In the aftermath of the event maesters would soon call the Northern Schism, the Stark forces were left leaderless. Not only was Robb Stark, the King in the North dead but the man who had led the rebellion against him, Galbart Glover, had also fallen in battle. With the leaders of both sides dead, many looked to Glover's brother Robett to take his place but the new Master of Deepwood Motte was, understandably, absorbed in his grief.
With no one left that they could rally behind, it was a very subdued group of lords who gathered together in council the next day to decide on their next move. A mere glance at the gaps around the table was enough to show the losses the previous day's fighting had inflicted on the North. Not only was House Hornwood's seat still vacant, Lord Halys' death at Crakehall along with that of his heir Daryn having ended their House, but Maege Mormont, Lady of Bear Island had fallen on the field of battle along with all her men.
House Mormont may have taken the harshest casualties, buthowever every House in the North had taken their share of losses. House Stark had lost not only their king, but a fifth of the men who had marched to war with him, at least, those not from the Wolfswood or Torrhen's Square. Three hundred Northmen would never see home again, and that was merely those from the winter town and the lands around Winterfell itself. From Karhold to Barrowton, all the North had lost fathers, brothers and sons at the blades of their own countrymen.
Two hundred from Oldcastle. One hundred from Widow's Watch and twice that from the northern mountains. Five hundred from the Karhold, by far the hardest hit out of the surviving Stark loyalists. Lord Rickard had lost not only a third of his forces, but one of his sons, the half-blinded Torrhen caught up in the fighting and unable to properly defend himself. White Harbor had lost four hundred men, and their commander, Ser Wylis Manderly, had been captured. Although he took his seat free of any bindings, the heir to White Harbor was acutely aware that he was a prisoner in all but name, lacking only chains on his wrists.
Even those on the 'winning' side had paid the price for their victory; Torrhen's Square and Barrowton had lost a fifth of their men, while four hundred out of fourteen hundred would never return to the Rills. House Cerwyn, long close allies of House Stark had taken grievous losses at the blades of their former friends. Five hundred had fallen to the men of House Stark, King Robb and Ice responsible for over fifty himself before his death. The soldiers of Flint's Finger had taken similar losses to their eastern cousins, and out of five hundred men called south to save Eddard Stark, only a hundred and fifty would go back to their homes in the Wolfswood.
As for the men of the Dreadfort, House Bolton had come out the best, losing only two hundred of the three thousand Lord Roose had taken to war with him. The Lord of the Dreadfort himself was unscathed, though his Captain of the Guards had not been so fortunate; slain by Ser Wylis' lance shortly before the Manderly knight's capture. Despite such a loss, the fact remained that the Bolton forces were by far the largest unit left occupying Lannisport. The Lord of the Dreadfort commanded twice as many men as any other lord left, and nearly as many as the next three strongest Houses combined.
With such a large force to back his wishes, one might think it was obvious why the gathered lords looked almost as one to Roose to speak first, but there was more to it than that. Great or small, in any conflict those on the winning side would have far greater influence in the aftermath than those who fought for the loser. Roose Bolton had not only supported Galbart Glover, but had intervened to defend the outnumbered Glover and his allies; painting himself in the eyes of the North as a protector of the oppressed, and a champion of the just. Add to that the fact that every man there knew who was responsible for Glover's victory; Roose's calm command and clever direction of his forces there having proven key, and every eye in the tent was fixed on the Lord of the Dreadfort as he rose to speak.
"My lords" he began, cold voice showing as little emotion as his face, "we all know why we are here. Our king is dead, and we must needs choose our path going forward. The boy king Joffrey offers peace and safe passage home in exchange for bending the knee." Roose paused for a moment, choosing his words carefully. "Whether or not you still call Robb Stark your King, the fact remains that staying in the South will do nothing for his memory. We must return home, whether to crown Brandon Stark as our new King or accept him as our Lord. And to that end" Roose spread his hands as if to show his helplessness, "I see no alternative to accepting Joffrey's offer. The Redwyne fleet could keep the Ironborn at bay, and see us safely past Moat Cailin."
"The hell are you talking about Bolton?" Fighting back the urge to roll his eyes, Roose turned to see Rickard Karstark glaring at him as the older Lord gripped onto the hilt of his sword so fiercely Roose fancied he could see marks in the grip. "The North needs no help from Southrons! We'll take it back ourselves, the Northern way, with courage and steel!"
Lazily, Roose tilted his head, showing an utter lack of care for Karstark's furious words. "And how, may I ask Lord Rickard, do you intend on doing that?"
