Chapter 48 – A Long Council and a Proposal
The host army encamped at the Crossroads was unchanged.
Morning mist clung to the ground, cool droplets in the air easing—if only slightly—the shadow that had hung over the men's hearts since last night.
The "healing" that happened the evening before had become an unspoken taboo.
Everyone tacitly avoided mentioning it.
The lords even issued orders forbidding the soldiers from discussing anything related. Violators would face severe punishment.
And so—another endless council began.
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"By the gods—what is wrong with Lady Lysa of the Eyrie? That's her own sister. She'd really rather let her die?"
"It's not just that. She refused us passage through the Vale, even by sea. Is she sure she hasn't already crawled into old Tywin's pocket!?"
"Family means nothing when compared to one's own cowardly little life."
A lord snorted. "Those Vale knights follow a woman with no… 'equipment,' and now they've grown into a bunch of eunuchs themselves. Jon Arryn is murdered, and they won't even avenge him. After this, how do they dare talk about honor?"
"Since the Vale won't help, who can we count on? Anyone with half a brain can see the Riverlands are already a damned mess!"
"What about contacting Renly Baratheon?"
"Renly? He's praying we and the Lannisters kill each other. He won't lift a finger for us. And since Lord Eddard pledged himself to Renly's older brother Stannis, Renly now sees us as enemies."
"…"
"How about… negotiating?"
The moment that word dropped, an old white-bearded lord—who'd been quietly sitting in a corner—exploded.
"Negotiate? My liege-lord's wife and the Tullys are practically hostages in Tywin's claws! What do you think he will demand? And my two sons died in the Whispering Wood—another was taken captive; I don't even know if he's alive. The Lannisters nearly wiped out my entire line. How can I make peace!? How!?"
His roar ignited chaos inside the tent.
"No one came out of this war unscathed, Lord Karstark!"
"We mourn your sons, truly—but you must consider the bigger picture!"
"Jaime Lannister is locked in Riverrun. If you want vengeance, you'd have to break the Lannister blockade. Do you have a plan?"
"…"
"In the end, we still have to break Tywin's damned river blockade."
"How? We've tried. To enter the Riverlands, we must build a bridge. Slow, yes—but at least possible."
"To build a bridge, we need a large force guarding it. And what then? Those Lannister raiders can strike at any moment, and we must split our troops to deal with that damned Imp sneaking around. Seven hells! Why didn't that old goat Walder Frey just poison himself and spare us the trouble?"
"We have no cities. No strongholds. We're sitting ducks out here…"
"If the Vale let us through, none of this would be happening."
"Seven hells damn Lady Lysa!"
"…"
Silence fell for a moment, until someone quietly asked:
"So… where is His Majesty?"
The question hung heavily in the air.
"Setting aside Lord Karstark's grievances—we marched to rescue Lord Eddard, and that has been accomplished. The army remains here for his sake, not ours."
"So—where is King Stannis?"
Everyone turned to Ned.
Ned Stark paused, then replied:
"His Grace will send envoys soon. They will bring his strategy."
His voice was low, matching the grim set of his long face. Ever since returning from the Vale, he had carried a heavy gloom.
Last night's events—and whatever he witnessed—only deepened it.
"…"
Someone muttered under his breath:
"Dragonstone is nothing but a barren rock. Few men, fewer ships. What plans could Stannis possibly have…?"
But he didn't dare say it loudly.
Ned Stark's authority in the North was absolute. If he had pledged to Stannis, his bannermen had to follow.
Whether they liked it or not.
More proposals came. All were discussed.
All were rejected.
No help from the Vale.
No help from Stannis—at least not yet.
As for the Ironborn… Theon Greyjoy had returned home long ago and sent no word. And even if he had, the Iron Islands were too far to matter right now.
The arguments grew louder.
Fists slammed tables.
Chairs scraped.
Men stormed out only to return moments later, cooler but still frustrated.
Tywin Lannister's river blockade—"The Iron Ford Lock"—was strangling them.
Behind Riverrun stood the impassable stronghold of Harrenhal.
Every time the North tried constructing a bridge, Lannister riders swept in to destroy the work.
Three choices remained: build, assault, or retreat.
Retreat was impossible.
Building took too long—and demanded constant defense.
Storming the city? They had tried. The losses would be catastrophic—and Tywin would be delighted.
So progress remained stalled.
During pauses in the shouting, many eyes drifted toward a certain figure standing guard at the edge of the tent.
A tall, lithe young woman.
Fine-boned features.
Healthy color in her cheeks.
Her hands occasionally brushed her collarbone or shoulder, as though still surprised to feel flesh and bone where there should have been a mortal wound.
