"It's them!"
Hearing the sounds coming from all around, Kevan failed to suppress his excitement and shouted aloud.
From the very beginning—fighting their way out of the encirclement—to the desperate flight they were in now, the pursuers behind them had been clinging close the entire time. Even so, along this road of escape, people had still collapsed, unable to go on.
Kevan did not know how many men they had lost, nor whether any of them were still alive.
For although they had managed to break out, this prolonged flight had long since stripped the army of any command structure. They were nothing more than a routed force.
And now, they were seeing the first glimmer of victory.
Of course, the sudden piercing cries in the sky were not heard by the Lannister men alone.
Close behind them, Robb and the others—who had been herding these routed soldiers like sheep to keep them from scattering too widely—also heard the abrupt disturbance.
"What's going on?" Robb struggled to rein in his horse, pulling hard on the reins as he came to a stop, his brow furrowing.
He first looked up toward the sky, then his gaze immediately swept across the dense forest around them.
Through the gaps in the trees, he could already see another force—dressed and equipped quite differently—charging toward them, shouting loudly as they closed in from all sides.
No—rather than that, it should be said that they had run straight into someone else's trap.
Seeing this, Robb could not help but cry out in alarm, "There's an ambush here?!"
Robb was no fool. How could he fail to grasp the situation before him?
But how could there be men lying in ambush in this forest—and judging by the scale of the movement, not a small force either.
But who were they?
This was the North! And not just that—it was the desolate northwest, a place devoid of human presence!
Yet someone had managed to quietly conceal an entire army here.
Alarm bells rang loudly in Robb's mind as he instantly realized something was wrong.
For a moment, he could not tell which faction the ambushers belonged to.
But once the men sprang up from all sides, or swept out from behind low hills to encircle them, he recognized who they were.
"Ironborn?!"
"The Iron Islands—it's House Greyjoy!"
These were no nameless foes. Among the banners that came into view, the most striking was the black field bearing a golden kraken.
That banner, together with the markings on their armor and clothing, made it unmistakably clear who stood before him.
They were Ironborn—those pirates!
"Withdraw!"
"Stop the pursuit—fall back…"
The instant he identified them, Robb knew that those who had arrived were enemies, not allies.
At such a critical moment, in such a sensitive period, the Ironborn of the Iron Islands appeared here—and in this manner, lying in ambush.
And most importantly, he now understood why Tywin and his men had not acted according to his expectations, but had instead suddenly chosen to break westward in flight, even at the cost of letting their own army collapse.
Because here lay their reinforcements. Here lay the opportunity for victory.
With no time to concern himself further with Tywin and the others—who were on the verge of falling into his grasp—Robb, the instant he realized that something was wrong, immediately shouted, trying to command his men to withdraw.
But the words had barely left his mouth when a cold iron sword suddenly thrust out from his side.
With a sharp, wet sound, scalding blood sprayed into the air.
After a muffled, anguished whinny came the heavy thud of a body hitting the ground.
Roose Bolton stood with a cold expression, saying nothing.
He indifferently withdrew his sword, casually lifting the hem of his clothing and folding it over to wipe the blood clean from the blade. His expression remained calm as he slid the longsword back into its scabbard.
There was no trace of panic. It was as though he had long anticipated the situation before him.
And with his action as the signal, the more than two hundred Stark cavalry who had followed Robb here—men who were still bewildered and at a loss—were cut down one after another by soldiers of House Bolton all around them, collapsing into pools of blood.
The Ironborn who had been lying in ambush and encircling through the dense forest did nothing at all, staring blankly at the sudden eruption of internal slaughter among the men of the North.
Straightening his garments, the Leech Lord glanced at these Ironborn who stood with swords raised, clearly uncertain of what to do, and then tugged on his reins and rode out from the crowd.
He swept his gaze left and right, then suddenly spoke, "I am the Lord of the Dreadfort, Roose of House Bolton. I hear that Balon Greyjoy is here. Might we speak?"
…
Roose Bolton did not kill Robb Stark.
He had merely struck out without warning and run his sword through Robb's horse.
