Change in update schedule due to my work. Lament of Snow and Magic and Hero for the Maiden to update on Saturdays instead of Fridays. A Piece of Divinity and The Arc Moon System will be updated on Wednesdays instead of Tuesdays.
This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.
23rd day of the 9th Moon.
Outside Harrenhal
"Lord Bolton." A knight in Merman livery gazed at him, face unreadable, but Roose could feel the caution and distrust practically oozing from the man. "Your presence is a rare sight in the trenches. In fact, I don't think I've seen you visit here before."
Roose Bolton looked down from atop his horse at the knight, the evening sun barely enough to show him the extended siege lines. The Northern army had arrived a fortnight ago. Only a couple of days ago, they finished constructing catapults and trebuchets, uselessly battering the high walls and massive gatehouse.
"I find it prudent to make sure all is as it should be, Ser Wendel."
"Aye, and I find it reckless that you would ignore the large garrison and the two gates in favor of fully encircling the castle. Harrenhal is a massive fortress, and our lines are stretched thin." The Manderly knight's gaze turned even colder, "You have placed all of my men in front of the main gate, conveniently close to the mustering grounds and stables. The same is true for what remains of Hornwood and the Flints while you, My Lord, hold the less fortified eastern gate. Expecting a sally out?"
Roose's face was as placid as ever as he gazed at the lines. Harrenhal only had two gates; the main one faced west deeper into the Riverlands, while the eastern one faced the Crownlands. Harren Hoare had designed it in such a way so as to swiftly attack the Storm Kings or quell a rebellious Riverlord.
With the army of the North numbering at fifteen thousand, including two thousand Frey and another thousand from other Riverlords, it was possible to fully surround the castle, but as the Manderly knight stated, it was reckless and unneeded. Simply splitting the army into two to block both gates and having outriders patrolling the rest of the walls would have been the wise thing to do.
But Roose Bolton did not need wisdom for what he had in mind.
"You must expect anything to happen when at war, Ser. I am certain the castle has a hidden sally port or three that could be used to devastating effects. We may be stretched thin, but so is our enemy who needs to man the extensive walls."
"Is that also why we are not sapping the castle?" Ser Wendel Manderly scoffed, and Roose's patience was running thin - despite his best efforts, the Manderly forces and their allies were still the most numerous of the Northern army, and he could not afford to appear malicious with his plans. "None of the trebuchets could even reach the top of the walls unless we place them well within scorpion range."
"Lord Tully's orders were clear: do not storm the castle. Sapping it would require far more manpower than what we have. Encircling it and starving them out is far more appealing than throwing men at those high walls. Would you disobey a command from the royal uncle? Or would you like to have your men grab shovels and start digging?"
"… As you say, My Lord."
Roose turned away, leading the few horses he brought from the North. Whatever cavalry the army had was lost at the Green Fork and other engagements. His own lancers were lightly armored, suitable for scouting and as outriders, yet he needed them elsewhere; there needed to be a line of communication between himself and potential allies - ones that would cause him to lose his head if it were ever revealed.
Even if Roose truly wanted to preserve the Northern army and send outriders everywhere, they had none left - none of the other lords had any horse aside from the lord's personal retinue. All they could depend on was the Riverlords sending them word of enemy movement every few days - in fact, there ought to be a rider coming soon with the latest news.
The only hostile army within three hundred miles was Kevan Lannister's army at Maidenpool, and Roose had an understanding with the Lion of Lannister and his lesser brother.
He made his way to his pink tent, sending away his men so he could recover in peace. Pouring himself a cup of hippocras, the Flayed Lord sipped it leisurely and idly wondered if he should get himself a cupbearer - his last one had died to a stray arrow at Darry. 'There are always youths willing to accept the most menial of tasks,' Roose mused as he prepared his leeches.
His blood had been acting up a lot more lately, and Roose knew the consequences of neglecting his leeching. Draining the rest of his cup, he shrugged off his black ringmail and the rest of his clothing before administering the leeches on himself - he was not one to ever trust his body to others.
Once done, Roose laid on his bed and closed his eyes.
"Letters for you, My Lord."
Roose Bolton opened his eyes and gazed at his captain of the guards. Walton knew not to interrupt his leeching unless it was a dire matter. Judging by the sweat on his brow and slight shaking of his captain's nose, things that no one would notice unless they had known the dour man for a long time, it appeared that something dire did indeed happen.
