The banners snapped in the wind. Alaric saw the Umber giant, the Karstark sunburst, the Glover fist, and the Manderly merman. Off to the side sat the flayed man of House Bolton—Roose had arrived, escorted by Alaric's own knights.
Under the cloak, Roslin stirred. She peeked out, her breath misting in the cold. Her eyes went wide as she saw the valley. Probably Eight thousand men were waiting down there.
"Gods," she whispered, gripping his leather jacket. "Are they all waiting for you?"
"They're waiting for a Stark," Alaric said, his voice low. "They don't know who's actually leading this yet."
Down in the valley, the lords were mounting their horses. They rode out from their camps toward the Winterfell column, expecting to greet their liege lord.
Alaric smirked and tightened his grip on Roslin's waist.
"Stay close, Rose," Alaric said quietly. He kicked his horse into a slow trot down the ridge.
Alaric pulled the horse to a stop at the bottom of the hill where the grass turned to mud. He swung down, his boots hitting the ground hard. He reached up, grabbed Roslin by the waist, and lifted her down. She straightened her fur cloak and kept her chin up as she looked at the massive army.
"We walk from here," Alaric said. His voice sounded through the noise of the camp.
Behind him, Ser Rodrik got off his horse and helped young Bran Stark down. Bran stood on his own two feet, watching the massive crowd with a quiet, intense look.
Alaric took the lead, walking like he owned the ground. His dark cloak snapped in the wind, and his hand stayed near the hilt of his sword, The Red Eclipse. Roslin walked a step behind his shoulder. Ser Rodrik and Bran walked at his sides, while the two black wolves, Livy and Rivy, followed at Alaric's heels.
As they entered the camp, the shouting died down. Everyone went quite. The soldiers stepped back to let them through, staring at the group. They were looking for Robb, but all they saw was him and Bran Stark.
Before the Northern Lords could reach them, the crowd up ahead scrambled to get out of the way.
Two massive figures pushed through the infantry. They were seven feet tall, wearing jagged red and black armor. These were the Blood Knights Alaric had sent to find Lord Bolton. Their heavy boots crushed the mud, and the natural aura coming off them made even the veteran soldiers move aside in fear.
The knights ignored the lords and the banners. They marched straight to Alaric and dropped to one knee at the same time. Their heavy armor slammed into the mud, echoing through the quiet camp.
"Master," they grunted. "The Dreadfort is here. The perimeter is secure."
Alaric didn't stop walking. "Rise," he said.
The two giants stood up and fell into step behind him, adding their massive bulk to his line.
Fifty yards ahead, the Northern Lords pulled their horses to a stop. Greatjon Umber sat on a massive warhorse. Beside him stood Rickard Karstark, looking angry and tired, and Galbart Glover. Roose Bolton hovered slightly behind them, his pale eyes watching everything.
Alaric's "Unclouded Eye" flickered, highlighting Bolton in a sick red glow—the mark of a disaster waiting to happen.
The Greatjon spurred his horse forward. "What is the meaning of this?" he roared, looking from the kneeling knights to the black wolves, then finally at Alaric. "Where is Robb Stark? And who are these metal freaks you brought into my camp, Ward of Starks?"
Alaric stopped. The Winterfell men fanned out behind him. Ser Rodrik put a hand on his sword hilt, ready to defend Alaric, while Bran stood firmly at his side.
Alaric looked up at the lords. He didn't shout; he just let the silence stretch until the Greatjon's horse shifted nervously.
"Robb Stark is at Winterfell," Alaric said, his voice cold and clear. "He's sick and can't ride. Lord Eddard is in chains in the capital. And King Robert is dead."
The soldiers erupted into murmurs and curses. The Greatjon's face turned purple.
"Then who leads this army?" Karstark demanded, gripping his reins. "You? A ward with no name?"
"I am the acting Advisor and Protector of the North, by Lord Eddard's decree," Alaric said, locking eyes with Karstark. "I'm the one who called the banners. I'm the one who marched twelve thousand men here. And I'm the one who's going to lead you south to burn the Lannisters."
He took a slow step forward. The two giant knights moved with him, their hands resting on their huge swords.
"Now," Alaric said, his eyes sweeping over the lords and pausing on Roose Bolton. "Get off your horses. We have a war to plan, and I don't like looking up when I speak."