Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, other than my own the original character(s) in this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment so don't expect anything worthy of GRRM. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions/questions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but I have no real schedule. Please review as I'd love useful thoughts :) feedback goes a long way to encouraging my writing.
Chapter 31: Brave Companions
"You're owed nothing, except a slow death..."
– Prince Willam Stark
He was a tall and gaunt man, with a two-feet-long ropey black goatee dangling from his pointed chin – once he'd taken off the goat-shaped helm, his voice became the most interesting thing about their new guest; for his tongue seemed too large for his mouth, causing a lisp and slobber when he spoke.
"My lord Bolton," he'd began without incident, having entered their camp and tent under the flag of truce.
"And who are you, friend?" Willam answered him kindly, all smiles – however fake they were.
"Vargo Hoat," the man bowed flamboyantly with a lopsided smirk. "And your name?"
His host of men were a day's march from their camp, they knew; for the wargs had been them coming.
There had been plans to ambush their party, at first… until one of their number rode to them under a white banner…
"Willam Stark," came the answer, with some hint of winter to it. "Prince of the Sunset…"
"Prinish?" Vargo's lisp was showing, as his eyes widened – not in fear, but greed. His smirk grew tenfold.
"What business do you have here?" Lord Bolton interrupted, his expression betraying now to their guest.
"Lord Lannithter has letht his posth," the man barely managed that sentence.
"And he sends you here? For what purpose?"
"No," Vargo denied. "He doeth not."
"Then what are you here for, Hoat?"
The man's grin grew even uglier, if such a thing were possible.
"The cathellan has outgrown his useth," came the answer, reeking of low cunning.
"Ser Amory Lorch," Willam named the man. He'd heard enough of the pig-faced knight from his wargs.
Vargo's grin turned vicious at mention of that man.
"Harrenhal deservths a better lord," he suggested easily.
"And this better lord," Bolton eyed him coldly, "would be You?"
"Yesth," Vargo gave an ugly nod to match his smile. "My lord…"
"Your forces are outmatched," Roose Bolton began without a pause. "We saw you coming from a day's ride away…"
"How isth that possi-"
"…so tell us, why should we not simply sweep you aside?"
"Lord Bolton has a fine point," Willam agreed with a grin of his own.
"I-" Vargo's grin faded somewhat, replacing with a more vicious glare. "I can get you inside."
Now, there was an offer; knowing there was no love between Hoat and this Ser Amory… it was believable enough too…
"How would you do that?" Aedan broke his silence, standing vigil behind his prince as a statue.
"How indeed," Willam added curiously.
"I havth a plan, my Prince…"
A plan, huh? Well then that was interesting.
Willam poured some wine, pushing the cup over to their guest.
"Tell us everything then," he asked of their newest friend. "Lord Hoat…"
"My Brafe Companions are at your serviths," came his reply, with his smile uglier than sin.
The plan had its risks, no doubt; but there were always risks in war. This was just one of those times.
Harrion Karstark was a young man, but his beard had grown out during his stay of captivity to make him look beyond his years; even though he'd been free to walk the grounds – this great castle had acted as little but a cage, his black cloak with white suns as wings, clipped by a vow to attempt no escape from this place.
He'd often wonder, while walking the colossal walls of Harrenhal at night, if Harren the Black had walked these same walls when Aegon came to his doorstep.
The horn stirred the castle from sleep, and Harrion from his thoughts. He made for the yard to see what the commotion was about. A line of ox carts were rumbling under the portcullis. Plunder, it appeared. The riders escorting the carts spoke in a babble of queer tongues. Their armour glinted pale in the moonlight, and there was a pair of striped black-and-white zorses. The Bloody Mummers. A huge black bear rolled by the onlookers, caged in the back of a wagon. Other carts were loaded down with silver plate, weapons and shields, bags of flour, pens of squealing hogs and scrawny dogs and chickens. And lastly, the carts were filled with prisoners; locked in chains and irons.
Mail glinting beneath a torn red surcoat. At first look, one might've taken him for a Lannister, but when he passed near a torch his device was a silver fist, not a lion.
