North

"Where the King treads, there'll be a Kingsroad," was a little saying Robb once heard during the King's visit to Winterfell. He's gone along it a few times, the furthest of which was when he and Jon visited White Harbour with their father — the Manderlys are always welcoming of them.

And from their many treks, he knows how annoying it is.

The army marches South between grassy hills and snowy woods with only a horse-trodden path beneath their feet. Though the journey between Winterfell and Cerwyn was dotted with the occasional inns and taverns, the only buildings now are from faraway villages and abandoned homes. Winter is coming, his family's words ring through his head, and here I am marching to the warmer South…

A few hedge knights and petty Lords here and there join the ranks, eager to help for kindness or glory. But going this far South soon dwindles the rate to a trickle.

"When the first Jaehaerys built this road, he must have thought other armies will fly on dragons like him," Lady Maege japes with barking laughter more fitting of knights than an old woman, though Robb knows better than to question her strength — she often spars against Lady Momiji to high praise, which is more than can be said with him and Theon.

Theon. That name still brings a sourness to this tiring ride. Gods damn it, I should have brought him here… Or send him up with Jon! He hears Greywind growl at something but leaves the direwolf be, earning wary looks from a few men. He's yet to trust anyone here the news of Theon's sudden departure, knowing some will see him as weak. Or will they? Robb shakes his head; his father taught him much of politics, but it's one thing to play with sticks and another with live steel.

And what in the Other's name is happening at the Iron Islands!? Is Lord Balon dead? Did the dread Euron Crow's Eye truly name himself King there? He can barely thank Lady Momiji for informing him since she's the one who lets him go!

…

"Now that's a dark expression, young one," says Lady Maege with a wrinkled smile — he squeezes his hand to calm himself. "Let me guess, worried for the battle?"

"…Somewhat," Robb sighs. I'll have to send a message to father. He won't approve of the circumstance, but at least he knows of it.

"Heh, every greenboys' are like that, whether be a battlefield or the bedchambers. Saw the same thing with my nephew Jorah, though that cravenness never left his blood," she clicks her tongue.

"I can assure you we Starks have none of that in our bones. We'll make the Kingslayer pay, that I promise."

"Hmm, good to hear that Eddard's son is not so soft," she smirks.

The next day, Lord Roose Bolton and his pink-cloaked men ride abreast with Robb at the marching's head. At least he's taking the change more gracefully, remembering their vicious arguments on who should ride with Lord Stark. Though somewhat flattered, blood nearly spilt in that meeting until he forced their hands with the current rules. Is this the correct way, father? Robb thinks, pulling close his wolf-fur cloak.

The farther they go the less snow he sees. The call of snow shrikes is soon replaced by stranger ones, deep and haunting as the army marches into an ever-stretching wetland. The Kingsroad is no more a beaten path but a muddy causeway lined by moss-covered trees. Insects buzz near his ear as he spots something move under the murky water.

"I've always detested the Neck," Lord Roose mutters with a thin frown, his dead grey eyes sending a terrible chill down Robb's spine. "Full of odd diseases and odder people. Yet I must respect it — they farm leeches here, else bad blood will remain in many men."

Lord Leech, he nearly says, but a Stark knows better than to anger his bannermen.

Their pace slows greatly as they travel atop the narrow causeway. For all his nicknames, Lord Bolton keeps his coat closed and his blood to himself — Robb follows his example. Beside them, Lady Reisen is not so lucky as bugs attempt to land on her large rabbit ears, each one twitching and swatting them away. Maybe I should ask Mikken to craft her a helm… But how would that work?

The leading group splits from a large ditch in the middle of the causeway. Looking closely, however, he realises that it's actually a wheel track. A large wheel track. And there's only one thing that comes to mind: "How in the Others' name did the royal wheelhouse come through here?"

"A King will come and go as he pleases, whether stags or dragons, whatever the cost," Lord Roose softly replies, signalling his men to split as well. "Your father marched through here once, with me trailing behind his direwolf banners. It was the Rebellion, a loud thing full of blood and screams. Now I wonder if a boy like you could even wear his shadow."

"And here you are following mine, Lord Roose," Robb replies with a smile, though it soon fades upon seeing the imperceptible expression on Lord Bolton's face. The man stays eerily quiet for the rest of the day.