"Leave it on my desk," Roose closed his eyes and returned to rest - he could not afford to stop his leeching now; the necessities of war and leading a military campaign had heavy demands on his time. Yet he was already feeling the cost of his negligence. His blood was boiling, and his temper turned volatile, especially after having to deal with Manderly and the other lords complaining.
Not hearing Walton's reply, Roose opened a single eye, causing the man to nod and leave a couple of scrolls on his desk, one with a pink seal and another with the blue twin bridges. There was also a letter with no seal. Most likely ravens from his wife and lackwit of a son, so those could wait. The letter, however…
Once Walton left the tent, Roose sighed and attempted to return to his leeching, focusing on pushing out the bad blood and leaving the good humors. It was the same exercise he had done for what felt like an eternity yet it had not been as effective as of late. Ever since Rickard's granddaughter escaped King's Landing, his blood had raged in an old, long-forgotten way. It was a nostalgic feeling, but not one he relished, for he had vowed to leave that existence behind.
A peaceful land, and a quiet people.
That was all he ever desired, no matter how much the call pestered him. If he had to lie and betray others, play the human game of politics, kill his unworthy children, and usurp more power just to make sure he enjoyed his peace, then so be it.
Perhaps he did feel a tinge of regret at the loss of Domeric. For once, Roose decided to do something different and allow his Ryswell wife to raise the child. He was unworthy anyway and would need to be culled in time, yet it was the first child to be born in some time and live past infancy. Bethany Ryswell had never allowed her child out of her sight, and Roose entertained her emotionally driven mind for a time. It did not matter how Domeric would grow to be, for his fate was already sealed the moment he opened his brown eyes.
Such a shame his trueborn son did not inherit the sign; to think Ramsay would be the one, it left him no choice but to remove the useless, no matter how brilliant they shined. Roose might not have done the deed himself, but he was the one to let slip to Domeric about his bastard brother, and he was the one who supplied Ramsay with the poison. Reminding Ramsay of his place was but a ruse for his bastard to do his dirty work.
None as accursed as the kinslayer… accursed by whom? Why would Roose ever fear the gods' reprisal when they would never catch his soul?
His habit of practicing the old ways of the first night was purely pragmatic; Roose was not arrogant to believe that his two wives dying in childbirth and all his stillborns were not the result of his blood. Everything changed the day Ramsay's mother brought that child to his castle, and he saw those same eyes he found each day in the mirror staring at him. Roose knew that he had found his heir.
It would have been far more convenient if it had been Domeric and the alliances he brought, but now he was stuck with a lackwit to use once the time came - an ugly human with ugly tendencies and without the cunning to hide his urges. Roose would have much work waiting for him after the switch.
Feeling too distracted to properly circulate his bad humors, Roose sighed and rose from the bed, carefully removing the leeches to reuse them later. After pulling on his pink doublet, Roose set his gaze on the letters waiting by his table.
The one from his wife was short and concise - Walda was with child. His tittering and squeaky wife at least proved herself fertile. It remained to be seen if his seed would prove healthy enough for the child to live to be born. He was about to throw it in the fire when he noticed more on its back, giving him pause. The Northmen recaptured Moat Cailin. There were no details, yet Roose expected another letter to come by the rider. Ultimately it did not matter to Roose; the Ironborn would need to be purged from the North regardless.
He set the scroll on fire using the reading candle before glancing at the next scroll. Roose ignored it in favor of the letter; he had no patience for his bastard at the moment.
Opening the letter, he found another intriguing offer from Tywin Lannister. His lips quivered upwards as he realized how desperate the Lion's cause really was; now that Jamie Lannister was free, Lord Lannister had abandoned all pretenses and urged him to betray Robb Stark. The Freys were seething when they learned the king had taken a paramour, yet for all the grumbling and threats they threw, not one Weasel dared make a complaint: Robb Stark had not called off the promised betrothal.
Perhaps if Tywin Lannister managed to defeat Stannis Baratheon, then Roose would entertain such a venture with the help of the Freys. In the meantime, aligning himself with the Lions was a fool's gambit, and his continued loyalty to House Stark was by far the most profitable choice.
He would need many allies aside from the Freys for such a situation as to decapitate the Northern nobility to succeed - even then, the Freys, his surprisingly closest allies so far, would need something momentous to turn their cloaks so suddenly. Tywin Lannister promised many things in his correspondence yet he had yet to deliver a single thing.