"Robett?" Harrion found himself saying aloud as he watched the man pass by, for he knew the man. Robett Glover…
His wrists were bound tightly, and a rope around one ankle tied him to the man behind him, and him to the man behind him, so the whole column had to shuffle along in a lurching lockstep. Many of the captives were wounded. If any halted, one of the riders would trot up and give him a lick of the whip to get him moving again. It was hard to judge how many prisoners there were, but their clothing was stained with mud and blood, and in the torchlight, it was hard to make out all their badges and sigils, but some bore the Twin towers. The flayed man of Bolton was chief among them, but there too laid battle-axes and the Sunburst of his own house… Karstark…
Defeated men all, brought low under the Harrenhal portcullis, as Harrion watched on with great interest and growing dread. Had they lost the war already?
The Bloody Mummers began to dismount. Stableboys emerged sleepy from their straw to tend their lathered horses. One of the riders was shouting for ale. The noise brought Ser Amory Lorch out onto the covered gallery above the ward, flanked by two torchbearers. Goat-helmed Vargo Hoat reined up below him.
"My lord cathellan," the sellsword said. He had a thick, slobbery voice, as if his tongue were too big for his mouth.
"What's all this, Hoat?" Ser Amory demanded, frowning something fierce as an eagle flew vigilantly above their heads.
"Captiths," the goat-man replied all too gleefully. "Rooth Bolton thought to croth the river, but my Brafe Companions cut his van to pieceth. Killed many, and thent Bolton running. Thith ith their lord commander, Glover, and the one behind ith Ther Aenyth Frey."
Ser Amory Lorch stared down at the roped captives with his little pig eyes.
Everyone in the castle knew that he and Vargo Hoat hated each other. It was no secret.
"Very well," Lorch said then. "Ser Cadwyn, take these men to the dungeons at once!"
The lord with the mailed fist on his surcoat raised his eyes. "We were promised honourable treatment-" he began in defiance.
"Silenth!" Vargo Hoat screamed at him, spraying spittle all over the place in his rage.
Ser Amory addressed the captives. "What Hoat promised you is nothing to me. Lord Tywin made me the castellan of Harrenhal, and I shall do with you as I please." He gestured to his guards. "The great cell under the Widow's Tower ought to hold them all. Any who do not care to go are free to die here."
His men herded off the captives at spearpoint then. The oxen were being unharnessed, the carts unloaded, while the Brave Companions clamoured for drink and the curious gathered around the caged bear. "Poor beast," one man was muttering just out of hearing. "Look how they've treated you…"
The bear seemed to calm at this one's presence, oddly enough, but Harrion dismissed it as he passed by.
Despite the hour, Harrenhal stirred with fitful life. Vargo Hoat's arrival had thrown off all the routines. Ox carts, oxen, and horses had all vanished from the yard, but the bear cage was still there. It had been hung from the arched span of the bridge that divided the outer and middle wards, suspended on heavy chains, a few feet off the ground. A ring of torches bathed the area in light. Some of the boys from the stables were tossing stones to make the bear roar and grumble.
"Stop that!" One of the Mummers had snapped at them, oddly caring for their ilk, shooing the children away from the bear and its fury.
Across the ward, light spilled through the door of the Barracks Hall, accompanied by the clatter of tankards and men calling for more wine.
A dozen voices took up a song in a guttural tongue strange to andal ears, drinking and eating before a night's sleep. The Lannister dogs were celebrating…
Harrion took the steps down to a dank stone vault, long, gloomy, and windowless. A few torches burned in sconces at the near end where a group of Ser Amory's guards sat around a scarred wooden table, talking and playing at tiles. Heavy iron bars separated them from where the captives were crowded together in the dark.
The smell of the broth brought many up to the bars, hungry; even for a whiff of the food – however poor an excuse for food it was.
Harrion counted eight guards in total, though some held faces he'd never seen here before…
"I want to see the prisoners," he demanded of the nearest guardsman. "You must show me-"
"Oh must I?" The guardsmen scoffed, as his fellows laughed.
"I am an honoured guest in-"
"You a prisoner, tis what ye are!"
"I am Harrison Karstark," he declared. "I will see them, do you hear me!?"
The guardsmen huffed audibly. "Ain't opening the cells, northman; ya hear?"
