Chapter 271 257: Refusing the King's Command

The flayed man banner swayed stiffly in the wind, with over a dozen other banners belonging to Northern lords fluttering in the column.

The Northern army led by Roose Bolton advanced through The Riverlands at a pace that could only be described as a snail's crawl.

While Greatjon Umber was making rapid progress to the northeast, taking several castles in succession, and Wylis Manderly was fighting steadily on the eastern shore of the Gods Eye, clearing the area step by step, Bolton's army continued to linger and hesitate on the fringes of Targaryen territory.

The few strongholds they had captured were less strategic points and more insignificant outposts or villages.

What fueled secret resentment among the Northern lords loyal to Stark was that whenever they encountered even slight resistance, Bolton would always send the minor lords who were most active and supportive of Robb to face the enemy.

He called them the vanguard or flank cover, while keeping his own direct subordinates and some lords with ambiguous attitudes in the relatively safe rear.

After several such instances, although they hadn't faced any major battles, the strength of those Northern lords loyal to Robb had indeed been depleted, and their morale was affected.

A suppressed undercurrent of suspicion and dissatisfaction quietly surged within this complex army.

The atmosphere inside and outside the military tents was as heavy as the damp, cold, and gloomy sky of The Riverlands, so thick it could not be dispersed.

Just then, a rapid clatter of hooves broke the camp's dullness.

A lone rider burst into the camp, covered in blood, his armor broken, his face smeared with mud and exhaustion, looking as if he had just crawled out of a pool of blood in hell.

He shouted hoarsely, "Messenger for the King in the North! Urgent report!"

Led by several Bolton Soldiers, he stumbled toward Roose Bolton's central command tent.

The tent flap was lifted, and a heavy scent of blood rushed in with the wind. Inside, Roose Bolton sat in the primary seat, his pale, long face appearing even more somber in the light of the flickering braziers.

The other Northern lords sat on either side, their expressions varied.

Seeing the messenger in such a state, everyone's heart sank.

The messenger used almost his last ounce of strength to repeat Robb's command...

Riverrun was under siege; return immediately, move toward Riverrun, and assume a posture of reinforcement to draw the attention of the main Targaryen force that might be lying in ambush near the The Trident.

Although his words were intermittent, the core meaning was clear and unmistakable.

A brief, dead silence fell over the tent, broken only by the crackling of wood burning in the braziers and the messenger's heavy, labored breathing.

Roose Bolton's brow furrowed almost imperceptibly as his indifferent eyes slowly swept over the messenger and the faces of everyone in the tent.

He didn't take a stance immediately, but simply asked, "Riverrun... what is the situation? The besiegers—how many troops do they have?"

"Yes... my lord," the messenger swallowed with difficulty, a rasping sound coming from his throat, "All over the hills... golden... pontoon bridges, ladders... so many..."

Bolton nodded slowly, his gaze dropping to his folded, pale, and clean fingers, seemingly lost in thought.

The expressions of the other lords in the tent were far more varied: some showed hesitation, clearly resistant to the task of drawing attention and facing the heavy troops likely lying in ambush at the The Trident, unwilling to let their already meager forces fill what seemed like a bottomless pit.

Some frowned deeply, quickly weighing the strategic intent and risks behind this order.

Two or three others showed anxiety and urgency on their faces; they were more worried about the safety of Riverrun and Robb's overall plan.

It was the messenger who broke the silence; his breathing having steadied slightly, he wiped his face with a dirty sleeve, revealing a young and determined face beneath the blood and grime, and pressed:

"Lord Bolton, His Majesty the King urgently needs to know your marching schedule to coordinate the overall situation."

"Before leaving, every messenger of ours carried a raven; the cage is on my horse's saddlebag. Once you inform me of the specific departure time, I will release the raven immediately. It will fly back to the army's rookery and report the news to His Majesty."

"This is of great importance, concerning His Majesty's entire plan to lure the enemy deep and cut off their retreat. Please, my lord, give me a clear answer."

