains to your protection."
"You must hold the Trident crossings until Lord Garon arrives."
"I'll escort Lord Edmure safely to the Twins."
"Once the wedding is concluded..."
"I'll return immediately."
Even the cautious men of White Harbor, despite fearing Stannis's shadow sorcery, accepted the duty without hesitation.
For the sake of House Stark's honour, they were prepared to die if necessary.
Edmure watched them with deep sorrow.
He lacked both the heart and the strength to continue speaking.
Silently, he mounted his horse and led the column west toward the Twins.
Behind him marched nearly five thousand soldiers under Roose Bolton's command.
The remaining force stayed behind at the Trident crossings under the command of the Northern lords.
Two days later, word of these developments reached Harrenhal.
Harrenhal.
Even beneath the midday sun, the greatest castle in Westeros still seemed cursed.
Its blackened stones radiated an oppressive chill.
Above Kingspyre Tower, the crimson lion banner of House Lannister fluttered lazily in the wind.
Ser Kevan Lannister stood atop the tower, overlooking the vast encampment below.
His brow remained tightly furrowed.
His stern features, so similar to Lord Tywin's, reflected constant irritation.
Directly below him stood five thousand disciplined Westermen.
Their armour gleamed brilliantly beneath the sun.
Their formations were orderly.
They were the pride of House Lannister.
Farther away stood another camp.
There, more than six thousand sellswords from across the Narrow Sea drank, gambled, argued, and shouted.
Their tents were disorganised.
The smell of stale ale and sweat drifted through the air.
These men served only gold.
They cared nothing for banners or honour.
Kevan regarded them with obvious disdain.
To him, such rabble disgraced the lion banner.
Unfortunately, he had little choice.
Part of the Westerlands army remained home defending the Westerlands.
Another large force still guarded King's Landing.
Five thousand loyal Westermen were all Tywin could presently spare.
If he wished to confront the Northern alliance, these mercenaries would have to serve beside them.
"My lord."
A guard quietly approached.
"A messenger from the North has arrived."
Kevan's eyes immediately sharpened.
"Bring him."
"And ensure no one else sees him."
The guard bowed before leaving.
Soon afterward, a plainly dressed messenger entered the tower.
Dressed like an ordinary farmer, he respectfully bowed.
"My lord."
Kevan carefully studied him.
"What message does your master send?"
Without speaking further, the messenger removed a sealed letter from inside his clothing.
Kevan accepted it.
The seal bore the flayed man of House Bolton.
His eyes narrowed immediately.
Breaking the seal, he carefully read the contents.
"King Robb Stark is dead."
"The remaining Stark loyalists will be held near the Trident while Lord Edmure travels to the Twins."
"I respectfully request that Ser Kevan strike swiftly and destroy those loyalists."
"Once this succeeds..."
"The North will return beneath the Iron Throne."
Kevan silently reread the letter several times.
Only then did he fold it carefully before placing it inside his cloak.
For a long moment, he remained motionless.
Robb Stark...
Dead?
The Young Wolf who had repeatedly humiliated both himself and Ser Jaime upon the battlefield...
Gone?
Killed by Stannis Baratheon's shadow sorcery?
Gradually, Kevan regained his composure.
He looked toward the messenger.
"Return."
"Tell your lord..."
"I'll move very soon."
The messenger bowed before quietly departing the tower.
Once alone, Kevan slowly began considering every sentence within the letter.
"Roose Bolton."
"Can he truly be trusted?"
He remembered an earlier Small Council discussion.
Tywin himself had spoken highly of the Lord of the Dreadfort.
A patient.
Ruthless.
Dangerous man.
"Tywin believed Bolton could be won."
"Everything suggests he was correct."
"His plan is cruel..."
"But effective."
Destroy the remaining Stark loyalists first.
Then eliminate the new leadership during the wedding feast.
It truly was the most efficient way to break the North.
Even so...
Kevan hesitated.
If this were a trap...
If Bolton intended to lure him toward the Trident only for the Northern army to surround him...
His own force might be destroyed.
He slowly paced across the tower.
Ambition struggled against caution.
Finally, he thought of his elder brother.
"Tywin never acts without preparation."
"If he's already reached an understanding with Bolton..."
"Then safeguards must already exist."
"My duty isn't to question."
"It's to carry out his commands."
That single thought settled his doubts.
Hear Me Roar.
The words of House Lannister echoed through his mind.
His eyes immediately hardened.
Descending from Kingspyre Tower, Kevan returned to his command pavilion.
Without delay, he summoned every captain.
"My orders."
"The army marches immediately."
"Our destination..."
"The Trident crossings."
"We'll destroy the remaining Stark loyalists before they have time to prepare."
The camp instantly sprang into motion.
The disciplined Westermen efficiently packed their equipment.
The sellswords grumbled loudly.
Only the crack of their captains' whips and the promise of gold finally forced them into formation.
Watching everything unfold, Kevan allowed himself a faint smile.
He despised these mercenaries.
That did not prevent him from using them as the first wave to exhaust Northern arrows and strength.
Soon afterward, the Lannister host poured out of Harrenhal like a crimson tide, marching north.
Unbeknownst to them, two pairs of watchful eyes observed everything from the ruins of a nearby village.
"They've begun marching, Ser Barristan."
Ser Barristan Selmy quietly nodded.
Despite his age, the legendary knight's eyes remained as sharp as ever.
"We still haven't found Prince Gendry."
"I believe he remains somewhere near the Crownlands."
"We'll continue searching where we found the last tracks."
Holman nodded tiredly.
"Understood."
"We'll leave immediately."
The two disappeared quietly toward the shores of the Gods Eye.
Two days later.
The waters of the Red Fork shimmered beneath the afternoon sun.
A cool breeze carried the banners of House Glover above the small flotilla.
Standing at the bow of the lead vessel, Garon Glover silently gazed toward the northeast.
An uneasy feeling continued to grow within his heart.
"How much farther?"
He turned toward the Riverman guiding the boat.
The soldier respectfully answered,
"My lord."
"With favourable winds..."
"We should reach the Trident crossings by tomorrow."
"Perhaps even sooner."
Garon nodded.
"Signal every ship."
"We increase our speed."
"I want to reach the crossings as quickly as possible."
"At once, my lord."
The soldier hurried away.
Sparta, standing nearby, looked at him curiously.
"My lord."
"Is something wrong?"
Garon remained staring toward the distant horizon.
"I don't know."
"I simply can't shake this feeling."
He offered no further explanation.
His gaze never left the northeast.
The Trident crossings lay somewhere beyond that horizon.
"Sparta."
"Double the watches tonight."
"Yes, my lord."
Without hesitation, Sparta departed to relay the order.
Standing alone at the bow, Garon remained completely unaware that another great battle was already beginning.
Nor did he realise that he stood only one final step away from truly becoming the master of the North.
Once that final step was crossed...
The fish would enter the sea.
The falcon would soar across the sky.
No chain would ever restrain him again.
The waters of the Red Fork continued carrying Garon steadily toward the battlefield awaiting him.
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