"I don't care," Harrison growled his reply, pushing past the guard bravely. His eyes scanned the cells.
"Hello there," the man in the Glover tabard greeted him, walking up to the bars and grabbed hold of them.
Harrion eyed the man intently, knowing him as Robett Glover, who gave a swift nod. "How did it come to this Robett?"
One of the guards had been pacing, one standing near the bars, a third sitting on the floor, but the prospect of food drew all of them to the table.
The servants had finished serving up the guards their bowls of soup.
"About bloody time they fed us!"
"That onion I smell?"
"So, where's the bread?"
"Fuck, we need bowls, cups, spoons-"
"No," came a reply from the doorway. "You don't."
One man heaved the scalding hot broth across the table, full in their faces.
Another man did the same; causing the Lannister guardsmen to scream.
One threw a kettle too, swinging it underarm so it spun across the dungeon, raining soup. One caught the Lannister captain in the temple as he tried to rise and draw steel. He went down like a sack of sand and laid still as the grave. The rest were screaming in agony, praying, or trying to crawl off to safety.
Harrion pressed his back against the cell as he saw one of the Mummers draw a blade of pale ice, slicing into one Lannister like a hot knife through butter.
"Fight!" Robett Glover passed him a knife through the bars of his cell, pushing him to join the fray.
Only one of the Lannister guards managed to get a blade out. Harrion danced away from the slash, held his knife, lunging forward to kill his foe with a thrust to the heart. One of the other men brought his blade down; still red with blood, to wipe it clean on the front of his shirt. "Silly little lions," he muttered darkly.
The key to the cell hung from a hook on the wall above the table. One of the Mummers grabbed them, freeing the northern captives.
"Well done Prince," Glover clasped the Mummer on his shoulder. "I was worried there for a moment…
Harrion eyed the man once more, taking in his features; noting familiar smirk on his lips – under the ruse of crude sellsword attire.
"Prince Willam," he muttered in disbelief. "I barely recognized you. You look… different…"
"More handsome than ever you mean?" Willam's smile faded, as all fake things did. "Come, we'll talk later – there's work afoot…"
Once freed, the captives stripped the dead guards of their weapons and darted up the steps with steel in hand. Their fellows crowded after them, bare-handed. They went swiftly, and with scarcely a word. None of them seemed quite so gravely wounded as they had when Vargo Hoat had marched them through the gates of Harrenhal.
"What's happening?" A crease appeared between Harrion Karstark's brows. "We cannot possible fight our way out, and if Bolton's host was-"
"Lord Botlon should arrive before the day is out," Willam explained, clasping the Karstark's shoulder.
"The castle is ours," one of the strangers spoke. "My Lord."
"Who are you men?" Harrion asked warily. "I haven't seen you among the Lannister guards, yet you-"
"My men," Willam answered. "Tywin picked a piss poor fool to hold his castle… pays his men no mind…"
"And the damn castles so massive," one of the Greycloaks added with a smirk. "Hundred men ain't enough to guard it!"
Glover dismissed them both. "Enough," he said. "Let's make an end to this bloody business."
When they climbed back up the winding stair, they found the door guards lying in pools of their own blood. Northmen were running across the ward. Willam heard shouts. The door of Barracks Hall burst open, and a wounded man staggered out screaming. Three others ran after him and silenced him with spear and sword.
"Arrrrghghhh-" one scream echoed out over the courtyard, as the great black bear was ripping apart Lannister men.
"By the gods," Harrion instinctively went for his weapon.
"Hold," Willam stopped him. "It's a friend."
"A-" Harrion faltered. "What!?"
The bear had finished its meal, looking up at them – something glinted in its eyes – then it bolted away after another Lannister.
"This day gets stranger and stranger…."
Willam Stark laughed at that. "Come now Karstark, there's lions to slay!"
There was fighting around the gatehouse. Willam rushed off with Glover and Harrion to join the fighting.
"Bastard!" One shout came as they entered the great northern gatehouse.
It was with a effortless slash that Aedan Greystark cut down the Lannister guardsman, then turned to his friend.
"Ed," He grabbed the man. "Are you-"
"It's nothin," Edwyn dismissed. "Just a cut, stop fretting."