As the sun sets, Robb calls for a camp. But there's a slight issue: they're in a swamp.

A few crannogmen who've joined their ranks decide to scout out floating islands for resting places. With a few skiff rides and several lengths of rope, they tie a few crannogs near the causeway. Robb accepts the offer — his father always taught him to accept gifts — but the others aren't so keen. And so by nightfall, only Robb and the Mormonts are settled onto the crannogs, the rest preferring the narrow causeway to camp on. A large bonfire burns at the host's head, a dry place for the nobles' dinner.

"We can always move the damn thing," says Lady Dacey Mormont as she bites into her fish. Though already in the evening, she stays cautious by wearing light mail above her leathers. "Like a sail-less ship, so no need to set up camp each time."

"Geh, should have taken one then," the Greatjon grumbles as he bites into a lamb leg, looking quite small in his large hand- No, hands. Where the stump used to be is now a fierce thing of iron and screws, but Robb does his best to not stare — his mother always told him it's rude. "I bet if we sleep on smaller ones, it'll rock us like babes in a cradle!"

"If it doesn't break first," says Lady Maege, earning a snort from Robb and laughter from Lord Cerwyn. A few Lords join in as well, prompting a frowning Smalljon to throw a wet wood into the fire. The older Umber takes it in strides, however, downing a mug of ale and patting Lord Halys Hornwood's back, though the latter is surprised at the gesture. The Umbers do like their drinking…

"Having lived so near the sea, I much prefer firm ground myself," says Ser Wendel Manderly, a knight shorter than the Smalljon but probably still as heavy. He's refilling his third bowl, Robb realises. "The rocking brings no comfort to your stomach, my Lords and Ladies, as I can attest." The man pats his large belly, earning more laughter from the more drunken Lords.

"You all speak of mud and dirt, yet I'd rather sleep atop the trees and away from the swamp," says Lady Momiji as she chews on some grilled meat — did someone die already? Unlike the Mormonts, she has changed into her original garments of a white top with long fluttering sleeves and a black skirt. The fire casts a beautiful glow in her hair, something Robb can't help but stare at. When she gives a smile to him, he feels heat rising to his ears — I should finish my dinner.

Theon told him confidence is key in earning a Lady's heart, and Robb says that he has it. He's confident enough to form words and speak it. But will it be enough for Lady Momiji? Maybe that's why Theon's Theon and I'm me…

"Now now, not many of us can fly, you know," the Manderly chuckles.

"Not many?" Lady Maege raises a brow. "The dragons are dead. Tell me one other person who can fly, Ser."

…

Lady Reisen meekly raises her hand, earning a few confused looks from those present. "Saw her fly once," Lord Cerwyn clarifies, "but I think she prefers horses."

"I'm not used to them but they're not as tiring," she adds before continuing her dinner, eyes focused on the spoon and bowl.

"Rabbits can fly, wolves can fly… But when will a bear fly?" Lady Dacey groans before taking more of the stew.

Tapping his bowl, Lord Roose asks: "Lady Momiji, your people sleep in trees?"

"We build our houses in trees, skinlord." Skinlord… Is that worse than Leech Lord? Robb wonders. "They're no stone castles, but very defensible for us Tengus. Higher ranking ones like to build palaces on the mountain sides, but they're a haughty bunch," she huffs, "closer to a dead rock than the ever-shifting winds."

"A wolf sleeping in the trees, that'd be a sight to see," Lord Rickard Karstark laughs, perking up Greywind's ears. "Let alone a palace! Your people are certainly a bunch of-" but the Lord stills his tongue as the Lady turns to him. Smiling.

"What was that, whitesun? Care to finish?"

"…A bunch of crows, Lady Momiji," he finishes, sipping up his stew beneath her deathly glare and returning a kind smile. "We sometimes like to call those on the Wall-"

"-Savages," the Smalljon interrupts, shooting a dark look to the Tengu. "The word Lord Karstark was looking for is 'savages', warg."

…

Lady Momiji rises to her feet, the bone necklace around her neck clacking in the silence. Though smiling, her tail is still and her ears folded. He'd seen a similar expression on Greywind before. "Speak again, giantson, I want to make sure I heard you loud and clear."