After setting the letter on fire, his eyes fell to the last scroll, and Roose could already feel trepidation. His instincts screamed at him, which never boded well. What mad scheme had his bastard done this time? Knowing Ramsay, his luck could have quite possibly ran out, which would be a pity. Securing Sansa Stark would be a strong hand for House Bolton, whether for a betrothal or even for the prestige as the ones known for saving the King's sister… if the fool did not kill her in one of his inane games.
Opening the scroll, he froze, closed his eyes, counted from one to ten, then back to one, and read the scroll again, before groaning as he reached for his decanter of hippocras and drank, not even bothering to search for his cup. Roose Bolton's cold eyes inspected the scroll one last time before throwing it into the fire and sighing tiredly.
Another road closed; it seemed he would be counting on Walda a lot sooner.
The death of his bastard was mighty inconvenient, yet in the grand scheme of things, it did not truly matter. Roose Bolton still had a long life ahead of him before he needed to switch, and his current position provided him with plenty of opportunities.
New plans would need to be made, especially against this unknown variable the princess had brought to their homeland and even wed. Grabbing his wine, Roose hesitated before bringing out a cup and pouring himself a generous portion. As he sipped leisurely and stared at the burning candle, he decided that, yes, Ramsay's death was no true loss. He had always entertained ridding himself of the lackwit, for even if he wore his skin once this vessel's time expired, there was a risk that whatever clouded Ramsay's mind may affect him as well.
Yes, this was for the best. If Walda Frey were half as fecund as her mother, and considering her father's fertility, then Roose would have a few decades to prepare himself a proper heir. Now, he needed to ensure this war ended in the most favorable way possible to House Bolton. A letter would need to be sent to his master-at-arms, now acting castellan; resisting the princess and her sorcerer would be foolish, so surrender would be optimal to keep his forces intact.
Once he proved himself to the King, he could demand reparations for the unjust damage the Princess recked on his men and bastard. In the morn, perhaps, for now, he needed rest.
Just as Roose disrobed to retire for the night, the sounds of shouting and clanging of steel echoed through the camp. With no time to put on his armor, and cursing his lack of page, let alone a squire, Roose grabbed his sword and dagger before rushing out of his tent to find Walton hurrying from the perimeter.
"What is it?"
"We're under attack, My Lord. From the north."
The north?
"Who, and how many?"
"There are hundreds of horsemen and thousands of foot. It's too dark to tell who."
"Very well, rouse the men and prepare for battle."
Before Walton could do more than a salute, the sound of galloping horses approached them, along with shouts and curses. Roose turned to the approaching threat and instantly felt ire as he recognized the lion of Lannister on a red banner leading the charge. The warrior at the front was covered in blood and had lost his helmet.
Although Roose had never met the man, it was simple to recognize him even with his short hair.
Why in the Seven Hells was Jaime Lannister attacking them here?
Jaime
"Move, move, MOVE!"
Jaime roared at his exhausted men, yet by leading from the front and with Bolton's garish pink tent within sight, he managed to cajole his horsemen into charging straight through the now panicked Northern camp while the rest of the foot followed.
In hindsight, it had been an utterly mad idea to ferry three thousand men, a thousand of them horse, up the Bay of Crabs and to Harroway. The rest of the army that his uncle brought, and supplemented by Mooton's troops, were marching from Maidenpool as fast as they could, though Jaime did not need them for this night attack.
The two days of sailing and hard rowing to reach the Trident, followed by another five days of forced march to arrive here, could crumble the spirits of most men. And it did. Jaime had promised the men enough gold and loot for them to drown in, and even then, he had to quell a couple of mutinies, especially from the Rivermen.
In the end, it was all worth it.
The Northern Army outnumbered them, yet it was as Jaime thought and hoped; Roose Bolton truly was a lackwit. Spreading his army so thinly allowed Jaime to attack any portion of it and retain the numbers advantage in each engagement. Of all the available targets to him, Bolton was the natural choice.
It may seem counterintuitive to what Jaime had been forced to learn when he so blindly charged after the Blackfish, but this was different. There was no chasing after glory here, but simply taking an opportunity to hopefully turn this war to their side while destroying the North's army in the Riverlands.
Most importantly, it would force Robb Stark to abandon his campaign in the Westerlands and return east to face him. Tywin Lannister might not care for the well-being of his bannermen or people, but Jaime did. He could see the writing on the wall despite being a thousand miles away; if a Lannister did not secure victory soon, especially against the Northmen, their bannermen would revolt.
There were advantages to surprise attacks, even though pulling off one was incredibly difficult. Putting on armor took time, doubly more so, finding your shield and all your arms, not even mentioning grouping up and forming battle lines. The cover of the dark made everything even harder and more confusing.