Rickard's face twisted into a mix of rage and determination. "Simple. We leave this shitstain of a city, we march east putting the West to the torch behind us as we go, we strike up the Kingsroad, retake Moat Cailin and then on to Winterfell!"
Even before Karstark finished speaking, the others around the table were shaking their heads and Roose knew that the Lord of the Karhold had let his sorrow at the loss of his King and kin cloud his reasoning to the point of foolishness. Silence filled the tent as the lords glanced awkwardly between the delusional Karstark, and Robett Glover, deep in his cups as he had been since his brother's death, and already making long pulls at yet another ale. It was left to Medger Cerwyn, most powerful of those remaining who had rebelled against their King, after Roose of course, to break the silence.
"Yesterday" he began, "each of us faced a choice. To forsake our King and return to our homes, or stay, and die fighting an unwinnable war." Karstark's eyes burned hatred into Cerwyn; remembering full well that not only had the Lord of Castle Cerwyn rebelled against King Robb, but it had been a Cerwyn man who actually killed the King. "I made my choice" Medger continued, "and nothing has changed since yesterday to alter that decision. Robb Stark was a good man, and a friend to my son." Medger's eyes hardened into dark steel then, the same steel from which the black battleaxe on his sigil was forged. "But he died a fool attempting to lead the North into a doomed assault, and took over four thousand good Northmen with him."
Karstark roared in rage and moved to draw his sword, Lord Robin Flint deftly catching the older man's wrist mid-draw even as Cerwyn's allies muttered in agreement, because he was right. Though yesterday's events had been devastating for the Northmen, the wider scope of the war had been affected very little; the Greyjoys still held the North, the Lannisters and Tyrells still outnumbered them vastly and the Northmen were trapped in the South facing the entirety of Westeros alone.
With such a stark reminder of their dire situation, even those who had supported their King out of loyalty began to doubt their position. With a heavy sigh, Ser Wylis heaved himself out of his chair, the wood creaking as the heavy Northman's bulk left it. "We must bend the knee" he agreed, sorrow clear to all who cared to listen, "but it isn't as simple as that. For my own part, I would accept" his eyes flicked towards Roose at that, and every man there knew it wasn't Wylis' choice in the matter, "but this isn't up to me. My lord father is Head of our House, he commanded me to lead our men south in support of King Robb, and only he has the authority to bend the knee in the name of White Harbour."
Robin Flint found himself nodding in agreement with Manderly's words, as while he could bend the knee on behalf of his own troops, he had no ability to speak for his mother's House. Only Lady Lyessa could decide upon the allegiance of Widow's Watch, and she remained at her seat in the North. To obtain her consent would require a raven be sent North, just as it would for Lord Wyman Manderly to permit his son to bend the knee.
With the general mood of the council in favour of swearing fealty, Roose re-entered the discussion. "It will take time for a raven to make its way North" he pointed out, "but for once, my lords, time is on our side. It will take weeks for the Redwyne fleet to make its way here, and the boy king won't even send his ships until we agree to his terms. No doubt we'll be required to bend the knee to his representative when the fleet arrives; as long as we know by then who is kneeling and who is not, we can send messages to King's Landing and the North today."
Presented with a plan that gave a way forward yet avoided irrevocably binding themselves to the Iron Throne right now, the Northern lords agreed. One by one, they voted to give Roose permission to speak for the North when he sent his raven, except of course the still fuming Karstark. He was one against many however, and when even Robett Glover puled himself from his drink long enough to give his assent, the Lord of the Karhold found himself outvoted.
Their course decided upon, the Northern lords departed, and Roose retired to his chambers to write his messages. With all his years of experience, he carefully penned a letter on behalf of the North to King Joffrey, before sealing it with pink wax and pressing his signet ring into it, leaving behind the flayed man of the Dreadfort. That done, he wrote a second, slightly less polite letter to Lord Wyman Manderly, pointedly reminding the man many called Lord Too Fat to Sit a Horse, that Roose held his son, and that submission might be in Wylis' best interests. Laying it flat upon a table, he placed atop it a second letter, written by Ser Wylis earlier that morning at Roose's command. The heir to White Harbor had told his father of the previous day's fighting, of his captivity and of his current state of good health, assuring Wyman that he was unharmed, and would remain that way if Wyman bent the knee.
Rolling the two letters into a tight scroll, Roose sealed it shut and gave both to a servant, clearly instructing the man which was to go where. The consequences if these were to fall into the wrong hands, or be mixed up would be disastrous, and Roose's eye promised weeks of agonising torture should a mistake be made. Shaking, the man bowed and left the room, Roose then returning to the book he had been reading throughout this entire campaign. For now, all he could do was wait.
