[Chapter Size: 1000 Words.]
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Tyrion was left speechless. "That excuse is far too shallow. Northern lords conspiring with the White Walkers?"
"Shallow? Not at all. Our military strength has already surpassed anything they can challenge. I'm simply telling them outright: I'll crush you, and I won't even bother to invent a story."
The Riverrun army wore the most modern chainmail, and its forces were organized into combined arms, each regiment specialized in different tactics.
Against the Northern host, it was like pitting long weapons against short, completely unmatched.
And unlike Riverrun's standardized armor, many soldiers of the North scarcely had thick clothing, let alone proper protection.
"You're right," Tyrion admitted after a moment. It was indeed the case.
He thought back to when he was accused of poisoning Joffrey.
Had he commanded an army then, he would never have been thrown into prison to await death.
If it had been Theon in that position, accused and locked away, who would have dared to testify against him without irrefutable proof?
This was the North's predicament now. If Theon declared them guilty of conspiring with the White Walkers, they might as well be guilty, because they lacked the power to resist.
"This time, we'll use the Northern army as training. Let these fifty thousand new recruits see blood, so that later they can handle the southern families," Theon said.
He intended to temper his forces against the North.
Later, Riverrun's standing army would be fixed at one hundred thousand, the maximum its lands could support.
The fifty thousand soldiers quickly assembled at Seagard Port.
Once gathered, Theon proclaimed to the realm that Roose Bolton had murdered his liege. As the Starks' adopted son, he marched to avenge his slain brother.
He then led his host through Moat Cailin, advancing straight toward the Dreadfort.
When the Flayed Lord of the Dreadfort learned Theon was approaching, he immediately dispatched a rider to warn House Stark.
"Damn it! I should never have trusted that old warder. How dare he!" Roose Bolton fumed.
Theon had already seized both Moat Cailin and White Harbor. Though Bolton had regretted it at the time, he hadn't been overly concerned.
What he couldn't fathom now was how Riverrun could field fifty thousand men.
How had Theon Greyjoy raised such a force? Wasn't he afraid Cersei in King's Landing would seize the opportunity to strike at him?
"Father, we can send assassins!" Ramsay, sensing his chance to prove himself, eagerly suggested.
But Roose dismissed the idea outright. "Theon Greyjoy is encamped with tens of thousands. No assassin could possibly reach him."
Ramsay then offered another revelation with confidence. "Walder Frey's daughter is pregnant. She's living in Fort Pyke!"
"You would send killers after a pregnant woman?" Roose snapped, furious.
Such an act would be utterly disgraceful among the honor-obsessed Northern lords.
If word spread, House Bolton would become the object of eternal scorn.
"Father, my surname is Snow now. I can take men to Pyke. If I succeed, Theon Greyjoy will lose his composure. Then you can reach out to the Starks, uniting against him."
"At the same time, you can send ravens to Cersei, urging her to dispatch forces against the Riverlands, while Tyrion Lannister remains serving as Hand there!"
Roose Bolton was tempted. This was indeed the best solution available. House Bolton had barely eight thousand soldiers fit for battle.
Even if the rest of the North's levies rallied, they would never be able to overcome Riverrun's army, which outnumbered them several times over.
Worse still, reports confirmed that the Riverrun host was uniformly armed and fully equipped with modern weapons and armor.
Roose wondered how the Riverlands could afford such a well-supplied force.
What he could never imagine was that the Riverlands' annual military expenditures already exceeded the entirety of the North's tax revenues.
At last, Roose Bolton promised Ramsay Snow:
"If your plan succeeds, I will allow you to bear the name Bolton. I'll grant you a castle and a thousand acres of good land."
"Furthermore, if we can capture her, all the better. If not, then wound her gravely but keep her alive."
"Yes, Father, I understand!"
Excitement gleamed in Ramsay's eyes. More than the promise of lands or stone walls, it was the Bolton name he craved.
The Old Flayed Lord had only a bastard son. Once legitimized, Ramsay would become his heir, future Warden of the North.
Ambitious and depraved, Ramsay had always hungered for power. In the true history, Roose Bolton wed a corpulent Frey bride for her dowry. She bore him a son, and Ramsay, unwilling to share his inheritance, slew his own father, then cast his stepmother and infant half-brother to his hounds.
Now, under his father's command, Ramsay gathered an elite band of twelve men, slipped around the Riverlands host, and made for the harbor.
Meanwhile, Theon divided his army into three columns. Twenty thousand marched directly upon the Dreadfort.
Another twenty thousand, led by Theon himself, advanced westward toward Winterfell.
The remaining forces were tasked with subduing the lesser northern houses: slaying any who resisted and elevating respected farmers as village chiefs.
Each chosen chief was given authority, armed retainers drawn from the villagers themselves, and ample stores of food to distribute.
Thus the "village chief" ceased to be a mere commoner and became the seed of a new aristocracy.
Having tasted power, they would inevitably support Theon to preserve their privileges.
Though it gave them significant influence, the system was practical. Once the North's greatest obstacles were subdued, reforms could follow.
Those who obeyed were required to march with the Riverrun host and personally execute the defiant nobles.
If they refused, they were branded as rebels and slain on the spot.
The North, vast and sparsely peopled, concentrated most of its folk in clusters of villages.
This worked greatly to Theon's advantage. In the face of northern nobility, Theon compelled the obedient to kill the disobedient, setting them forever at odds.
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