Completely unprepared for Roose Bolton to turn on him, Robb was violently thrown to the ground when the wounded warhorse reared in agony, and he lost consciousness.
He became a captive, his hands bound and his body now hanging suspended from an oak tree.
Roose also met Balon—the head of House Greyjoy, the leader of the Iron Islands, who had personally come to the North.
Yet when the two truly came face to face, neither looked at the other, nor did either speak.
An eerie silence settled over the scene.
Asha Greyjoy was also there. She paid no attention to the Lord of the Dreadfort at all. Instead, she stood before Robb Stark, who was still unconscious, her gaze fixed on the young man with a hint of curiosity.
"So this is the man who chased Tywin Lannister all the way like a dog?"
Asha stared at Robb, looking him over from left to right, yet truly could not see anything remarkable about this eldest son of House Stark.
He was not tall, nor could his build be called strong. If anything, after falling unconscious, there was even a sense of frailty about him, which only made his youth stand out all the more.
And yet—Tywin Lannister?
Before his defeat and downfall, he had been one of the most illustrious great lords of the Seven Kingdoms, a man who had served as Hand of the King, whose political methods were unmatched.
The legends of his life could be told for an entire day without end.
But now, such a famed figure had been nearly caught by a mere green youth, forced to cling to life like a dog—where was any trace left of the former lion's bearing?
Hearing a woman's voice, Roose looked over with some curiosity.
"Robb Stark is very clever. His military talent should not be underestimated—one might even say that, to a certain extent, he is a genius," Roose said.
"If not for your involvement, there would be no doubt at all that Tywin Lannister would have lost to him."
Roose stepped forward and reached out, lifting Robb's head—which had drooped due to his unconsciousness—so that his face was revealed.
Robb's face was smeared with blood mixed with mud. Half of it was swollen, and a gash on his right brow ridge had split the eyebrow clean in two, exposing faintly visible white bone beneath.
It was clear that the fall had been severe. At the very least, it had left Robb unable to wake up even now.
However, before Asha could respond to Roose Bolton's praise of Robb Stark, Balon, who had been eating the meat on his plate ever since Roose arrived, suddenly stopped.
He chewed the meat in his mouth with a crooked jaw a few times, then abruptly spat it out.
Immediately after, he raised his hand and flipped his plate—along with more than half of the remaining venison—straight into the campfire before him.
"Then you should have killed him just now!"
Balon's gaze was fierce as it swept toward Roose, sharp as a blade.
Yet in the face of his mockery, Roose's expression did not change. He simply released his grip on Robb's hair and then pulled out a silk handkerchief to wipe his hands.
He turned around, his expression utterly calm, showing no anger at Balon's provocation.
"That is not my responsibility."
Roose replied coldly.
This time, however, before Balon could say anything further, Tywin and his brother Kevan, escorted by two Ironborn soldiers, walked over from the side.
"He truly should not die here—at the very least, not die so pointlessly," Tywin said.
"Especially if you intend to use him to trade for what you want."
After some brief tidying, Tywin no longer looked as bedraggled as before.
Yet even under these circumstances, this former golden lion—now a black lion—still carried an imposing presence.
On the way over, he had already heard the exchange between Balon Greyjoy and Roose Bolton, and now smoothly inserted himself into the conversation.
But in response to Tywin's words, Balon bared a mouthful of rotten teeth and let out two cold, mocking chuckles.
"A corpse can be used just as well—especially when it's nothing more than a piece of trash."
As he spoke, Balon stood up, casually picking up the dagger he had used for his meal. He then paced over to where Robb was bound and hanging.
"Robert Baratheon, and his father Eddard Stark—oh, right, and you as well," Balon said. "You killed my two sons, my sons who truly carried the ironborn blood."
"So I should make him pay with his life—use his blood to let that damned Eddard Stark taste what it is like to lose a son!"
Balon ground his teeth as he spoke. He shot a vicious glare at the silent Tywin, then kept his eyes on Tywin as he reversed his grip and pressed the dagger against Robb's throat.