Tyrion Lannister smiled as he poured himself some wine. Today had been a good day. Mace Tyrell hadn't demanded anything too unreasonable, the kingdom's finances were very slowly rebuilding thanks to the Tyrells, and Joffrey had behaved himself, resulting in Tyrion's most pleasant Small Council meeting yet. Swirling his wine, he praised his own ingenuity in allowing Lady Margaery to join the Small Council meetings; she spent most of her time distracting Joffrey and resulting in a much more pleasant King to be around.
The sound of heels clicking quickly against the stones outside drew his attention for a moment, but Bronn was guarding the door, and no one without permission could enter the Tower of the Hand. Shrugging, he returned to his wine before the door burst open and Tyrion glanced up to see his sister standing in the doorway, gown dishevelled as if she had run all the way from Maegor's Holdfast. Before he could react, she had swept him up in an embrace and whirled him around, hugging him as she never had before. "It worked Tyrion, by the gods it worked!" she sang, spinning him around as if they were dancers.
Though pleased at his sister's sudden affection for him, Tyrion found himself utterly bemused as to the cause. "What worked?" he managed to gasp out after a moment.
"Your plan" she cried out, smile not dimming for a second. "Robb Stark is dead!"
"Dead?" Tyrion couldn't believe his ears, he had expected his offer to draw away some of the Northern lords; Ryswell, mayhaps Glover or Dustin, but to lead to the death of the Northern King? "How?"
Setting him down, Cersei smoothed down her skirts for a moment. "The boy grew desperate after the Riverlands abandoned him. He wanted his father back, so he intended to attack Casterly Rock."
"To seize Father and trade him for Lord Eddard" Tyrion finished on reflex, mind filling in the gaps for him even before Cersei's words registered in his mind. Then he realised exactly what his sister had said. "Attack the Rock? That's suicide" he gasped. "The boy had what, twenty thousand men? Less? Surely he can't have been fool enough to try and storm the Lion's Mouth with that?"
Cersei's beautiful mouth curved into a smile that was just the slightest bit cruel. It was the smile a lioness would give to a foe just before she tore his throat out. "He was, and he did. His bannermen weren't as ready to die, and the Northern armies tore each other apart outside Lannisport. The Stark boy was killed, along with a quarter of his forces."
Tyrion drew a sharp breath, still taken aback by this sudden news. "And the rest of his army?" he breathed.
The lioness grinned in triumph. "Have finally seen sense. Roose Bolton sent a raven claiming the North is ready to bend the knee in return for safe passage to Deepwood Motte."
Suddenly all mirth left Tyrion as the full ramifications of those words sank in. "You realise what this means?" he asked, voice deadly serious.
Cersei chuckled in delight. "It means the war is over, of course! The Northerners will bend the knee and Joff's crown is safe!"
"As long as he doesn't do anything stupid" Tyrion pointed out with grim visage. "Does dear Joff even know of this?"
At that, Cersei's smile faded and she placed a finger on her chin in thought for a moment. "A servant brought the raven to me, and I came straight here, but that doesn't mean that he didn't show it to someone else first. If the Spider or that whoremaster find out…"
"Then Joffrey will know within the hour, if he doesn't already" Tyrion finished, dread obvious in his voice as he pictured what might happen if Joffrey wasn't carefully guided into making the right choice. Almost as one he and Cersei turned to glance at each other for a moment, obviously coming to the same conclusion, as Tyrion saw the same horror on his sister's face that he himself must be showing, before Cersei picked up her skirts and moved for the door.
"Then we must move swiftly." Already in motion, she snapped off orders as she walked as quickly as her long gown would allow it down the stairs. "You" she barked at a nearby servant scrubbing the floor as she passed. "Go to the King" she twisted a lion-headed ring off her finger without breaking her stride. "Tell him that the Queen Regent has important news for him, and that his presence is requested in the Small Council chambers as soon as possible."
Struggling to keep up with his sister's long strides, Tyrion registered a frustrated sigh from behind him before he was scooped up by broad arms as if he were a child. Glancing around, he turned to see Bronn carrying him and hastening to catch up with the swiftly moving Cersei. "Don't go telling anyone about this, Lord Imp" Bronn warned, "you hear me?"
Bronn's long legs and lack of confining gowns soon caught up with Cersei, and the Queen Regent took a direct route towards the Small Council chambers, commanding several other servants on the way to gather Varys, Littlefinger, Pycelle and Lady Margaery if she was not already aware. Before Tyrion knew it, they were passing through the great doors guarded by Valyrian steel sphinxes, and then Bronn deftly set him onto his chair, just as one would a babe.