"Don't go getting yourself killing now, Cousin…"
"Prince," Aedan came rushing over with Flash at his heels, and a maw of blood. "You're unharmed?"
"Aye," he answered simply. "How goes it Grey?"
"Tis but a scratch," Edwyn answered with a grin and a bloodied sword. They taken the gatehouse and raised the portcullis wide.
"Bloody Mummers killed Amory's lot in their beds," Aedan explained with bated breath. "The rest at the table too after they were good and drunk."
"The trick with the bear worked a treat," Edwyn added, sheeting his steel absently.
"Lannisters shat themselves," Aedan allowed a huff of amusement at that. "Once the cage was lowered, the beast ripped through em…"
The bear had been a blessing, as it just happened that Hoat had captured the beast; though he'd treated it poorly. As luck would have it one of Willam's wargs had lost his companion during their voyage and was yet to bond with another. It took some convincing, but the man had agreed, if not to simply see the creature freed.
Lord Bolton would arrive before the day was out, with his whole host. The plan had gone off flawlessly, though hardly honourably. There was a time and place for honor.
All morning the Bloody Mummers stripped the dead of their valuables and dragged the corpses to the Flowstone Yard, where a pyre was laid to dispose of them.
"It'll be difficult to hide now," Ashlyn had found her prince watching the pyre burn. "The bear is hardly inconspicuous…"-
"True," Willam supposed as much, some of the southerners were beginning to ask questions about all the animals; muttering of wargs and dark magics and other such nonsense. "On the other hand, Lady Ash, we have a bear now do we not? Just think how the Lannisters will shit themselves!"
"And when the smallfolk come with fire and pitchforks to burn us alive?"
Willam merely smiled his best princely smile.
"What part of Bear did you not grasp, Lady Ash?"
She sighed, rolling her eyes at his childish reasoning.
"You smiled," he insisted then. It was a lie.
"I did not," Ashlyn denied, scowling at him.
"Did too," Willam's smirk didn't falter. "I think my company is growing on you, Lady Ash."
"Must you keep calling me-" She huffed, with a look that could kill. "By the gods, you're insufferable!"
He was laughing when Edwyn found him by the pyre, with a furious Amber leaving the area in a huff.
"Making friends, are you Will?"
"Always cousin," Willam told him with a shrug. "Always…"
The castles fool danced around then, having hacked the heads off two dead knights; swinging them by the hair and making them talk.
"What did you die of?" one head asked. "Pride," replied the second head. As fitting a cause for any lion's demise, one supposed.
It was almost evenfall when the new master of Harrenhal arrived, with a great black wolf at his side. He had a plain face, beardless and ordinary, notable only for his queer pale eyes. Neither plump, thin, nor muscular, he wore black ringmail and a spotted pink cloak. The sigil on his banner looked like a man dipped in blood.
"On your knees for the Lord of the Dreadfort!" shouted his squire, and Harrenhal knelt.
All men, expect for the lords and Prince Willam's men; who stood defiantly – unafraid of the flayed man.
Vargo Hoat came forward then. "My lord, Harrenhal ith yourth."
The lord gave answer, but too softly for most to hear. Robett Glover and Ser Aenys Frey and Harrion Karstark, freshly bathed and clad in clean new doublets and cloaks, came up to join them. "Bolton," Willam wasn't far behind, with his silver circlet back on his head; and a fresh set of clothes – boasting the direwolf of Stark.
Bolton regarded him strangely. Only his eyes moved; they were very pale, the colour of ice. "The scheme worked then?"
"We're alive," Willam declared, looking around at the servants mopping up the stained bloody floors. "So, it appears to have worked."
The Flayed Man merely hummed his agreement. "Lord Hoat," he called on the sellsword. "See to those banners above the gatehouse."
Brave Companions climbed to the ramparts and hauled down the lion of Lannister and Ser Amory's own black manticore. In their place they raised the flayed man of the Dreadfort and the direwolf of Winterfell. And that evening, all men watched the Brave Companions parade Ser Amory Lorch naked through the middle ward.
Ser Amory pleaded and sobbed and clung to the legs of his captors, until one man pulled him loose, and another kicked him down into a pit.