And now Jaime's gamble was paying off.
He slashed at a Bolton man-at-arms, cutting his undefended neck. The rest of his men threw torches at tents and cut a bloody swathe through the unprepared Flayed Men. Suddenly, Jaime's horse stumbled - after being forced on a boat for the first time in its life, the beast was still uneasy on its hooves. Before Jaime could recover, a Bolton man with a poleaxe slashed at him and would have taken his right leg clean off if he had not jumped.
Instead, he struck his horse, dropping it dead with a pained scream. Jaime jumped quickly to his feet; his helmet was lost in the tumble, but his sword and shield were ready to attack.
And he found his target barely dressed, surrounded by his men.
No words were spoken; speed was of the essence - the more seconds passed, the more the Northmen had time to take up arms and armor and form up and come to Bolton's defense. Jaime charged at the poleaxe-wielding warrior while the rest of the Bolton men attacked his knights. Surprisingly, Roose Bolton was also fighting instead of retreating; brave but foolish, for it made his goal far easier.
His opponent was solid on his feet yet attacked in the most standard stances taught in the yard. Jaime dodged the first strike and aimed a slice at the man's legs, yet the following clang and rebound told him the man was wearing solid steel greave. Sadly, no matter how much he wished otherwise, Jaime could not cut through armor with his regular castle-forged sword. Yet the force of his blow was still powerful enough to cause the man to stumble. Before Jaime could capitalize on his advantage, he found himself face to face with the unsettling eyes of the Leech Lord.
"You are not supposed to be here, Ser Jaime Lannister."
Jaime was far too busy gulping for air to bother with a witty reply, opting to cut at the half-naked man instead, yet Bolton was surprisingly agile, for a man in his forties who looked like he had not picked up a sword for years. Slippery as an eel, the man lunged with his dagger like a viper, and Jaime barely managed to jerk out of the way, earning himself a gash on the face. Half a heartbeat slower, and instead of slicing his cheek, Jaime would have lost an eye.
Yet it barely phased the Kingsguard. Despite the bone-deep weariness, he was still quick on his feet. The overhead strike by the poleaxe warrior was promptly dodged. Jaime bashed the warrior with his shield and followed up with a quick poke at his throat before he could recover. While the poleaxe-wielding man fell, gurgling, Jaime tried to twist out of the way of yet another blow coming from Bolton. He failed – the Flayed Man was too fast, and his blade smashed at his shoulder, eliciting a pained grunt. The armor had done its job admirably, but experience told Jaime it would doubtlessly leave a nasty bruise.
His own men managed to keep the rest of the Flayed Men at bay, earning Jaime precious seconds to face off against Bolton.
"You are foolish and reckless." The words were emotionless as Bolton paused to stare at him with a pair of unsettling, ghastly eyes, but Jaime could swear he heard a sliver of annoyance in his tone. "You have no chance of victory here. Surrender, Ser Jaime, and I shall ensure you are treated as befitting your station."
There was no way in the Seven Hells Jaime would ever allow himself into captivity again, but if Roose Bolton wanted to capture him instead of slaying him, that simply made this easier.
Before Jaime could lunge at his foe with a stab, horn blasts erupted from the castle, and the sound of horses galloping and men hollering for battle approached from the looming walls of Harrenhal.
"Looks like Lorch finally got off his arse." Jaime twitched sideways as a bearded axe came crashing into his shield, courtesy of yet another armored Bolton man, causing him to grimace when his shield cracked. "Your men sure do like their axes."
Jaime mule kicked the axe wielder and threw his shield at Roose, who scrambled out of the way of the jagged edges, before grabbing his rondel dagger and lunging at the armored axman, stabbing in the gap of the hastily–and poorly strapped gorget.
"That's enough of this farce, kill him!"
As Jaime clambered to his feet, he found the normally placid face of Roose Bolton contorted in rage, and were his pale eyes turning red? He swiftly dodged away from a sword strike, noticing that the rest of his foes were not heavily armed, with simple arming swords and spears at most.
"Protect Ser Jaime!"
Roars and heavy footsteps came from behind, and Jaime retreated to join his men. A glance around him showed that the entire Bolton camp was in flames; the men either dead or fled. Ser Robert Brax, one of the few knights of renown who joined him on this mad venture, grabbed his shoulder to steady him, and Jaime nodded gratefully. Then, as one, they advanced at the surprisingly steadfast Bolton men, though the hastily-made battle line quickly broke up once more as everything turned chaotic in the dark.