"Forgive my son's words, Lady- Jon, no, SIT DOWN," the Greatjon commands but the younger Umber swats away his father's metal hand. Instead, he pulls off a leather glove from his belt and throws it onto the mud, huffing all the while. The Lords mutter their surprise and Robb can only groan with face in hands, wishing he's anyone else but a Stark.

Neck

What's this meaty fool doing? Momiji wonders as the giantson throws down a smelly leather glove and splatter her clean boots with mud — I should have eaten atop the trees. The large man huffs and puffs like fugu, deflating the others around him. Not understanding his rude gesture, she kicks a bit of mud onto the glove. He spits onto the mud. "Do you not understand my demands, bitch?"

Bitch. That word twitches her ears. "You think I'm a village mutt, giantson? Wash your own damn gloves," she replies before kicking more mud onto it. His face reddens to match his beard.

"Jon," his father growls with threat, but the son is having none of it.

"Your presence is an insult to the North, warg. I. Demand. A DUEL!" His loud declaration signals the other decorated Lords to disperse; even that meek rabbit scampers away from the bubbling trouble. Coward. "Your steel against mine."

"Ah, is that so?" she chuckles darkly, eyes matching the Umber's glare. She'd seen this type of fire before. In the squidboy, she remembers, before I stomped it out. Besides that, this challenger is much larger than him. Twice as heavy and half as skilled, she reckons. "Why, still feeling lacking from the snowy forest?" She flicks her bone necklace in a taunt. "If it's a fight you want I'll-"

"We all should rest easy tonight," the skinlord's soft voice interrupts, "to cool our heads from this bonfire dinner." Though the wolfboy nods his head, she clicks her tongue — there's something off about that pale human, the Kitsune warned her of him. Not only that, his voice is too quiet and he smells of his own dried blood. Like those vampires in that red mansion, she surmises, yet he's not one… Should I heed the ninetails' warning? she wonders. "Our enemies are the Lannisters, not fellow Northmen. Smalljon Umber, if you would please-"

"Oh, shove it up your pasty arse, Bolton," the giantson barks and surprising the Bolton to silence. "You damn well know I have good reasons. My father's hand, her presence, this tale of the Others Beyond-the-Wall… The warg whispers into the young Stark's ear and-"

The giantlord stands and slaps his son with his metal hand. That earns some loud laughter from Momiji and the wolfboy has to rush in and lead her elsewhere, away from her challenger. "You should refuse him," he whispers near a tent. "The wine, it must have gotten-"

"He's not drunk," she cuts, stopping their walk. "Unlike his father, I smell no whiskey on him." And nine-tails didn't warn me of this one either, she thinks, ears folded in thought. She's not one to believe a Kitsune's guile and words, but that creature seems to know more of this world than she lets on. Should have threatened her more back then. "The fool asked me for a bout. Who am I to refuse it?"

"Please, just don't," wolfboy groans before sitting down on a crate. Though taller than her his face looks far softer than any of the Lords here, bearing a faint smell of summer. Not that of a leader, she reminds herself, not with people like whitesun and skinlord around him. How did the wolflord manage to control this lot? He looks up at her with tired eyes, a faint blush on his cheeks — another thing that needs to be worked on. "Your duel will not end well."

"Why, you think I'll lose to him?" she asks with a vicious grin. She can hear the bickering near the bonfire, the shouting between the Umbers and some laughter of the Mormonts, all made of human flesh. In days long gone it took divine blessings and trickery to defeat a Tengu. Why would she lose to those savage lot? "You know better than to doubt my prowess wolfboy."

"Gods be damned, this is not the matter of winning or losing! It's politics, Lady Momiji. The Umbers are our allies. Same with the Boltons, Mormonts, Manderlys, and their cupbearers! You beating up Lord Umber's son and… Gods, damn that Smalljon," his voice nearly cracks as he bites on his thumb. She hears the direwolf growl elsewhere, maybe at some poor idiot who tugged his tail.

"Politics," she tuts. "Is it politics then to appear weak? To walk away from a fool who insulted your authority?"

"…Sometimes it is, Lady Momiji. Father taught-"

"Taught you how to be Lord. The more you say of him the more confused I am," she sighs, stilling her wagging tail. This one in front of her is not displaying Tengu qualities, that's for sure… "Look at me, wolfboy."