King Harren the Black had wished to do even his bear-baiting in lavish style, it seemed. The pit itself was ten yards across and five yards deep, walled in stone, floored with sand, and encircled by six tiers of marble benches for spectators. The Brave Companions filled only a quarter of the seats, but they'd all come for the spectacle.
"Ser Lorch, was it?" Willam called down to the man from the pits edge, with a great black Direwolf laid at his side.
"I-" The naked pig-faced man stumbled over his words, looking up from the pit. "P- Please, I-"
"You are Lorch, are you not? Speak up man!"
The pig-man nodded frantically in reply as no words came.
"I've heard a great deal about you," Willam's hand rested at Frostbite's pommel, looking down at the man.
He was a sight to behold, stark naked in the muddy pit; reeking of his own piss and crying up a storm. One almost pitied him… almost…
"I- I am a knight!" The pig oinked with defiance.
"And you think a title will save you, piglet?"
"My Prinith," Hoat spoke from his side, all smiles; ugly as sin.
"Aye?" Willam didn't turn to the man as his eyes fixed on the pit.
"Ith one ith-"
"I know," Willam interrupted. "I've heard."
The man had a reputation that was easily enough to learn. His wargs had heard enough, coupled with Hoat's words and those of the castle servants.
"Childslayer," was the title the smallfolk had given him; though none dared speak it within hearing of the man.
"I'm a knight!" The pigman seemed to muster renewed hope. "B- By rights I am owed a fair ranso-"
"You're owed nothing," Willam declared coldly. "Except a slow death…"
Ser Amory's eyes went wide when the sound of metal on metal met his ears.
The iron bars were rusty, ill-kept, but at the pull of a lever they rose up…. to release a beast as black as night…
A roar stunned Amory to his core. The bear was eight feet tall. Greatjon Umber with a pelt, Willam thought. The beast did not have the reach that Greatjon's huge ugly greatsword boasted, though. "Perhaps you killed this one's cubs too, eh Ser Knight? I don't think she likes you much…"
Bellowing in fury, the bear showed a mouth full of great yellow teeth, then fell back to all fours and went straight at Ser Amory.
The knight could've done – well – anything really… but naked and unarmed, he merely fell to his knees and begged to his false gods.
"Father," he preyed as the bear advanced. "Mother, Smith, Warr- ARHHGHHH-"
His prayers turned to bloody screams before that too turned to silence, except or the Mummers cheers.
In the end the bears dark maw of yellow teeth was blackened by manticore blood and Ser Amory Lorch was a bloody pile of flesh, bones and piss.
It was a vast draughty hall, larger even than the throne room in Winterhold. Huge hearths lined the walls, one every ten feet or so, more than he could count, but no fires had been lit, so the chill between the walls went bone-deep. A dozen spearmen in fur cloaks guarded the doors and the steps that led up to the two galleries above. In the centre of that immense emptiness, at a trestle table surrounded by what seemed like acres of smooth slate floor, the Lord of the Dreadfort waited for him.
"My lord," said Willam as he approached, alone, but for Aedan and Wraith at his heels.
Roose Bolton's eyes were paler than stone, darker than milk, and his voice was spider soft. "I am pleased that you've accepted my invitation, Prince. Do be seated." He gestured at the spread of cheese, bread, cold meat, and fruit that covered the table. The Lannister's had left ample food no doubt intended for a siege.
"Will you drink red or white? Of indifferent vintage, I fear. Ser Amory drained Lady Whent's cellars nearly dry."
"A crying shame that," Willam slid into the offered seat slowly, never taking eyes off Bolton. "Red is for Lannisters, I suppose – so I'll take the white…"
"I would prefer water," said Aedan then, refusing a seat at the table.
"Elmar, the white for Prince Willam, water for his man, and hippocras for myself."
Bolton waved a hand at their escort, dismissing them, and the men beat a silent retreat.
Willam reached for the poured cup of white wine as Bolton helped himself to a prune and ate it with small sharp bites. "Do try these, Prince. They are most sweet and help move the bowels as well. Lord Vargo took them from an inn before he burnt it…"
"My bowels move fine, Bolton, and your prunes don't interest me half so much as your intentions."
"Regarding you?" A faint smile touched Roose Bolton's lips. "Whatever do you mean?"