Roose Bolton must indeed command their loyalty or fear, for they fought like demons, including the man himself.
Jaime had never expected so much trouble from a half-naked man wielding nothing but a sword and dagger. The Leech Lord did not seem to tire. In fact, the more he fought and slayed his men, the quicker and more precise his strikes were, and Jaime could not help but shudder as he clashed with the man and stared at those eerie pale eyes gradually turning crimson.
The man's face was gaining harsh lines, and his lips were thinning. When Jaime punched him in the jaw, he could feel his sharp teeth through his mail mittens.
What kind of monster was he fighting?!
Eventually, Roose's lack of armor cost him dearly when one of his men aimed a crossbow at him, nailing him in the heart. The men gawked when the Leech Lord uttered a guttural screech yet continued fighting anyway, slaying three of his men and Jaime could have sworn he saw their blood flying unnaturally towards the Leech Lord. He swiftly jabbed at Bolton's thigh, causing him to stumble before Jaime retreated and shouted.
"Crossbows!"
The pause had given the other crossbowmen time to aim at Bolton, and they unceremoniously turned him into a pincushion, dozens of bolts sticking out of his torso. The shrill shriek turned so sharp and inhuman that Jaime's ears started ringing, yet Roose Bolton would not fall!
So Jaime lunged forth, his sword swinging. It was a practiced motion aimed at the exposed pale neck before him; he had swung the blade in his hand hundreds of thousands of times. The unholy wails abruptly stopped as the decapitated head rolled on the ground.
As he lifted the Lord of the Dreadfort's head by his long hair, Jaime nearly threw it in the burning tents when the eyes blinked at him, and the lips moved wordlessly, hatefully, at him.
Then, a cloud so dark it seemed to devour the ruddy light of the flames oozed out of both the head and its corpse, amalgamating into a hideous monstrous shape with familiar pale eyes, yet its entire body was crimson. Like blood.
Jaime staggered backward, even as the rest of his men bundled together and muttered curses and prayers.
The monster seemed skinless. Like it was flayed. Before they could do anything, it screeched and blasted off into the skies.
"Mother above."
"What kind of heathen monstrosities do the Northmen keep?"
"This is not the time for chatter," Jaime rebuked, pushing the terror down and trying to get his shaky knees back in control. "We must clear the rest of the camps and reinforce Lorch if we ever want to be rid of the Northmen in one fell swoop."
The men were still shaken yet hollered in agreement, and within the hour, Jaime was again fighting against desperate Northmen. With Lorch's seven thousand-strong garrison, it appeared victory was well within their grasp, especially as they approached the Main Gate where most of the Northmen were camped and found a knight in manticore livery leading a score of men and slaying a knight in merman livery. The men rejoiced, and Jaime felt ecstasy better than any night he shared with Cersei as he roared with them in victory.
Until an unholy howl roared back.
It was as if they were in a dream, and Jaime watched from a distance as the clouds blocking the full moon broke and a figure appeared on top of a hill. The roar came again, and he realized it was a howl–a wolf's howl– that was answered by many more until suddenly, a mass of dark shapes dashed out of the darkness and descended on their nearest target.
Lorch's army.
All the horses reared up in terror, and Jaime was glad he and his men were on foot as many men were thrown off from their steeds and ran like the very hounds of hell were after them. Looking at the sight, it may very well be true as a monstrous she-wolf led her pack to fall upon Lorch and his men, ripping them apart with claws that ripped chainmail as if it were paper and jaws that bit through heavy plate like it was chicken bones. The terrible sounds of armor getting ripped apart by the direwolf while her smaller cousins tore at the flesh made Jaime queasy. The screams of the dying did not help, nor did the fact the wolves did not target any of the Northmen who seemed to rally themselves.
"Ser Jaime! We need to do something before the Northmen rally and retaliate." Ser Robert Brax's voice did not quiver, yet Jaime could see the fear in his eyes as he turned to him. "We are still outnumbered, and the men will drop from exhaustion or surrender if forced to fight once more."
Jaime knew that was the truth, but what could they possibly do against such beastly foes? No horse would dare charge a pack of wolves, let alone one led by a wolf larger than most horses. Before Jaime could make a decision he would regret, one of his men grabbed his attention.
"Ser! There is a disturbance by the gate."
They were about two hundred yards from the main gate, yet the moon's shining light was strong enough to show dozens of men fighting whatever guards remained from the garrison before a stream of horsemen charged out. Jaime rubbed his eyes in disbelief, but he could have sworn he saw a slight figure with dark hair and grey eyes staring at him as they galloped away.