His eyes were burning; despite his exhaustion, the unquestionable loyalty and sense of mission in them made some hearts in the tent skip a beat.

Upon hearing this, Roose Bolton still did not answer immediately.

He raised his head and slowly looked around the tent once more.

He took in every face showing hesitation, fear, or even hidden resistance, counting them silently in his heart.

Those minor lords who were more loyal to Robb and willing to bleed for the Stark cause had already suffered losses in previous vanguard missions; though their attitude was firm now, their numbers and influence were not what they used to be.

And there were even more lords who were already resentful about fighting in the south and only wanted to preserve their strength to return to the North.

The time... was almost right.

Bolton stood up slowly, his movements unhurried.

He paced over to the messenger, looking down at the young man who was covered in wounds yet stood straight:

"You have worked hard, messenger. His Majesty's plan is indeed a brilliant move seeking victory through danger. Only..."

His tone shifted slightly as he asked, seemingly with concern, "To deliver this command, His Majesty must have sent out many messengers, right? The Riverlands are extremely dangerous now, with Targaryen scouts maintaining a tight blockade. It was no easy feat for you to reach this place."

"I wonder... of those who traveled with you, how many succeeded?"

The messenger didn't expect him to ask this suddenly. He froze for a moment, a flash of deep sorrow crossing his young face as he whispered:

"His Majesty... His Majesty sent out over a hundred riders, heading in all directions."

"Of those coming in this direction, including myself, there were twenty-three. On the way... we were intercepted several times. It was... it was my comrades who risked their lives to draw away the pursuers so that I could..."

His voice choked up, unable to continue. He just bit his lower lip hard until blood seeped out. "In the end, I was the only one who broke through to reach here."

"So only you alone successfully arrived..." Roose Bolton repeated softly, his voice barely audible.

He nodded slightly, seemingly lamenting the messenger's bravery and sacrifice, yet also as if confirming a certain fact.

Just as the messenger was slightly distracted by his lament and prepared to urge him again for a confirmed marching time...

A cold gleam, without any warning, suddenly flashed within the tent!

Without a roar, without a warning, Roose Bolton drew his sword.

The messenger didn't even have time to react. He only felt a coldness at his neck, followed by a searing pain and a suffocating sensation of being unable to breathe.

His eyes widened, looking in disbelief at the face before him that remained calm and even somewhat pale. He wanted to say something, but only a terrible, gurgling sound of leaking air came from his throat.

Warm blood sprayed wildly from between his fingers. He stumbled back, his hands futilely clutching the wound, until he finally collapsed powerlessly to the ground. His body twitched a few times, then moved no more.

Only those young eyes remained, filled with the shock and confusion of his final moment, staring hollowly at the top of the tent.

It all happened too fast, too suddenly.

It wasn't until the messenger fell and the blood rapidly spread beneath him, staining the coarse carpet red, that most people in the tent seemed to wake from a dream.

"Roose Bolton!"

"What are you doing?!"

Two sharp shouts exploded almost simultaneously.

Two Northern lords more loyal to Robb stood up abruptly, their faces filled with shock and anger.

They could hardly believe their eyes; Bolton had dared to publicly slay the King's messenger!

This was blatant betrayal!

The other lords in the tent also changed countenance; some were so shocked their mouths hung open, some instinctively leaned back with their hands moving toward their weapons, and more looked at each other, their faces written with horror and bewilderment.

Roose Bolton slowly turned around to face the crowd in the tent. Blood still dripped from the tip of the longsword in his hand.

His face remained expressionless as he calmly scanned everyone with those pale eyes that seemed to see through human hearts, finally stopping on the two Northern lords who were glaring at him.

"Doing?"

Bolton's voice was flat, even carrying a hint of natural confusion, but in the deathly silent tent, it sounded exceptionally clear and cold.

"Do you all truly wish to take your loyal Soldiers to die by the The Trident just because of an order from King Robb?"

He took a step forward, a bead of blood from his sword tip dripping onto the ground.

"Since His Majesty Robb has already guessed that the Targaryens might have laid a heavy ambush at the The Trident, yet he still orders us to go and draw their attention."