"I will if you refuse-"

"Robb, I said look at me." She raises his chin, much to his surprise. She wants to squish his cheeks but decides against it; now's not the time. "They're under you, are they not? Lords and Ladies they may be, they must heed under your words, your commands, your campaign. And if they don't-"

'He'll die approximately one year from now,' ninetails' voice rings in her head. 'His allies' sword in his back and gullet.'

"-then who will save your mother?" she continues. "Hell, skinlord over there looks ready to pelt you for a cloak."

That brings a smile back to his face. "I doubt Lord Bolton still have Stark skins in Dreadfort," he chuckles. Removing her hand he stands back up, easily a head taller than Momiji. There's still worry there, but most of it has melted away. "I'll have to deal with this directly, don't I?"

"Trim the branch else the whole tree goes to rot," she grins, patting his fur-cloaked back. "Besides, I may have agreed to help you but I won't sully my name for it. Even the Crow Tengus don't back down from a challenge, and those lot are far more devious. So," she cracks her knuckles, "how should I end the fool?"

"Don't make this worse than it already is. I'll… I'll come up with proper punishments. Like a Lord. Let him live for now."

Walking back towards the bonfire, they see most of the nobles have gone away. Only the Umbers remain arguing with each other while the skinlord watches with a cold look. The bickering stops once the giantson spots the wolfboy, face marred with redness; from anger or hits from his father. "Smalljon, retract your harsh words and we'll leave this night behind us," he commands, casting a long shadow on the ground.

"I'm no craven, boy," the Umber spits. The father looks too tired to argue and instead backs away, quite resigned as he opens a bottle of liquor. "My words are as true as a heartwood's sap is red. What's it then, warg?"

"…Lady Momiji?"

"No Tengus decline a challenge, especially for a duel," she huffs with pride. "Where will it be, giantson?"

"That empty crannog," he answers, nodding at a floating island where a few men are setting up torches. "For the warg's courtesy, we'll fight until first blood." She has a feeling it's to give the human a chance, but she'll accept a handicap. "Beating someone like you will leave a bad taste in my mouth," he snorts, "so I'll leave you alive."

"And your demands, Smalljon?"

"My demands are simple, Stark. First, I demand her presence be removed from this army. A warg has no place alongside knights and Lords, let alone leading a bloody company. And second," the giantson points at her, "that… Necklace. You'll hand it over. "

"Jon, I've agreed that she can have it. We both drank and shouted about it in Winterfell! Let this damn thing-"

"Father, it's my duel, not yours," the giantson replies, shooting a glare at the wolfboy. "I'll listen to the punishment later, Stark. And don't you turn tail on me, warg. Meet me on the crannog." The younger Umber stomps down the muddy causeway, much to the head-shaking of his father.

A few curses leave the giantlord's lips before he stands and grabs his cloak. A large and alcohol-smelling figure, the man groans before following down his son's footsteps. The skinlord gives a small bow before following suit, perhaps eager to see the battle. "Does he not know you're crucial to the plan?" the wolfboy grumbles, picking up the muddy glove and throwing it into the flames; a shame since it'll make a good trophy. "Will it take long to don your armour?"

"For his kind?" she scoffs. "It'll be an insult. I'll cut him quick." Leaping off the causeway, Momiji flies on a wind and lands atop a tall pine tree where her supplies are gathered. The shield she takes but her sword… She reflects the burning star above on her blade, shimmering like fresh blood. I doubt the blacksmiths here know how to treat Kappa steel. So instead, she picks up a two-handed greatsword from the Stark's camp. It's longer than she's tall, but it's enough to beat sense into that fool.

Spotting the crannog, she jumps from her spot and lands hard on the floating island, splashing some water and rocking it like a boat. The flames from torches sway to and fro, lighting up the Umber's fierce eyes and the two long-axes in his hands. People have gathered on the causeway, mostly consisting of Umber men and a smattering of Stark bannermen and other Lords'. The wolfboy stands ahead of them all, face hardened to be more lord-like. He's practiced it well. "The Old Gods watch over these woods, all through the North and Beyond-the-Wall," he says, a soft wind billowing his fur cloak; a little help from Momiji. The direwolf by his side remains firm. "They will judge over this fight. And so… Let the duel begin!"