Was that?
Any suspicion on the identity of the figure evaporated as the wolves abandoned their prey and dashed towards the figures running from the castle.
Unexpectedly, the wolves did not attack but seemed to group up around their target. Like a shaggy honor guard. Jaime just stood there and watched as the pack escorted the figure out of the battlefield, the horse-sized direwolf holding the rear. Then the beast turned to face him, and Jaime found himself looking at the same grey eyes as the girl from earlier.
Challenging him.
"Ser? Your orders?"
"Leave them. The wolves are gone."
Even the Northmen seemed to prefer escaping than staying behind and facing the mauled remains of the garrison - as if the heavens were playing a jest on them, the clouds returned and blocked the moonlight, hiding how many of their men remained from the Northmen. "Round up any prisoners you find. The day is ours."
As the men tiredly cheered, many of them simply collapsed where they stood, and Jaime could not blame them, for even he had sat on a fallen log to catch his breath. For an entire sennight, he had driven them like a slavemaster would drive his slaves to make it all the way here while dodging or slaying patrols by the Riverlords. This entire mad venture was a huge gamble that ultimately paid off, though not as decisively as he had hoped.
Still a far better endeavor than a wild goose chase in the Crownlands searching for a widow to take hostage like his father desired.
Nevertheless, as morning arrived and the butcher's bill was taken, Jaime thought the effort was still worth it. Of his three thousand men, nearly a thousand perished to the Northmen while five hundred were wounded, half of those heavily so and would no longer be able to fight. Of Lorch's seven thousand, all one thousand horses were scattered, and they would need to spend days, if not weeks, rounding them up again. The men themselves did not suffer many losses, for the wolves did not linger after tearing their commanders apart; they had found Amory Lorch's mangled form surrounded by a score of similarly shredded corpses near the Manderly camp. Their armor did not protect them; the claw and bite marks on the remains of castle-forged steel had caused many men to shudder in fear.
Jaime had come across Robb Stark's direwolf twice, first when it was but a pup in Winterfell, then a year later in the Whispering Woods. It had grown from the size of a dog to a pony at that time. Nearly ten moons had passed since then, and Jaime shuddered to imagine how big and fearsome it had grown. Judging by the sight of the direwolf they faced last night, most likely larger than a fucking bear.
Of the Northmen, it was difficult to know their full numbers before the assault, yet they counted five thousand dead and took two thousand more prisoners, most of them Rivermen. One of the captains of the garrison claimed there were ten thousand total, yet another said it was near fifteen. That still meant thousands of Northmen had escaped and could be rallied in time.
Regardless, while Jaime would have loved to destroy the entire army, this was still a glorious victory that might very well turn the tide of the war. With the North's presence cut down in the Riverlands, it would only be a matter of time until they managed to sow discord into Edmure Tully's forces.
Still, to think that Arya bloody Stark had been right under their noses for so long, and no one had noticed. If Lorch wasn't already dead, Jaime would have killed him for incompetence. Perhaps it was the Seven having a laugh by having the pig-like bastard die to a little girl's pet.
Jaime yawned, dearly wishing for a soft, feathered bed. Or a bath… aye, a hot soak sounded heavenly, especially after facing the monstrous form of Roose Bolton that still gave him shivers as he thought about it - Jaime was sure that he and his men would be visited by night terrors for many nights that would feature a red monster with pale eyes.
Still, a bath… Alas, the pesky layers of armor that would require a quarter of an hour to remove prevented him from having either.
"Ser Jaime!" A squire ran to him as Jaime and his entourage combed through the camps for the war chest. "The castle!"
"What is it? Did it collapse?"
"No, Ser! The remaining men, cooks, smiths, and everyone else are running outside!"
Jaime was far too exhausted to deal with this shit, yet as he dragged his weary body to the path leading to the main gate, he found a lot of smallfolk rushing away from the castle. All of them were dressed in night clothes or hastily-pulled on cloaks, and the scullery maids were screaming in fear.
"What happened?" He grabbed a guard as he stumbled in fear. "Why are you abandoning your posts?"
"It's the curse! The castle has unleashed all of its rats and vermin and crows and ravens! They are tearing us apart!"
Jaime would have ordered the fool to be flogged for lying if he did not recall his fight with the demonic Roose Bolton. As he stared at the castle, he found a massive swarm of rats running up and down the walls like maggots on a rotting corpse. Murders of crows flew overhead, screaming and cawing at them with beady red eyes.
