Because of the Battle of the Green Fork, the Northern army did not suffer the tragic defeat and heavy losses that many had feared.
Roose Bolton did not retreat all the way to The Twins. Instead, he camped near the riverbank, using the water as a natural defensive line to pin down Tywin Lannister.
On the banks of the Green Fork, Bolton was conversing with several Riverlands nobles. Among them were two young men and a boy no older than ten.
The little boy was Lyman Darry—the same child who had excitedly shouted during the "Crowning of the King in the North." He was the last surviving male heir of House Darry.
The other two were his bastard cousins, Martyn Rivers and Mond Rivers. Just as "Snow" marked bastards of the North, "Rivers" was the surname given to bastards of the Riverlands.
Although both young men were illegitimate, they had no desire to steal young Lyman's inheritance. Instead, they sought to know how quickly Darry Castle could be reclaimed.
Lyman's father, Lord Raymon Darry, had treated his nephews as though they were his own sons. But Raymon had been slain by Gregor Clegane—the Mountain.
The Mountain's terror was beyond imagining. Neither Martyn nor Mond dared dream of killing him in vengeance. At least, not with their own strength.
What they wanted was simpler: to reclaim Darry Castle as quickly as possible, to honor the man who had raised them.
During these talks, little Lyman could do little more than sit in silence. The fate of his house now rested entirely in the hands of his cousins.
"Lady Catelyn should be meeting Renly soon," Martyn said earnestly to Bolton. "If an alliance is formed, Tywin will face immense pressure from the south. Even now, he teeters on the edge of a two-front war. Lord Bolton, I ask that you cooperate with us in retaking Darry Castle. House Darry will forever be your most loyal friend."
Mond, standing nearby, gave Lyman a small encouraging look.
The boy piped up, "Lord Bolton, please help us." His tone was stiff, childish, and awkward.
Still, it was the first time Roose Bolton had received such respect from Riverlands nobility, and he felt slightly flattered. In truth, he also found Martyn's reasoning sound.
Now, surely, Tywin was at his most vulnerable. In the North, he was being bloodied by the combined armies of the Starks and Riverlords. In the South, the hosts of Highgarden and Storm's End pressed forward steadily.
The scythe of death already hovered above the Westerlands.
"Very well," Bolton said smoothly. "We will first scout the situation at Darry Castle, and then—"
Before he could finish, a servant came running in, face pale with urgency.
"Lord Bolton! An army approaches from the east!"
"An army? Is it the enemy?"
At once, young Lyman's eyes lit up. Barely reaching an adult's chest in height, he blurted excitedly, "A battle?!" He looked up at his cousins, who quickly gestured for him to stay quiet.
The boy then turned wide eyes on Bolton, but the Lord of the Dreadfort ignored him.
"It is unclear, my lord," the servant said breathlessly. "Our scouts are still investigating."
"What is their formation like?" Bolton asked sharply.
"Very orderly, my lord. They must be elite troops."
Bolton's eyes narrowed. "Order the entire army to be on alert."
"Yes, Lord Bolton!" The servant hurried away.
Martyn glanced at Bolton, brows raised. "The east? Could it be the Vale has entered the war?"
"The Vale?" Bolton frowned, considering. It wasn't impossible. King's Landing and the Crownlands were in peril, and Tywin sat to the south. An army appearing from the east could only come from the Vale.
Bolton did not believe Jon Snow capable of raising an army from the mountain clans in so short a time. And even if he had, the wildlings would never march in such neat, disciplined order.
An experienced commander could always judge an army's quality by its march.
Martyn and Mond exchanged glances, excitement flashing in their eyes. If the Vale truly had joined the war, then their chances of reclaiming Darry Castle had risen considerably.
At that very moment, Jon and his force had already sighted the Northern army's camp in the distance.
"Jon, how many men are there?" Sola asked, her voice full of awe. She was disguised as a boy, bow in hand—the finest her father Vido had given her when he allowed her to leave with Jon.
Jon's gaze swept over the sprawling camp. "Roughly twenty thousand."
"Twenty… thousand?" Sola echoed, her eyes wide. Numbers that large were hard for her to even imagine.
Beside her, Harken said nothing, but his jaw slackened and his eyes bulged with astonishment. He had thought their two thousand strong was an impressive host. But the vast encampment before them—stretching for miles—filled him with unease deeper than any dark cave or perilous mountain path.
The tribal warriors felt the same. Their clans' territories weren't even as large as this single army camp.
Never had they seen such might: banners snapping in the wind, tents as far as the eye could see, and soldiers who seemed to "occupy" an entire river.
Water was the most precious resource in the mountains. Tribes had shed as much blood over a spring as the water itself. To see an army so vast that it claimed a whole river left them awestruck.
Rumors told that when outsiders fought battles, entire tribes' worth of men died. Looking at this colossal camp, many of the clansmen believed it. Some even whispered that these outsiders must fight only over water, for why else would so many perish?
The realization that they themselves were about to join such wars made their stomachs knot with fear.
Jon would allow no such weakness to show. The enemies he faced were not only Lannisters but also rivals within the Northern host, men who might covet his growing influence.
He turned sharply to the newly promoted tribal officers. "Prepare to sing the Song of Unity I taught you!"
"Yes, Lord Jon!" they answered.
Along the march, Jon had not only drilled them in formations but had also introduced the idea of "army culture." Considering the deep rivalries among the tribes, the first song he taught them was Unity is Strength.
In addition, they had learned powerful marching songs like Forward! and Our Tribe Towards the Sun. Their voices were rough, sometimes off-key, but carried a raw force that rolled across the fields.
"This strength is iron! This strength is steel!"
"Forward! Forward! Forward!"
The booming chorus soon carried across the land, reaching the Northern camp.
Halion, who was hacking at a practice dummy marked "Gregor," paused and looked eastward.
Lord Severn, bent over tallies of supplies, also lifted his head.
When they heard Jon Snow had returned—leading an army no less—they dropped everything and rushed out of camp.
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