Dacey Mormont.
A woman everyone in the camp had watched bleed out the night before.
Now standing straight, armored, vigilant—looking as if nothing had happened.
Impossible.
A miracle.
Or something far darker.
Most preferred not to think too hard about how she lived again.
After staring at her one more time, the same Riverlands lord who had earlier "tested" Charles cleared his throat.
"If assault fails and allies fail us… perhaps peace is the only path left."
Several lords nodded.
"He's right. The Lannisters sit fat and well-supplied in the Riverlands. We, on the other hand, have no resupply and cannot sit here forever."
"No one is harvesting our fields back home. Imagine what this winter will look like…"
With the council dragging on for hours, the tone had shifted.
Desperation softened resolve.
Even former hawks found themselves wavering.
At the head of the table, Ned Stark stared at the map in silence, brows tightly knit.
He hadn't spoken for a long time.
The war faction believed Lord Eddard supported them, but war wasn't won by enthusiasm alone. Consequences mattered.
And at this moment, the situation before them was an immense knot no one could easily untie.
"I have a solution."
The calm, steady voice cut through the noise like a blade.
All eyes turned toward the speaker.
If anyone else had spoken, the lords might have ignored it—everyone here had offered "solutions" multiple times.
But this man… even Eddard Stark had to give him weight.
Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort.
Cold, calculating, unfailingly effective—the North's most dependable left hand throughout the campaign.
"What solution does Lord Bolton suggest?" someone asked uneasily.
Bolton cast him a glance, then spoke in his usual flat, emotionless tone:
"From what I know, Tywin hasn't given the Imp many proper soldiers. The dwarf is holding Lannisport and the river crossing mostly through the mountain clans he recruited from the Vale.
Lord Umber should know that better than anyone—your forces clashed with them."
Jon Umber snorted.
"Aye. Stupid as goats, strong as oxen. One of them dragged me off my horse. Nearly ended me."
Others nodded.
"Their performance during the night raid proves it. Undisciplined, greedy, eager to prove themselves—makes them easy to bait."
"If it were out in the open field, we'd have eaten them alive. Thick skulls, big muscles—that's all they've got."
"…"
"But they are a significant force," Bolton continued, cutting through the mockery.
"And ever since the dwarf brought even more of them down from the mountains, they've become the core obstacle blocking our way."
The Riverlands Lord leaned forward.
"So Lord Bolton has a way to deal with them?"
"A method," Bolton replied. "Perhaps not perfect, but workable."
He flicked his eyes toward the corner—toward Dacey Mormont, who was absentmindedly rubbing her shoulder, still marveling at the life she had regained.
"As far as I know, the mountain clans deeply revere witches and fear sorcery. Last night, everyone here witnessed what true dark magic looks like. Nothing terrifies simple warriors more than what we saw."
He paused.
"We could replicate that spectacle outside Lannisport's gates. The clans are unruly at the best of times. Faced with such a… 'ritual,' their morale will collapse. When panic spreads among the defenders, we—"
"That… seems improper," a lord interrupted with hesitation.
Yes, last night was horrifying.
But frightening several thousand hardened hill fighters into retreat? That sounded like wishful thinking.
Another lord mused aloud:
"The clansfolk are simple, true—but the Imp isn't so easily fooled."
"I think it's worth trying," someone countered. "The dwarf alone can't control that many savages if they break."
A snort came from the far side of the table.
"That sounds exactly like something the Dreadfort would propose."
Bolton didn't react, but the meaning wasn't lost on anyone.
"A naked man has few secrets; a flayed man has none."
The old saying echoed in minds around the table.
Bolton banners had scared off countless foes long before blades were ever drawn.
Bolton finally turned toward Eddard.
"My lord, what is your judgment?"
Again, all eyes shifted to the Old Wolf.
But before Ned could speak—
"Lord Cranston is here as a guest of the North—not a tool to be ordered around!"
The shrill, rasping voice cut through the air.
The lords didn't even need to look.
Of course—Lady Maege Mormont.
Ever since Charles had saved her daughter, she had taken it upon herself to be the young mage's shield, sword, and self-appointed advocate.
She would tolerate no slight against him.
"Guest or not," someone replied stiffly, "a guest should not stand idle while his hosts bleed. We face a dire situation—"
"I truly hope Lord Cranston heard that, Lord Ryswell," Lady Maege snapped venomously.
The Lord's face shut tight.
He looked down and wisely chose silence.
"Perhaps," someone suggested cautiously, "we should simply ask Lord Cranston himself what he thinks."
And with that, all eyes in the council shifted toward Charles—waiting to see how the mysterious young outsider would respond.