"Gods save us," she hears the giantlord mumble before downing his bottle.

The giantson clang together his axes — an intimidation tactic? — before his hairy face goes taut. Then with a roar he charges at her like a bear, each stomp sending tremors on the crannog. Crude, she thinks before side-stepping one of his strikes. Not much better than that time in the forest. Moving close, Momiji swings her shield into his meaty gut, causing him to reel back. Father and son… Will this one taste similar? Ah, wolfboy wouldn't approve of that.

"Cheating bitch," the man spits. There's a distinct smell of acid and blood in that one, but Momiji is not the kind to end a battle that early. "You used sorceries!"

"That'll be a waste for you, giantson," she cackles, flexing her hands. "They're called skill and grace, both something you sorely lack."

Incensed by her words the Umber charges again, each swings more harsh and frenzied than the last. Madness seems to have glossed over his eyes as he did not care for accidentally striking the torches. Curious at his strength, she blocks one axe blow and sweeps his legs from under him; the man falls flat on the water, earning peals of laughter from the watchers. As he yells and curses at them, Momiji examines the dent on her shield. Certainly more than I expected, she thinks, but this ox can't move properly. "I've seen more skill in the wolfboy, fool," taunting him as the large man rises with a muddy surcoat. "What is he, half your age? Ten-"

A surprisingly fast swipe nearly cuts her chin before she blocks it with the greatsword. With a low growl, the man clangs his axes again. "Name's Smalljon you warg!" Another strike, faster than before and nowhere near as controlled, is blocked by her shield. This time she can feel it straining her arm. Impressive strength! she realises. You would certainly make a good giant, maybe even a damned Oni!

But that's enough playing around.

Giving a small wink at the worried wolfboy, Momiji slams her foot down on the crannog, tilting it enough to catch the Umber off-guard. Dropping her sword, she pulls his right axe before head-butting his nose, spurting human blood onto the floating island. With the man howling in pain, she raises the axe and declares: "FIRST BLOOD! Your loss, giant's fool," she smirks before throwing it to his feet.

A few Stark men shout and applaud her victory; the Lords and Umbers look far more solemn. As a crannogmen pull the island ashore, the giantlord is the first to board. He attaches a torch to his metal hand before giving an apologetic look to the Tengu. Seeing her sharp grin, he sighs before walking over to his disgraced son and pulling him up by his red beard. "You've made a fool of House Umber, boy." The giantson tries to stammer something but a slap silences him. "You hear me!? A FOOL! In front of the Stark boy, the Boltons, and Others know who else came to watch!"

"And so the loser must be judged," says the skinlord, now looking between Momiji and the wolfboy. "What will it be, Lord Stark?"

"Smalljon Umber, you've besmirched not only the campaign but also the names of House Bolton and House Umber," he speaks with steel in his voice. Good to see he can will it naturally. "Your presence is no longer welcome in my host. As such, I will be sending you to the Wall." The fool's eyes widen at the declaration; Momiji has to fight back laughter. "Lord Jeor Mormont is always in need of good men, and your strength will no doubt be-"

"You're damning me up there, boy!? You bloody-"

"SILENCE!" the giantlord shouts into his son's ear, loud enough for the others to wince. "Any more words and I'll geld you before the Others. Mar! Don!" Two burly Umber men quickly board the island. "Bring him back to tent and keep him there. I've had enough of his face." With his son being escorted away, the older Umber takes another swig of his drink — not enough to get him drunk, as Momiji knows from their little competition. "By the Old Gods, when was the last time an Umber was sent to the Wall? Fifty years? A hundred?"

"Um, he's not your only son, is he?" the wolfboy asks with some worry, but that disappears when the giantlord shakes his head.

"He's the eldest. Second eldest, named Eddy after your father, I sent him up to aid with the Wall. Well, if the messengers arrived early. Maybe I should bring Rody down here," he mumbles, replacing the cap on his bottle. "Geh, I'll have my men escort Jon."