"This is clearly intended to use us as bait, as pawns to be sacrificed."

His gaze swept over the hesitant lords. "To use our blood and corpses to buy time for him to rescue Riverrun and for his uncle's lands."

"When the time comes, we will face a powerful enemy several times our number who have been waiting at their leisure, and we might even encounter that monstrous dragon that destroyed King's Landing."

He paused, letting these words ferment in everyone's hearts.

"This war in The Riverlands has nothing to do with us Northerners to begin with. We came south to seek revenge against the Lannisters who harmed Lord Eddard."

"And now, Joffrey is dead, and our enemies have been destroyed. Why should we remain on this strange, muddy land, bleeding for the castles of House Tully's vassals?"

Bolton's gaze became sharp, and his voice rose slightly: "Our homes are being ravaged by the Ironborn! Our kin are waiting anxiously in the North for us to return and defend them!"

"Yet King Robb, for the sake of his mother's family, wants us to stay here and participate in this war that shouldn't belong to the North!"

"And now, he even wants us to be that suicidal bait!"

He pointed his sword at the messenger's corpse on the ground, a hint of sarcasm in his tone: "Is there any need for us to execute such an order?"

"That is no excuse for you to murder the King's messenger and defy royal orders!" roared a knight from House Hornwood, his hand gripping his sword hilt tightly, his knuckles turning white.

"Excuse?" Bolton gave a cold laugh, a smile that was icy and devoid of warmth. "My reason is simple: I want to take those willing to follow me and return to the North alive."

"To return to our plundered and burned homes, to drive out those Iron Islands brigands, instead of burying our bones in the mud of this gods-forsaken Riverlands!"

He looked around at everyone again, his gaze lingering a bit longer on the faces of the lords who had previously shown hesitation.

"Now, it is time for you to choose." Bolton's voice returned to a calm state, yet it carried an unquestionable pressure. "Either follow me, Roose Bolton—I swear in the name of the Lord of the Dreadfort that I will do my utmost to lead you and your Soldiers, avoiding the Targaryen forces, and wait for the right moment to return safely to the North."

"Or continue to obey King Robb's orders and go to the banks of the The Trident to pave the way for someone else's castle with your own lives and the lives of your clansmen?"

The air in the tent seemed to freeze.

The light from the braziers flickered more violently, casting wavering shadows on everyone's faces.

The pool of blood from the messenger on the ground was still slowly expanding, and the heavy scent of blood filled the air.

Those lords who were already wavering now had eyes that flickered intensely as they exchanged glances.

Bolton's words slithered into their hearts like venomous snakes, awakening their concerns for their homeland, their fear of pointless sacrifice, and their dissatisfaction with Robb's favoritism toward The Riverlands.

Gradually, their hands tightened on their sword hilts, and their gazes became unfriendly as they looked toward the only two or three "loyalists" remaining in the tent.

Ser Hornwood and another Northern lord loyal to Robb stood back-to-back, warily watching the others who were slowly closing in, as well as Roose Bolton, who stood with his sword drawn and an expressionless face.

They could feel the hostility and killing intent that had almost materialized.

"You... do you intend to betray the King in the North?" Ser Hornwood's voice trembled slightly with anger and tension.

"We never thought of deserting the King in the North; we only refuse to execute this death warrant of an order." A deep voice rang out. That person slowly drew his own sword.

Then came the second, the third... the "shring" of metal rubbing against leather echoed throughout the tent.

Roose Bolton stood quietly, watching the tense scene before him. The corner of his mouth seemed to curl upward ever so slightly before returning to that deadpan expression.

His sword pointed steadily at Mors Umber.

"A pity," he said softly, as if stating a fact that had nothing to do with him. "On the way home, there is no need for discordant voices."

The Soldiers outside the tent seemed to have heard the commotion within, as a stir and the clashing of weapons could be heard, but it quickly subsided. Clearly, Bolton had already made his arrangements.

Inside the central command tent, the scent of blood grew even stronger.

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