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When Robb arrived at the training ground with Theon, it was already filled with knights of House Karstark, all holding their horses' reins.
Each of them was tall and broad, with a fierce presence. Their faces were covered in long, unkempt beards, their hair fell past their shoulders, and heavy cloaks made of bear, seal, and wolf fur rested over their shoulders, embroidered with the white sun of House Karstark.
Lord Rickard Karstark stood at the front. He wore a black iron helm that covered half his face and a black wool cloak bearing the same white sun sigil.
Behind him stood his heir, Harrion Karstark. Beside him were Edd and Torrhen, the three of them talking animatedly as they reminisced about old times.
"Lord Robb!"
As soon as Lord Rickard bowed in greeting, the entire training ground fell silent and the knights saluted respectfully.
"It's alright, there's no need for so much formality. We're all kin.
Lord Rickard, your journey was long. What brings you to Winterfell this time?"
Robb walked toward him with a smile, speaking as if it were just a casual exchange, even though he already knew the answer.
"Lord Robb, House Bolton is openly destroying the foundations of House Stark!"
Lord Rickard had a straightforward temper, but he was not foolish. From the very beginning, he placed all the blame on the Boltons.
"All northern caravans heading to White Harbor are being attacked by House Bolton. Half of the caravan members and their escorts are being slaughtered by Roose Bolton's bastard.
Among the knights behind me are survivors of those attacks. They saw with their own eyes that bastard commanded at least a thousand riders."
"I know. Many noble houses have already sent me letters about it.
But House Bolton is an ancient house of the North. They have many troops, and the Dreadfort is extremely difficult to take.
Hundreds of years ago, our Stark ancestors had to besiege the castle for two full years before the Boltons surrendered.
Now… we simply have no way to deal with them directly."
Robb showed a troubled expression. His words carried dissatisfaction toward the Boltons, but also apparent helplessness.
"Besides, my father has just arrived in King's Landing to serve as Hand of the King. I've only just taken charge of Winterfell, and I've never truly commanded a war.
My experience isn't enough to face a seasoned commander like Roose Bolton."
"Lord Robb! We cannot allow Roose Bolton to continue like this!
He is destroying the entire order of the North!"
Lord Rickard replied, visibly agitated.
"If you agree, I can lead troops to the Dreadfort and force them to return everything they've taken."
"Good! Lord Rickard, we'll do exactly as you suggested!"
Robb immediately showed enthusiasm. He nodded to Rickard, then turned to everyone in the training ground and raised his voice:
"House Bolton is destroying the order of the North, attacking northern caravans across the North, conspiring with wildlings, and deliberately allowing wildlings to invade Stark lands.
They have also conspired with men from the West to assassinate Bran Stark and have shown disloyalty to their liege house.
In the name of the Warden of the North, Lord of Winterfell, Eddard Stark, I declare war on House Bolton!"
"Roar!"
"Destroy the Boltons!"
"For House Stark!"
As soon as Robb finished speaking, the soldiers of Winterfell were still trying to process what had just happened.
But among the Karstark knights, especially those who had survived the attacks, furious shouts immediately erupted.
"???"
Lord Rickard was completely stunned.
He had only intended to gather the affected noble houses and pressure House Bolton through Stark authority.
Attacking the Dreadfort had never been his intention.
And now Robb was talking about the Boltons conspiring with wildlings and attempting to assassinate Bran Stark?
"The brave and fearless Lord Rickard will lead the combined forces of House Karstark and House Stark to attack the Dreadfort. We march today!"
"Lord Robb! Lord Rickard!"
"Lord Rickard will be victorious!"
"Victory! Victory!"
With the deafening shouts echoing around him, Lord Rickard felt his head spin.
By the time he fully regained his composure, he was already leading several hundred of his house's cavalry, along with four thousand infantry from Winterfell and five hundred men responsible for transporting supplies, marching toward the Dreadfort.
Clank… clank…
Creak… creak…
The infantry of Winterfell marched in loose formation, their worn chainmail rattling as they moved.
Behind them, the logistics unit pushed a long line of wagons loaded with supplies and provisions.
Watching everything in silence, Harrion frowned as he rode beside his father.
"Father, the soldiers of Winterfell were already gathered before we arrived, as if they had been waiting for us.
And their equipment is extremely old. They don't look like a proper army."
"Yes, I noticed."
Lord Rickard nodded. Now that his mind was clearer, he continued:
"And the journey to the Dreadfort only takes a few days. We don't need this many supplies.
But Lord Robb prepared so many wagons… this war against House Bolton may not be so simple."
"Father… what should we do?"
"Keep advancing.
Our house only has cavalry. If battle truly begins and things turn against us, those infantrymen can serve as a buffer for our retreat."
The Dreadfort stood in the highlands near the Weeping Water, backed against a solitary mountain.
Because of this, House Bolton possessed one of the rare sources of minerals in the impoverished North.
For many years, that advantage had allowed the Boltons to maintain a strong and well-equipped army.
The Dreadfort was known throughout the North for being extremely difficult to conquer.
It was a heavily fortified military stronghold built in ascending layers.
On each stone wall stood at least three guard towers, and atop those towers were jagged battlements like serrated teeth.
Even a glance at the fortress gave off a cold and threatening presence.
The Dreadfort was surrounded by water on one side and mountains on the other two.
Only the front gate allowed entry and exit.
At that moment, Roose Bolton had just returned to the Dreadfort with around seven hundred of his house cavalry.
A tall, thin man with a pointed beard stepped forward to take his horse's reins.
As soon as Roose dismounted, the man began reporting:
"Lord Roose, we have just received word.
Robb Stark has declared war on House Bolton. He has appointed Rickard Karstark as commander and is marching toward the Dreadfort with around five thousand infantry and five hundred cavalry."
"Hmm? The young wolf has declared war?
He's lost his patience faster than I expected."
Roose removed his black gloves and handed them to the man, a faint smile forming.
"Locke, send out the call to arms.
All forces within our lands, except for the Dreadfort garrison, are to gather in the Barrowlands."
"Yes, my lord!"
After receiving the order, Locke left immediately.
Roose gave a few more instructions before remaining in the Dreadfort, waiting for his guests to arrive.
Once an army surpasses a thousand men, its presence alone becomes imposing.
When the combined force of nearly five thousand troops arrived near the Dreadfort, the mass of dark, restless soldiers already created immense psychological pressure on the defenders atop the walls.
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