"There's no need," says the skinlord, picking up one of the axes. "The man insulted my name and I want to be sure he reaches the Wall. Not suggesting trust between your bannermen and the Smalljon, but…"

"Heh, good thinking, Leech Lord. Nice to see you charitable for once," the giantlord laughs before turning to the wolfboy. "My apologies that it's become like this, Lord Stark. I-" But a raised hand stops him.

"Smalljon is a man grown and his actions are his own." Momiji feels like there's a little 'my father once said' that the Stark is omitting, but leaves him to it. "I simply hope the relations between House Umber and House Stark can be mended."

"Well of course!" The large man pats the wolfboy's back, making him cough. "Ah, when this is all done, I should show you my daughters. I'm sure you'll like them. Now," he cracks his knuckles, "to talk sense into my men. G'night, Stark! Lady Momiji!" The skinlord says his goodbye as well before taking the axe. Momiji keeps a close eye on them until she hears the boy sigh.

"I'd say it went well," she says, picking up the greatsword.

"It would have been much better if it hadn't happened in the first place." He looks up at the clear night sky, a soft wind playing with his black hair. "An Umber sent to the Wall… What will father say of this?"

"I've never met him but I'm sure he'll be proud," she chuckles before hopping onto a small whirlwind, blowing a few leaves and sticks about. "Your mother too after I bring her back here. You've grown much since I first met you, wolfboy. I'm sure you'll be a wolflord in no time."

"Fifty years in your own words," the two laugh. "Thank you, Lady Momiji. Have a good night." Lifting from the ground, she wonders if the leaves from- "Ah, wait! I, um, I forgot to say something!"

"Hmm? What is it?" she asks, landing back onto the wet crannog.

"Well, uh, I…" Something seems to be stuck in the wolfboy's throat. From his mixed expression and the growing redness, it's not hard for Momiji to decipher what. She smirks at his obvious nervousness. "Um, thanks, you know, for calling me Robb."

She raises a brow. "Is that all? Sounds like there's a few more words stuck between your ears. Come on, spit it out. There's no use lying to a Tengu."

"Uh, well," he coughs into his hand; not a real cough from the sound of it. "It's also for winning the duel, because the Smalljon is-"

Not wanting to hear more of his lies, Momiji pulls him down and nips his ear, drawing a bit of warm blood. "You don't taste half bad, Robb," she whispers before pecking his cheek and letting him go. His eyes widen when she licks the rest of his blood from her lips, now turned to a mischievous grin. A bit of heat rises to her face. "Next time, prepare your words before speaking. Get some rest, you have a long march ahead."

It takes a second before his senses return. "O-Of course! Good night, Lady Momiji," he stammers before running off, nearly tripping on the crannogs edge. Her tail wags happily as his figure disappears into a large tent.

He 'll be a fine Tengu, there's no doubt about that.

Neck

Roose Bolton sighs as the Stark boy brings his judgement down on the foolish Umber. An heir being sent to the Wall, he thinks, how lucky the Greatjon is to have many sons. In truth, he would have much preferred a harsher punishment for the Smalljon. A man who challenged his authority would be lucky to leave with skin on his toes. And the boy standing there, tall with a silver cloak… He has the same heart as the late Eddard Stark.

…

Late. His hand wanders to a piece of paper in his pouch, something a raven one day arrived with at Dreadfort. It's a simple message carrying immense weight:

Eddard Stark is dead. Robert Baratheon is dead. Joffrey Baratheon sits on the Iron Throne.

Make that what you will.

Stormcrow.

Who in the Other's name is Stormcrow? He doesn't know. But the fact no one else here knows of that fact is… Fascinating. Someone wants him to keep a secret, and luckily for them Roose enjoys being quiet. But that means I'll have to be warier of those wargs, he grimaces. While the Smalljon's actions are disgraceful — challenging a woman to a duel no less — his reasons are sound: those wargs are influencing the Stark boy, their barely-man overlord in an oversized cloak. He suspects that the rabbit woman is not getting close to Roose for any carnal nor passionate reasons. And when the two talked away from the bonfire…

How much longer until it all goes awry? When the other nobles here realises the grip the she-wolf has on the Stark boy, still soft and green like summer? Though I doubt they've rutted one another, it's only a matter of time at this rate. He may be a better leader than Ramsay, but that is not saying much. To have Northmen be ruled by bloody wildlings… It does make him wonder how much of this trouble upon the Wall are true. Another lie from the warg?