He burned in embarrassment, but then returned his mind to spinning a strategy on how to present this to Joffrey in a way that didn't involve continuing a pointless war with winter coming. Cersei added her own contributions, and they had the rudiments of a plan in place by the time Joffrey strolled through the doors, his betrothed by his side.
"Uncle" he grunted by way of greeting as he took his seat at the head of the table. "Mother. Why have you called me here with such urgency, the King has important business to attend to!"
More important than ruling his Kingdoms Tyrion wanted to ask, but held his tongue. This was too important to let petty words ruin it. "A raven, Your Grace" he held out the tightly rolled parchment "from Lannisport."
"Lannisport?" Joffrey took the scroll, eyes alight with curiosity and began reading. Almost immediately, that light turned to triumph and his smile grew larger and larger as he absorbed the contents, barely noticing Varys and Littlefinger arriving and taking their seats with muttered apologies for their lateness. At last he placed the paper down, gently, as if it were a prized possession made of spun glass he feared damaging, and looked up, eye lit with pure delight.
"Robb Stark is dead." Unlike Tyrion, he said the words with joy, like nothing in this world could make him happier.
"He is, Your Grace" Tyrion smoothly agreed, striking while the iron was hot so to speak, while Varys and Littlefinger still tried to come to terms with this new information. "He is dead, and his army wants to bend the knee."
Joffrey's face twisted, as if he had tasted curdled milk. "Bend the knee" he echoed in disdain. "Why would we allow that? The Northern forces are broken and leaderless, our armies outnumber them seven to one now! Lord Tyrell will lead the armies of the Reach west, to crush the rebels once and for all! I will have every Northern lord's head on spikes, as a lesson to any other who might think to betray their rightful King!"
Horrified, Tyrion glanced helplessly at Cersei. This was exactly what they didn't want to happen, yet there was nothing he could think of to counter Joffrey's arguments. His nephew was determined to show that he was a strong king, and after allowing the Tullys to get off so lightly, Tyrion was forced to admit to himself, said thought was not without merit. Racking his brains for a solution, he prayed silently to the Seven for deliverance. Margaery Tyrell however, was not the form one expected aid from the gods to arrive in.
"My love" she implored, hand on Joffrey's arm, "my lord father's armies would take moons to reach the Westerlands. The war has been long already, the men of the Reach need to return to their homes, to their farms. And what of the people of the West" she went on, doe-like eyes wide in plea. "The longer the fighting continues, the longer your lord grandfather's people have to endure their homes being occupied by the Northern savages, and the more risk the Northmen burn what remains of the Westerlands out of pure spite.
Let it end, my love" she begged, lip quivering in a gesture so well practiced Tyrion would have sworn it was genuine. "Let there be peace, so the people can return to their homes, and we can finally be together. Once the war is done" she gently reminded him, "my father will send his armies home, my grandmother will travel from Highgarden and you and I can wed at last."
That had the desired effect, as the thought of at last taking the beautiful Margaery Tyrell to his bed, of calling her his wife, had Joffrey smiling in anticipation. Glee still visible upon his face, he turned to face his uncle, holding up the scroll which he meant to keep forever more as a reminder of his triumph over the Northern savages. "And this means that the Northmen will bend the knee? That the war is over?"
To Joffrey's dismay, his uncle shifted a little in his seat. "Not...exactly, Your Grace."
"What does that mean?" he demanded. "Have they agreed to bend the knee or haven't they?"
Tyrion opened his mouth, then thought better of it and paused. "Lord Bolton uses very complex diplomatic phrasing, Your Grace" he explained delicately, trying his best not to call his nephew a fool. "Would you prefer if I simply explained the intent of his words?"
Joffrey sat back in a huff. "Give me the meat of the matter then Uncle, and quickly."
"As His Grace commands." Tyrion steepled his fingers on the Small Council table as he stared at his nephew. "In essence, Your Grace, Lord Bolton writes that the Northmen are ready to accept Your Grace's offer, and will bend the knee to your representative when they arrive with the fleet. He does point out however" Tyrion warned, "that each Northern Lord can speak only for themselves and their Houses."
"And what's that mean?"
"It means, Your Grace" Cersei explained, taking up the task in Tyrion's stead, "that the Northmen expect you to send someone to Lannisport with your fleet, who has the authority to accept their fealty in the King's name." Before Joffrey could swell up at the North's presumption, his mother quickly explained, "which is perfectly understandable, after all, Your Grace, words are wind. Your lords might send all the ravens they want promising to swear fealty to you, but as we all know, until they actually kneel before you and pledge you their swords, that means nothing."