The eldest son of Tywin Lannister groaned tiredly, realizing that his dreams of a hot soak were running further and further away.
A*H*M
"Hurry, we must hurry. The Princess is ill."
Ser Wylis Manderly nodded at Donnel Locke's words as the heir to Old Castle held onto the slim form of Arya Stark in his saddle. Wylis could still see it in his mind when they escaped from the castle, how the Northern army was set upon so treacherously. He prayed for his fellow Northmen's safety; for his brother, Wendel, and many cousins serving in the army.
Yet there was nothing they could do aside from getting to safety. They had already encountered a few contingents of Glover troops led by an injured Robett Glover; the heir to Deepwood Motte did not know what happened to the rest of the Northmen as his camp was on the outskirts.
"Quickly now, we need to keep moving."
Donnel Locke urged the wounded Glover men as they traveled deeper into the Riverlands. Wylis' eyes fell again on the Princess; never in his wildest dreams would he have thought their savior would be Arya Stark, of all people, that she was as much a captive in that cursed castle as they were was a shock! For too long, they had been held in that castle, and with the arrival of more men who joined Tywin Lannister, Wylis had thought all hope was fading away.
Yet when he caught several rats sneaking into his room with messages on their paws, Wylis's hopes soared, even if he had no idea who the sender was. It took a lot of time to warn the rest of the prisoners and prepare them for a potential escape.
That the mastermind turned out to be Arya Stark had shocked all the Northmen to the core, especially when she showed unnatural but very welcome abilities. This brought them to their current situation, riding on stolen horses as fast as they could and their Princess incapacitated. Her direwolf loped with them, a bit of a distance away to give the horses space, though Wylis was certain every horse within a league should be screaming in terror when the wolf did the same trick that caused the Lannister horse to panic.
Regardless, the direwolf seemed calm, almost friendly, her silvery eyes unmoving from her unconscious master.
"We need to rest until the Princess wakes up," Donnel announced as they arrived at a clearing near a pond surrounded by woodlands.
There were hills nearby that shielded them from sight, and Wylis had to agree with the young lordling; they had been galloping like mad for two days with little to no rest at all, and the late afternoon sun was slowly turning to evening. Their horses also needed rest, or else they would risk injury, and without their steeds, they could not hope to outlast any pursuers.
"Very well, let's set our camp here."
Sighs of relief sounded out as the men dismounted, and the smallfolk that the Princess gathered began working on the odd jobs required from a camp: Gathering firewood, clearing bushes, setting up tents, and cooking fires. There were about a hundred escaped prisoners; nearly half were Northmen nobles and warriors, while the rest were cooks, smiths, daytalers, farriers, and so on from Harrenhal. Arya Stark had been very busy and sneaky indeed to have been capable of gathering so many supplies and loyal followers right under the Lannisters' noses.
The wolves had long run off during their escape, yet the direwolf waited until they had laid the Princess in a comfortable cot before slinking away, most likely to hunt or scout, Wylis did not know. The massive beast was unnerving, yet he was glad she was on their side.
"If I'm not mistaken, Arya Stark is in her wolf right now." Wylis stared at Harrion Karstark as if he had grown another head before he explained. "Our old kennel master was a warg, though none knew except for my father and the greybeards. I learned it the hard way during a hunt, and a wolf nearly killed me. Old Jack suddenly collapsed, and the wolf stopped, its yellow eyes changing to the same color as the kennel master's blue."
"By the Seven! Such…"
"Terrific powers?"
"I was going to say witchcraft, but sure. If our Stark Princess has such powers, then there's no way it is witchcraft." Wylis twitched his mustache as he bit into some hard tack, grimacing at the lack of taste - what he would do for some lampreys. "To say otherwise would be treason!"
Harrion chortled hoarsely, and the rest of the men joined them. All of them would have been honor-bound to protect Arya Stark at all costs simply because she was their Princess, but after what she did for them?
"So what is wrong with the Princess?" Robbet Glover asked as he slowly stitched his cut arm, but his worried gaze was set on Arya's still form, her eyes wide open and shining a strange white light - they would have thought her dead if not for her steady breathing. "You mentioned it's been a day since you broke out, and she was fine until you left the castle, right?"
"Aye, she mentioned something about leaving the Lannisters a final gift but then collapsed. If it were not for Ser Donnel's quick reflexes, she would have fallen off her horse."