His eyes wander to the Umber's weapon of choice: a pair of long-axes. Each may need to be wielded by two hands, but one is enough for the Smalljon. With his strength it would have pierced a steel helm easily, yet it barely dented the warg's shield.

"Geh, I'll have my men escort Jon," the Greatjon grumbles.

"There's no need," Roose interrupts, picking up one of the axes and feeling its weight in his hands; heavier than normal yet not enough to stagger her… "The man insulted my name and I want to be sure he reaches the Wall. Not suggesting trust between your bannermen and the Smalljon, but…"

"Heh, good thinking, Leech Lord." Leech Lord. He forces a smile back at the Greatjon whose cheeks are slowly reddening from either shame or the bottle. Only fools not know the benefits of removing bad blood, though the leeches would probably vomit after tasting the liquor in you. "Nice to see you charitable for once," the Umber chuckles.

The she-wolf's boasts are not empty, he surmises. That makes one of them. The other prefer's a craven's weapon, however… Bowing his head to the Stark, he walks up the causeway beside the Umber, making sure to finish what he started. "Greatjon, it's known throughout the North that your bannermen are fierce fighters through and through."

"Hah! 'Til a she-wolf trips us up," he laughs and Roose laughs along with him, albeit much more half-heartedly. "Well of course we're powerful. The blood of giants flows through us!"

"As such, your men are much more valuable here than back up North." The two stop at a large Umber's tent, its flap wide open to reveal furs and a sleeping camp follower. "So, I propose twenty-four men in total: eight of yours and sixteen of mine. Spare your best for our host here for I can assure you that no wildlings nor bandits will spill his blood."

And as expected, the Greatjon takes the bait with a grin and laughter. "By the Old Gods, who melted that ice in your heart, Roose?" says the man before playfully punching the Bolton's shoulder. Hard. "Well, I'm not one to refuse less work. You sure you'll be ready by morning?"

"Of course," he smiles back, rubbing his shoulder. "Have a good night's rest, Greatjon."

"Oh, I will," the man laughs before entering his tent. Roose's steps are quick for he does not need to hear that oaf's groaning again. Before long he enters his pink tent with his captain Walton at his heels, steel greaves ready as always.

"What do you make of that battle, Walton?" he asks, pulling out a sheaf of paper and a pen from a small chest. "The warg especially."

"Truth be told, I was expecting a more savage fight," the captain chuckles, the metal of his boots creaking along. "I thought she would have ripped out the Smalljon's throat and we'll have a burial in our hands, my Lord."

"Trust me when I say the she-wolf is looking for softer meat," Roose jests, earning some laughter from Walton. Some call him Steelshanks for his boots, but the Bolton knows that the man is loyal only to him. A fine soldier and captain, he thinks, perfect for this task. "By tonight I want you to gather fifteen men, perhaps someone like Damon and Grunt. I want you to then escort the Smalljon back North. At the rate the Stark boy is making, you'll have enough time to rejoin at Moat Calais."

To this the captain raises a brow. "Shouldn't he be escorted by Umbers, my Lord? It would be a waste to spare our-" A single held finger cuts him off.

"The man insulted me," he explains softly, "and I plan to bring him home." Roose smiles at Walton, giving a few seconds for the captain to know its meaning. Another thing he likes from this subordinate is that he can, albeit slower than most, read. He once heard that rabbits can hear an eagle's flap and a wolf hear a burrowing beetle, so why take the chance? Dipping his pen, he writes out the details of the mission:

Move away from the Neck but before Cerwyn. Away from the Kingsroad.

Slay the Umber guards and hide their bodies.

Bring him to Dreadfort as a noble prisoner.

Keep Ramsay away from him.

The captain gives it a once-over before nodding; Roose burns it on a candle. "Have it done tonight as you'll be leaving in the morning."

"Of course. Have a safe night, my Lord." With a small bow, Walton takes his leave.

Roose changes into his less restrictive sleepwear and steps out of the tent for a moment. A clear night with the red comet slashing the sky. It's quiet now, with most of everyone full with dinners and resting in tents. Taking a deep breath, he relishes the faint scent of pines and the cold water. I've removed bad blood yesterday… Tomorrow night, then.