Roose Bolton did not summon Jon to his own camp, but instead chose House Darry's camp as the meeting place.
When Jon arrived, he found soldiers practicing drills, others in heated discussion about the war. It was the kind of sight one expected in a household of old nobility—cultured men, not wild tribes.
When they noticed Jon, many cast him brief, scrutinizing glances. Most of those looks were indifferent, even dismissive.
His blunt actions at Riverrun had not been forgotten; many here still resented them.
But Jon paid them no mind. His attention was elsewhere.
House Darry now had fewer than four hundred soldiers. Yet they still boasted more than twenty knights, and their remaining men were of high quality—loyal, disciplined, hardened by war.
Jon knew his own army was growing fast, but it suffered from a lack of experienced officers. Command could not flow properly without them, and even his map-like tactical advantage was wasted without structure.
If only he could fold Darry's force into his own, his army's effectiveness would immediately soar.
But that was just wishful thinking. House Darry, one of the oldest noble houses, would never swear to a bastard. They had not bent easily even to Robert.
Their loyalty had always lain elsewhere.
House Darry had produced a Kingsguard knight, who died alongside Rhaegar Targaryen at the Trident. Whispers said that deep in Darry's cellars, banners of the three-headed dragon still hung, and portraits of past Targaryen kings were still honored.
In their hearts, there was only one sun, and it was Targaryen.
When Jon entered the main tent, he found Roose Bolton already waiting, with the Rivers brothers—Martyn and Mond—and young Lyman Darry, the boy earl.
At once, Lyman's face lit up. The impression Jon had left in Riverrun's hall still burned in his mind. At not yet ten years of age, caught in the flush of youthful admiration, he nearly leapt up to greet Jon.
But Martyn pressed him back into his chair. An Earl did not salute a bastard—not even one like Jon.
Still, both Rivers brothers inclined their heads respectfully enough. Whatever their pride, Jon's victories and the army he had brought back were undeniable.
"Jon—Lord Jon," Martyn said stiffly. "I am Martyn Rivers."
"Lord Jon," Mond followed, "I am Mond Rivers."
Jon gave them each a nod and a word of praise, then turned to Roose Bolton, who wasted no time.
"Jon, you've done well," Roose said smoothly. "You've brought back another army for us."
Jon smiled faintly, modest. "There was an element of luck, Lord Bolton." As though it had not been he who once spat in the man's face.
Bolton went on:
"When we first set out, His Grace declared your men independent of my command. But then you had fewer than five hundred. Now you hold more than three thousand. I'd like to hear your thoughts. Better yet, I'd like you to undertake some missions."
The reasoning was sound. Jon's force could not simply eat and idle. More mouths meant more strain on supplies; other armies would feel it. His men had to contribute.
Jon inclined his head. "State your suggestion, my lord."
The Rivers brothers exchanged a glance, holding their breath. If Jon would aid them, their hopes of retaking Darry Castle would soar.
Bolton gestured toward them. "I hope you can take Darry as a stronghold, make it our forward defense, and hem in the Westerlands' range."
Jon narrowed his eyes. "Which means recapturing Darry Castle first. But castles do not run away—armies do. Seizing Darry now only spreads us thin, handing the enemy opportunity."
Bolton reclined, letting the Rivers brothers speak.
Martyn rose. "Lord Bolton, we can retake Darry with our remaining men. We ask only for arrows and weapons."
Jon's refusal had tested his patience. Jon was younger than him, and a bastard besides. Even with his new army, Martyn had no wish to bend.
Looking at the young man across from him, Jon felt a twinge of weariness.
House Darry had always been Targaryen's staunchest ally. At the Trident, they had lost four sons fighting beside Rhaegar—Jon's own father. Willem Darry had spirited young Viserys and Daenerys across the sea.
Jon had never met them, but they were still kin. And Darry's loyalty, however stubborn, was not dishonorable.
He knew they could retake the castle. But the Mountain would return, burn it, and butcher its people. House Darry would be extinguished.
Jon would not allow it.
Nor did he wish to see their disciplined knights wasted in a hopeless charge. Better to fold them into his own force.
So he offered compromise.
"Lord Bolton. Ser Martyn. These tribal warriors may not be Northmen, but they are our allies, and I bear responsibility for their lives. If Darry must be reclaimed, give me time to weld my men together with the rest. Then we will retake it."
Roose Bolton arched a brow, surprised. He had always known Jon to resist by force of will, not by soft words. Why so gentle with House Darry?
But Martyn sneered. "Lord Jon, we thank you for your kindness. But the smallfolk of Darry still groan under Lannister boots. We cannot delay."
He stressed the word delay, mocking Jon.
Jon's palm slammed down on the table.
"And what happens when you drive the Westerlanders out, and they return? Will you have those same commoners suffer again?!"
At once, the tent was silent.
Bolton exhaled quietly. Ah. This is the Jon I know. For a moment, he had thought the boy softened by his time among the clans.
"They are Darry's subjects," Martyn shot back hotly. "Not yours to worry about."
"Ignorant fool!" Jon's fury lashed out, his aura filling the tent.
Martyn's knees went weak. Lyman froze, too frightened even to breathe.
"If you want to die, then do so. But don't drag others with you."
Jon rose, voice cold, and strode out of the tent.
Helping was one thing. Groveling was another.
Even half an hour after, Martyn still shook with anger and shame.
Roose Bolton's pale eyes followed Jon's retreating back. Whatever his irritation, he could not move openly against Jon. The boy's strength and standing made it impossible.
So he turned to Martyn instead.
"I'll assign you some archers," Bolton said smoothly. "They may aid you."
"Thank you, my lord."
Martyn and Mond both bowed low. Lyman copied them clumsily.
Bolton allowed himself a thin smile. It was never his way to make a bargain at a loss. Helping House Darry now would win their gratitude—and strengthen his own hand in the army.
Most importantly, it would give him allies against Jon Snow.
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