The snow blew across the trees, painting the landscape white, and chilling men to the bone. The trees shook in the wind, and every minor shift brought more snow collapsing on men, tents, swords, fires and shields that had the sigil of a wolf sleeping beneath a tree. Men went about their business, sharpening weapons, cooking food and making grim predictions for the coming winter, whilst one waded through the knee high snow, towards a tent that was straining under the enormous pressure of the snow precariously balanced on its roof.
"Torrhen! There's a supply caravan coming down from Windy Hearth! "
"Thank you, Rickard. How many men, and what sigil?"
"30 armed flayed men."
" Call together a party of 50. I'll meet you at Leafy Stream." Turning back to the map that was clinging desperately to the table, Torrhen looked at one of his officers, a huge bearded man with a scar on his chin.
"Garth, move camp a few leagues northwest. I'll meet you tomorrow. "
" Of course."
Torrhen turned and walked out, towards a smaller tent that pressed itself against one of the huge pine trees. He grabbed a helmet and a mail vest, before changing his leather boots to some iron ones.
"Garth seems to be happy today"
"Of course he is, Rickard. I've ordered an attack on the Boltons. We all know he thinks we should meet them in open battle, and quite a few men agree with him."
"But we'll get annihilated if we do that!"
"According to him, better than sitting here and waiting for moments like these. Then, there's Willem."
Rickard whistled.
"Even stupider than Garth."
"I think that Ser Willem Haverby would want your head for saying that. But, you're right. Marching on Winterfell is stupid. Especially considering we have only 97 men. Now, don't you have troops to gather?"
" Sorry, Torrhen!"
Chuckling, Torrhen picked up his sword and shield. Rickard was a good boy, but just that. A boy, eager for adventure. Torrhen would rather deal with his power hungry commanders than see Rickard die. Sometime s, he felt the boy was his only ally in this band of men. Most were survivors from The Twins, and were eager for revenge. But the eagerness had been replaced by a desire for power.
A few hours later, 50 men lay in waiting at the clearing of Leafy Stream. The air was cold and crisp, and the only leaves in the stream were trapped in the ice. The snow was only two foot deep here, but still enough to have an affect on the fighting. He heard whistling as a horse rounded the bend of the trail, leading the convoy to Winterfell.
Torrhen wiped the blood from his short brown hair, and looked around. The fighting had lasted for a few minutes, and now the last of the Bolton men were being killed. The air smelt of smoke, as the carts burned, and any valuables were looted. He whirled round, as one of his men tapped him on the shoulder.
"Sorry sir. It's Rickard. Tried to warn the little fool, but haven't seen him near or by since the fight. There's a Bolton man holding him at the dead oak."
Torrhen sighed. At least the boy wasn't dead.