Willam plastered his warmest smile. "You didn't invite for me my company, Lord."
"Didn't I?" That smile again, there for an instant, gone as quick.
"I'm no fool," Willam sipped at his wine – a poor vintage indeed.
"No," Bolton hummed quietly. "That you are not…"
The two men stared at each other in silence for a moment, as Aedan's hand rested atop his pommel.
"You surprise me, young Prince…"
"I do?" Willam stifled his amusement. "Why is that, my Lord?"
"Your temperament is… unexpected…"
Willam merely sipped at his wine, letting the man speak.
"I am reminded of Brandon Stark – you see – when I look at you now."
"The boy?" Willam supposed but thought better of it. "No, not him – then Ned's brother?"
Bolton nodded his reply. "Quite so, the Wild Wolf, so different to our dear Ned…"
The way he spoke 'dear Ned' was near enough to unnerve a man. Willam refused to let it show.
"Is there a point to this," he put down the wine then. "You flatter me, but I've never been one for honied words…"
Bolton put down his water in kind. "You are not what I expected, young Prince…"
"I'll take that as a complement my lord."
"It was meant as one," Bolton countered with unblinking eyes.
"Well then," Willam hummed, taking a bite of food from the table. "Aside from flattery, what is it you desire of me Lord Bolton?"
Roose gave the shadow of a smile. "I wed the Lady Walda Frey whilst I was at the Twins, did you know?"
"Fair Walda," Willam recalled the nickname with a smirk, tearing at some bread as he spoke.
"Fat Walda. My lord of Frey offered me my bride's weight in silver for a dowry, so I chose accordingly."
"Lord Bolton," Aedan spoke then, "forgive me, but if I may ask a question?"
"Speak," is all the answer he received.
"Do we truly intent to give Vargo Hoat his wish of Harrenhal?"
"That was his price," Lord Bolton said simply. "The Lannisters are not the only men who pay their debts."
"As much as I long to discuss your choice of wives, Bolton, is there a point to this?"
"All men have their price," Bolton said coldly, putting down his cutlery. "I would know yours."
His price? What was this, exactly; for the man to ask such a bold question so openly… though the hall was all too empty…
"Do you have family, my lord?"
The question seem to leave the man at a loss.
"I have a bastard," the Leech Lord answered without a care. "I had true son, once…"
"Another?" Willam pressed a little where most men might've faltered from the flayed lord.
"Domeric," Roose spoke the name with some hidden sorrow. "A quiet boy, but most accomplished. He served four years as Lady Dustin's page, and three in the Vale as a squire to Lord Redfort. He played the high harp, read histories, and rode like the wind. Horses… the boy was mad for horses. Not even Lord Rickard's daughter could outrace him, and that one was half a horse herself. Redfort said he showed great promise in the lists. A great jouster must be a great horseman first."
"What happened to him, if I might ask?"
"He was-" Bolton hesitated only briefly, but in that moment he seemed far more human. "He died."
"If you could've saved him from such a fate," Willam spoke plainly. "To protect him, what would you have done?"
The look on Bolton's face shifted once, twice, then settled back to its blank expression.
"Anything," he answered coldly, starring across the table at his guest.
"Then you have your answer," Willam told him then.
At that, the flayed lord pushed over a piece of parchment.
"The crowned stag," Aedan muttered from behind him.
The seal was broken already as Willam unfolded the parchment.
"Charming as always, your fair king…"
"Quite so," is all Bolton offered in reply as he spit a prune pit into his hand and put it aside.
"What news?" Aedan asked, letting his curiosity get the better of him.
"His Grace commands us to march south to join our forces with his," Willam answered with a scoff and a roll of his eyes. "Word travels quickly, for him to have learnt of Harrenhal within so few days; no? Though it would be hard to miss Tywin fleeing with his tail between his legs…"
"Aye," Bolton said quietly. "Elmar, carve our guests a slice off the roast."
Willam was served first but made no move to eat. "So then," he said, "What say you to this king, Lord Bolton?"
"He is the king," Roose said simply as Elmar placed a slice of roast before him, dark and bloody.
"Aye," Willam supposed without a true care for the stag. "We've plans of our own though, do we not?"