Watching this, Tywin's expression did not change. He remained silent.
Seeing that silence, Balon felt both bored and irritated.
He despised people like Tywin, yet he had no choice but to come and rescue him.
Then, as if a thought suddenly occurred to him, a cold smile crept onto Balon's lips.
"I should really kill you as well—but I've decided to let you live. Do you know why?"
Balon's sudden question and smile left the others present momentarily puzzled.
Roose merely watched the scene in silence. He did not care who died.
Whether it was Tywin, or Robb.
Hm—of course, it would be even better if Balon died as well. If all of them were to die here, that would be best of all.
Roose quietly observed the group, lost in his own thoughts, his gaze drifting away as if with complete indifference.
Most of the Ironborn from the Iron Islands were gathered here—but as for what came next, that was another matter.
These pirates needed meat to eat in the end. Even Balon could not restrain them too harshly.
Facing Balon's question, Tywin's gaze flickered, a surge of anger hidden deep within his eyes.
He was a clever man. In a single instant, he understood what Balon meant.
Balon did not even wait for him to answer. Instead, he laughed loudly, asking and answering himself: "Because your son is dead as well—and he was killed by that damned stag's son! Heh… hahahahaha!"
"What did you do?"
"You did nothing. How are you any different from me back then?!"
"No, Tywin—you are more cowardly than I was. You are a greater failure than I ever was!"
Balon's cold laughter seemed to seep into the bones, carrying threads of icy chill.
For a moment, it was impossible to tell who he was truly directing those final words at.
Hearing Balon's mockery, Kevan, who had been silent at the side all this time, could not help but change expression.
He looked toward his brother Tywin, already preparing himself to stop him if necessary.
No one understood better than he did just how much Tywin valued and cared for Jaime.
It could be said that everything—from the very beginning to now—had stemmed from the deaths of Jaime and Cersei, the twins, at Winterfell.
Compared with the earlier open defiance and declaration of war against Robert Baratheon, Tywin's actions had been driven far more by the need to vent his fury, by a desire to avenge Jaime.
Had it been someone else who died—even Tyrion—Kevan knew that perhaps the outcome back then would have been different.
At the very least, under those circumstances, they should not have cast everything aside and staked all they had on challenging House Baratheon.
Fortunately, Tywin did not lose control.
Though he clenched his fists and ground his teeth, he soon relaxed them again.
Tywin calmly turned around and looked at Balon.
"A corpse can only be exchanged for another corpse—if you do not care."
Hearing this, Balon stopped laughing and let out two cold, sinister chuckles.
He lost any interest in dealing with Tywin and could not be bothered to care about him any longer.
"Then what about you, Roose Bolton?"
Balon turned his gaze to the Lord of the Dreadfort, who had likewise colluded with them.
"What do you want—Winterfell?"
Balon was ready to begin dividing the spoils.
With Robb in hand, his objective had already been achieved. Whatever he chose to do next had nothing to do with these Northmen.
More importantly, he no longer wished to involve himself any further in the affairs of the North, and Tywin had no bargaining chip left that could persuade him to stay.
As for Roose Bolton—everything would depend on how great his ambitions were.
Yet in response to Balon's bluntness, Roose hesitated for a moment.
Then the corners of his mouth lifted into a faint smile. "I am also your captive. What right do I have to ask for anything?"
His words made both Balon and Tywin frown.
"What do you mean?"
Tywin did not speak, faint glimmers flashing through his eyes.
Balon, however, asked the question directly.
In response, Roose merely shook his head. "My apologies. House Bolton lacks the strength to resist a dragon, and the forces of the Vale have already entered the North. For me, this matter ends here."
He stopped there, offering no further explanation.
Then he added, "As for what I want, I only hope to earn your goodwill. Of course, I am not certain how long this Lord Tywin will be able to live… heh."
With that, Roose turned and walked away.
No one noticed that, as he spoke those words, a flash of killing intent passed fleetingly through Roose's eyes.
His words plunged the scene into silence.
They forced everyone present to confront a reality they could no longer avoid.
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