Cersei could see Joffrey was coming to understand her point, and she gestured for Tyrion to take over once again while she took a drink of her wine. "As your lady mother said, Your Grace, the North's surrender is not complete until their lords bend the knee, and since the war is not over until the North surrenders, it would be best to have them do so as swiftly as possible."
Tyrion paused for breath for a moment before continuing. "It would take moons for the Northern lords to travel from Lannisport to the capital, so the simplest solution, if you wish this done quickly, is for Your Grace to choose someone for the North to bend the knee to in your place. For the Northern lords to swear fealty to someone carrying a document authorizing them to act in your name and sealed by your hand, would be the same as bending the knee to your royal person, Your Grace."
Mulling that over in his mind, Joffrey found he liked the idea the more he thought about it. He wouldn't have to travel all the way to the Westerlands, and he could have his wedding all the more sooner. One thing however, was bothering him. "And the part about only being able to speak for their own Houses?"
Tyrion sighed, this part Joffrey wasn't going to like as much. "When the fleet arrives, the Northern lords will each bend the knee to whomever you've chosen, or not, as each Lord chooses. Then, all the lords who've sworn fealty will board the ships with their men, and be taken to Moat Cailin."
"And those who have not?" Joffrey demanded, eyes blazing with rage at the thought of the Northmen defying him again!
"They…" Tyrion spread his hands wide, unable to come up with an answer. "I know not, Your Grace. I suppose they'll remain at Lannisport, orlaunch some pointless, last-ditch attack, somewhere in the Riverlands mayhaps or they might try and take this city. They could even attempt to finish the Young Wolf's work and attack Casterly Rock. Whatever the case, Lord Tyrell would be forced to send his men to finish them off after all."
"And waste his time, and mine, finishing off those too stupid to know when they're beaten" hissed the angry King. "I won't have it." His face hardened as he made his decision. "Grand Maester" he whirled in his seat to address the elderly Pycelle, sitting quietly until this point as he watched events play out, "prepare a message for the Arbor. Tell Lord Redwyne that he is to bring his fleet to Lannisport. There he will accept the surrender of the Northern lords on behalf of the Crown, and provide those who have sworn me their fealty passage home, as well as pardons for their actions."
"Of course, Your Grace" the white bearded maester bowed.
"Any who refuse to kneel" Joffrey went on relentlessly, "are to be treated as traitors. Naturally" his lips curved into a cruel smile that reminded Tyrion of his mother for a moment, "loyal subjects of the Crown will not allow such treason, and so once the lords have made their choice, Lord Redwyne will command those Northmen who have bent the knee to subdue the remaining rebels, or remain traitors themselves."
"Your Grace" Tyrion responded, shocked at what he was hearing, "you cannot ask the Northmen to kill their own countrymen!"
"I'm not asking them" he shot back, "I'm commanding them. They betrayed the Crown and followed a usurper, this is how they will prove their loyalty once more. Besides, I said nothing of killing the traitors, in fact I want them alive. They will be escorted to King's Landing in chains, to publicly die the deaths such traitors deserve. After having refused multiple chances to bend the knee, no other punishment will suffice." Without giving his councillors time to oppose him, Joffrey rose from his seat, indicating the end of the discussion.
"Grand Maester, send the raven and be sure Lord Paxter knows his orders. Inform the Northmen that the fleet is on its way, but be careful to let them know that only those who bend the knee will be given passage. We're done here." Without another word he left the council chamber, cloak swirling, the Tyrell girl quickening her pace to catch up, and the Small Council could only watch as he left.
Joffrey's raven arrived in Lannisport at the same time as the reply from Lord Wyman Manderly, and sitting now in his chambers, Roose Bolton contemplated both messages with care, carefully considering the long-term repercussions of each, and what they would mean for the North, not to mention House Bolton. After a moment, he nodded to himself and then began writing another letter, this one far longer. Forced to use multiple scrolls due to the length, Roose carefully numbered each, unwilling to leave any part of this to chance and knowing how badly this could go for him if his commands were disobeyed or misinterpreted.
Setting down his quill and flexing his stiff fingers, the Lord of the Dreadfort sanded the last scroll before sealing them all with the flayed man of his House. Under the guise of arranging Ser Wylis' release, he carried them to the rookery where he did send a message to White Harbor, but not before attaching the scrolls to multiple birds headed for the same place, or at least, near enough that they could be sent on to their destination. Coldly, he threw them out the window and watched them fly off one by one, before returning to his solar as if nothing had happened.