The evening rain washed the worst of the blood from my coat. I lay in the center of Riverrun's lower courtyard, resting my head against the damp flagstones. The castle around me had changed once again. The fear that had gripped the men around me for days had morphed into a strange terrified reverence.
Above the main portcullis, the head of Gregor Clegane, the monster who had terrorized Riverrun had been driven onto a thick iron spike. The rain dripped down his beard, washing the gore down the stone walls and the beast resting in their courtyard was the one who had dragged him down.
The three orphans had been taken into the castle kitchens by a cook. At least they could live if their fate is kind.
A few hours later, two guards had carried out a massive wooden trencher piled high with roasted mutton and half a butchered stag, setting it near my paws before backing away with their heads bowed. I ate the meat, tearing through the bone, savouring the meal.
Then footsteps sounded out of a hallway leading to the courtyard.
I stopped chewing and lifted my head. Roose Bolton stood in front of the hallway. He wore a pale grey cloak over his dark armor, his hands clasped neatly behind his back. The Lord of the Dreadfort did not tremble like the Tully men. He did not look away. His pale, colorless eyes studied me with a cold detached expression. He looked at the sheer bulk of my shoulders, the embers glowing faintly beneath my fur, and then up at the Mountain's head on the spike.
Bolton didn't say a word. He continued onwards to the landing, gliding up the stairs into the Great Hall.
Always calculating and cruel. The men I hate the most.
I rested my chin back on my paws, my ears swiveling toward the high, open archways of the keep. The acoustics of the stone courtyard were perfect, funneling the voices of the war council directly to me.
"The Mountain is dead." Edmure Tully's voice echoed down showing his newfound, reckless confidence. "His raiding parties are scattered or rotting in the mud. Tywin is blind in the Riverlands now. If we strike Harrenhal..."
"If we strike Harrenhal?" Ned Stark's tired voice cut through. "Tywin Lannister did not die with his dog, Edmure. He sits behind his walls."
"Then let me take the van!" the Greatjon boomed. "I'll ride down the Kingsroad and burn every bloody wagon the lions have. Let Tywin see how he likes it!"
"No." Ned's command was absolute. "We do not scatter our strength."
Silence followed. Angry men are seldom fond of being denied.
Then, the soft, reedy voice of Maester Vyman drifted out from the hall. "My Lord Stark. A bird from the Kings Landing."
The sound of boots shifting on the stone floor. The sharp crack of a heavy wax seal breaking. I listened to the parchment unroll. The silence in the Great Hall stretched as they waited for the news.
Ned then spoke, his voice was completely flat, betraying nothing of the storm raging in his chest. "She accepts the terms. Kingslayer for my daughter."
A collective exhale went through the room, followed immediately by the low murmur of cautious men.
"Where?" It was the Blackfish who asked. Brynden voice was rough as bark. "Cersei won't send the girl to Riverrun. She doesn't have the stomach for it."
"The Ruby Ford," Ned answered. "In ten days' time. We are to bring the Kingslayer to the crossing on the Trident. Kingsguard and the City Watch will meet us there."
"The Ruby Ford?" Edmure spat. "That is on the Kingsroad. It is barely a week's hard ride from Harrenhal. The moment we bring the Kingslayer out into the open, Tywin will march."
"It's a mummer's trap!" Greatjon roared, slamming a heavy fist against a wooden table. "The Lannister bitch is baiting the hook."
"Lord Umber speaks truly." Roose Bolton's voice was a soft whisper, yet it carried clearly over the lingering echoes of the Greatjon's outburst. "If you march out of Riverrun with the Kingslayer, Tywin will know of it. He will abandon Harrenhal to intercept you. You risk the prisoner, the army, and your own life, Lord Stark. The exchange is deeply compromised."
"I am aware, Lord Roose," Ned said, the cold iron returning to his tone. "And I know the Lannisters."
"Then you know this is madness," the Blackfish warned gently. "Ned, if they take you at the ford, the North loses its Warden. The war is lost."
I heard the sound of a chair scraping back. Ned Stark had stood up.
"My daughter is in the hands of the people who butchered my household," Ned said. The weariness was gone as he continued. "She is surrounded by traitors and murderers. I will not leave her there another month. I will not leave her there another day. Trap or no trap, I am leaving for the Ruby Ford, and I am bringing my daughter home."
No one argued. When Ned Stark spoke with that voice, men obeyed or they drew their swords.
"Brynden," Ned commanded, turning to the Blackfish. "You will take fifty of your best outriders. Ride ahead of the column. Screen the woods along the Kingsroad. I want to know if a single Lannister scout breathes between here and the Trident."
"It will be done," the old knight replied grimly.
"Jon," Ned continued. "Pick two hundred of your heaviest lances. Northern men only. Men who don't break when the arrows start falling. They will form my vanguard."
"Aye, My Lord," the Greatjon growled, the prospect of a fight smoothing his earlier outrage.
"Edmure, you hold Riverrun. Robb, you hold the host. If I do not return from the crossing, you march this army North, fortify Moat Cailin, and you defend the Neck."
"Father.." Robb started, his voice cracking slightly.
"You will defend the North, Robb," Ned repeated, leaving no room for a son's argument. "Prepare the Kingslayer. We ride at first light."
The council dismissed. Men poured out of the Great Hall, shouting orders into the rain.
A moment later, Ned walked out onto the stone landing. He stood at the top of the stairs, the rain soaking into his grey wool cloak, and looked down into the courtyard. His eyes locked onto mine.
He didn't ask me to come. The Warden of the North didn't beg for help from a beast. But he knew exactly what was waiting for him at the Ruby Ford. He knew Tywin Lannister wouldn't let his golden son be traded away without trying to spring a steel trap on the men holding his chain.
I stood up, the muscles in my shoulders rolling as I shook the rain from my coat. I didn't need an invitation. Ned would take his heavy lances down the main road. I would take the deep woods. When the Lannisters finally sprung their trap, they were going to find a bitter pill.