They nodded to the Northern Knight, who suddenly stood up, his hand trailing to the dagger on his belt. The worrying act caused everyone to stand, and Wylis stared at the distant woods as the trees parted to show a man looking at them in surprise. He was not one of theirs, yet he looked like a Northman.
One of his knights from White Harbor, a cousin of his wife's named Ser Ondrew Woolfield, placed a spear near the man's neck. "Name yourself!"
"Are you Northmen? I'm Alyn, a household guard at Winterfell." The claim caused many to look strangely at him, "I was led here by a direwolf, one that I am sure was only the size of a pup the last I saw it."
"How do we know you tell the truth? All of Westeros knows about the Starks and their direwolves."
"It's fine, he speaks the truth." Wylis nearly cricked his neck as he turned to Arya Stark, who groaned as she held her head, yet she seemed healthy enough for a girl who spent the better part of a year in captivity - though her face was too pale, and he could see her rubbing away at blood from her nose. "Tell me, Alyn. Do you recognize me?"
"Arya Stark!" The man stepped closer, but Ondrew would not budge until Arya waved him away. Alyn approached yet kept a respectful distance as Wylis, Harrion, and the rest of the nobles stood around their Princess protectively. "I never imagined I would find you here."
"Aye, it seems you have also brought some friends as well."
Suddenly, many figures appeared from around the woods, some holding onto those who went for firewood, and Wylis found himself moving closer to their Princess as she stood up groggily, holding onto his offered arm in a tight grip - it worried him if the Princess was not as healthy as she pretended to be, yet after a few heartbeats, Arya Stark steadied herself, nodded her thanks and gazed at the surrounding clearing.
Just as it looked like they were surrounded, the massive form of Arya's direwolf burst out of the woods on the opposite side, causing many of those surrounding them to shout in fear, especially when dozens of smaller wolves appeared out of nowhere. Now, their potential enemies found themselves surrounded just as they attempted to surround them.
"Now," Arya's voice was raspy, and her slightly cloudy eyes gazed at the intruders coldly. "Why is a household guard of my father's with what appears to be a band of poachers and thieves?"
"We are no poachers or outlaws, My Lady." Another figure stepped through the woods, making Wylis grimace - the man looked to be half-dead with still open wounds that ought to have killed him yet miraculously still moved. "I am Beric Dondarrion, Lord of Blackhaven, and I was ordered by your father, the Lord Hand, to hunt down the bandits plaguing these lands. Many things have happened since then, and now I find myself the leader of this Brotherhood without Banners, where we hunt all who commit evil in these lands - thus fulfilling Lord Stark's last command."
"Deserters, then." Wylis could not help but scoff as he glared at the fallen lord. "Instead of joining King Robb or any other claimant, you decided to act as glorified bandits."
Some of the men grimaced, but most seemed insulted, yet did not dare move with the wolves so close to them.
"Call us what you wish, but we had nowhere to go and no cause to follow aside from what, we believed, was best." A young voice chimed in as a comely lad with rosy tanned skin, pale hair, and blue eyes so dark it looked purple approached. Wylis would have mistaken him for a Targaryen if not for the purple cloak that had a sword and shooting star sewn on it - a Dayne, and judging by the massive two-handed sword slung over his back that the lad looked uncomfortable carrying, the future Sword of the Morning. "I am Edric Dayne, Lord of Starfall. Perhaps we should discuss this in a more peaceful setting? We heard of a great battle near Harrenhal, yet we do not know much of what happened."
Harrion Karstark looked ready to say something before looking down at the Princess, waiting for her input. Wylis was surprised to find himself looking to Arya Stark, the same as nearly everyone in their camp, waiting for her decision. The Princess flinched at the many eyes looking at her for answer yet she straightened her back and looked resolutely at Edric Dayne.
"Fine."
Jaime takes a huge gamble, and for once, it works! Yes, the bulk of his troops are dead or crippled, and those were mostly knights and men-at-arms rather than the untrained levies that Kevan had been collecting like unwanted strays.
The Northern army is decimated; nearly half is dead and the rest scattered to the winds. Roose Bolton, who was secretly a demonic entity that really liked pretending to be human, is released from his mortal coil. Suffice it to say, I do subscribe to the Bolt-On theory to an extent, but not that he is an Other.
How Robb would react to the destruction of his army remains to be seen, but the fact remains that Jaime succeeded in his goal; bloody the North and grab Robb's attention away from the Westerlands. Who knows how such an act would reverberate across Westeros.
Meanwhile, our second favorite She-Wolf makes a resurgence! Skinchanging into so many birds and vermin is not good for your health.
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