Roose Bolton cut his meat methodically, the blood running across his plate. "Just so, and I am not some dog to be commanded by fools…"
There was something else in those words, Willam knew, something underlined and dark…
"Nor am I," came the reply with a scowl. "You have some plan then I wager, my lord?"
Bolton stabbed a chunk of meat with the point of his dagger, put it in his mouth, chewed thoughtfully, then swallowed. "We can achieve both ends…"
"You'd split our forces?" Willam assumed, cutting himself his own slice of meat.
"Would that be wise?" Aedan doubted from his stance.
"It is acceptable," Bolton countered. "We have the strength to hold this castle and still cause havoc in the east…"
"And I suppose you would command the walls, my lord?"
"Who else?" Bolton held out his goblet and Elmar refilled it silently. "His Grace called on the Starks, not the Boltons."
"I'm certain King Stannis doesn't care who leads the men," Aedan frowned at that.
"No doubt," Bolton gave a dry chuckle. "He knows little of the North, I fear. Your Prince is best suited for his task…"
"Leaving you at our rear," Aedan voiced his doubts. "And lions at our front, no?"
Lord Bolton frowned, a deep thing, full of malice. "I would thank you to not question my word."
"Enough of that," Willam waved it away. "Forgive my man, he worries too much and-"
"But-"
"No," Willam snapped, his eyes speaking a thousand words.
"I understand," Aedan lowered his eyes. "My apologies, Lord Bolton…"
Roose glared for a moment, then returning to his meal; not rewarding the Greystark with a reply.
"How many do you think to send, Lord Roose?"
"Karstark and Glover are eager for a taste of vengeance," he proposed easily, taking another chuck of meat and chewing.
"Vengeance?" Willam hummed at that. "Karstark is understandable, but what do the Glovers-"
"You haven't heard?" Bolton feigned his surprise.
"Heard what, exactly?"
"Word arrived just the other day from Riverrun," Roose explained as he finished his meat and placed his dagger down on the table. "Deepwood Motte has fallen to the Greyjoy forces, as has Moat Cailin… so you see… our friends the Glovers have quite the lot to be upset about, do they not?"
"The Greyjoys!?" Aedan spat at the news.
"You kept this from me…"
"You wound me Prince," Bolton denied. "I only learnt of it myself the other day, and it simply slipped my mind…"
Lies as bold as the meat was bloody. "No matter," Willam dismissed his anger. "I'll take what men I see fit and entrust Harrenhal to your tender care…"
"That seems prudent," Bolton began. "You shall-"
"-just remember to lock the gates when I'm gone, least it slip your mind…"
Roose stared blankly at him, finding no humour in his jest – nor in his tone.
Willam took his leave at that, getting up from the table and leaving Lord Bolton to finish his meat alone. Wraith and Aedan were hot on his heels; all too eager to leave the great hall as Bolton's eyes followed their exit. The air felt fresher outside of that hall… less foul… as thoughts of the battles to come danced in the prince's head.
My Note(s): So, how many of the old readers shit themselves thinking Bolton was going to have Willam killed here? :) That aside, another short-ish chapter if one considers 5k-ish words to be short (I do) giving the PoV from Harrenhal and learning of news from the North. The Greyjoy's have attacked, just as they did in canon – even without Theon joining them, Balon was plotting even before that – so their attack still goes ahead. Just without Theon taking Winterfell cos he's with Robb.
Oh, and Willam's men have a bear now because fuck it, wargs, figured we can do something cool with a damn bear! Why not?
Force Smuggler: Theon is an interesting character, considering he hasn't fallen foul of Ramsay's graces atm he's still the cocksure arrogant kraken he was before being brutally taken down a peg in canon. The big issue for Theon is, technically since his father has broken the peace, it means his head is set for the chopping block.
Mangahero18: As is answered in the chapters before this (and in reviews) a few hundred times before by the time one reaches this chapter, the Sunset Islands are a month's sail East of what you know as the Thousand Islands. They aren't the Thousand Islands nor the Summer Islands and the Empire isn't Yi Ti either :P
It's all explained quite clearly in-story for those who read it. I won't be replying to these questions anymore; the answers are there already.