Chapter 272 258: Bolton Loses Contact

The last sliver of daylight slipped through the gap in the tent flap, and the interior of the tent fell into complete darkness.

An attendant walked in quietly, replacing the nearly spent candle with a new wick.

The flickering flame grew bright and steady once more, casting a long shadow of the young figure standing before the massive sand table and illuminating the deep gravity and exhaustion etched between his brows.

"Your Majesty," the attendant advised in a low, cautious tone, "it is late. You should... take a rest. You have been standing here all day."

Robb did not turn around, merely giving a slight wave of his hand.

The attendant opened his mouth to speak, but ultimately swallowed his persuasion, bowed, and retreated from the tent.

Indeed, from dawn until dusk, he had stood there as if nailed to the sand table.

His calloused fingers had moved and circled over the sand table of The Riverlands countless times, tracing the raised markers representing rivers, hills, and castles, always coming to a stop at one specific area.

That was the last known general area of activity for Roose Bolton and his northern forces, located in a region of hills and woodlands west of the Gods Eye and north of the Red Fork.

It had been three days.

Exactly three days had passed since he had dispatched over a hundred messengers to various locations to contact the scattered northern armies.

The ravens from Greatjon Umber and Wylis Manderly had returned yesterday one after another, bringing affirmative replies that they had received their orders and would act according to plan, which allowed half of his worrying heart to settle.

However, the raven belonging to Roose Bolton remained missing without a word.

A day and a night of waiting, from dawn to dusk and into this deep night—he had handled military affairs, listened to scout reports, and issued various commands, but a thread of his mind was always tied to that unreturned black raven.

Reason told him that in The Riverlands, where Targaryen outriders maintained tight surveillance and factions were intricately interwoven, a loss of communication was a common occurrence.

The messengers might not have found Bolton's army, they might have been intercepted and killed while crossing the blockade, or perhaps the order was delivered but the released raven was shot down on its way home... there were too many possibilities.

That he had successfully contacted Greatjon and Wylis was perhaps already a stroke of luck.

But a commander's instinct for overall control of the battlefield was constantly sounding alarm bells.

Time was of the essence.

Riverrun was struggling to hold on; with every passing moment, the risk of the walls being breached increased.

In his original strategy of luring the tiger from its mountain and removing the fuel from under the pot, a key link was whether Bolton's detached force—the one with the most troops—could successfully play the role of bait.

To attract and pin down the main force that Aegon might have deployed toward the The Trident, creating opportunities for himself and the other two surprise forces.

Now, this major army had lost contact.

Without Bolton's exact movements and cooperation, the risk of the entire plan increased sharply.

The main forces of Greatjon and Wylis needed to remain hidden and could not be easily exposed; the troops they could put forward for feints were limited.

Without the momentum of Bolton's main force, could they successfully divert the enemy?

Robb's finger pressed heavily on the spot representing Bolton's last area of activity, as if he wanted to see through this crude sand table and perceive exactly what was happening on that land shrouded in night hundreds of miles away.

Was it an accident, blocked communication, or...

In his mind, the face of Roose Bolton flashed—forever pale, calm, and unreadable.

Bolton's loyalty... was never a solid or reliable thing. But he immediately forced himself to stop that thought.

At this moment, suspicion was useless.

He took a long, deep breath and slowly exhaled, as if to breathe out the anxiety, unease, and heavy pressure within his chest all at once.

He could wait no longer.

Time would not stop for anyone, and certainly not for an unreturned raven.

The beacons of Riverrun could not wait.

The fleeting opportunities of war could not wait.

The fate of the northern army in The Riverlands could wait even less.

He had to make a decision and make the next move on this chessboard where information was incomplete and pieces were missing.

His gaze left the area where Bolton was and moved slowly across the sand table.

Greatjon Umber's position was marked to the northeast, where small Direwolf flags had been placed on several small castles he had conquered.

This showed the lord's usual valiant progress, but it also exposed his current situation of making a grand display that attracted a lot of attention.

Wylis Manderly's position was further east, along the eastern shore of the Gods Eye, advancing steadily and cautiously, making his movements relatively hidden.

In the original plan, Bolton was to serve as the most conspicuous bait with the thickest concentration of troops.

Now, someone had to replace that role, or rather, it had to be adjusted.

Greatjon? No.

Robb dismissed the idea almost immediately.

Greatjon was peerlessly brave, a fierce general for charging the front lines, but asking him to execute a delicate task like a feint—fighting while retreating and maintaining precise control—was no different from asking a battle-axe to embroider flowers.

He was too impulsive; once he engaged the enemy, it was very likely to turn into a true fight to the death, leaving him completely bogged down and disrupting the entire deployment of luring the enemy deep for a rear-area strike.

This mission required cunning, patience, and a precise grasp of scale—leading the enemy by the nose rather than being provoked by their taunts and charging headlong into them.

Then, only Wylis Manderly remained.

The eldest son of Lord Wyman Manderly of White Harbor might not possess the same martial prowess as Greatjon, but he was steady, cautious, experienced, and better at judging the situation.

Letting him lead the feint force to contend with the potential Targaryen main force toward the The Trident might not achieve earth-shattering results, but it was at least more likely to complete the strategy.

Although this meant that the heavy responsibility of rear-area raids originally planned for Wylis might need to be adjusted or even weakened to some extent.

But between two evils, one must choose the lesser. At this moment, he had to ensure the bait was realistic enough and could also survive.

"There is no more time to send messengers to find Bolton," Robb whispered to himself, as if convincing himself. "I can only hope... that he can create enough of a stir in the Targaryen heartland on his own to attract some attention, or... at least preserve himself."

This was undoubtedly a gamble.

Placing hope on a general who had lost contact was a major taboo for a commander.

But given the situation, he had no other choice.

Having made his decision, Robb straightened his back, which had become somewhat stiff from standing for so long, and his gaze became sharp and determined once more.

He turned and spoke in a deep voice toward the outside of the tent: "Have the accompanying maester come to see me immediately."

A respectful response came from outside, and the sound of footsteps hurried away.

Before long, a maester wearing a maester's chain lifted the flap and entered.

"Your Majesty."

"Record the command," Robb's voice was clear, rapid, and brook no argument. "To Ser Wylis Manderly of White Harbor: The original orders are changed."

"You are ordered to take over Roose Bolton's mission. Immediately lead your main force with great fanfare toward the The Trident, making a posture of full-scale relief for Riverrun. You must attract the attention of the enemy's main force."

The maester's pen flew, quickly recording the message in concise words. He then repeated it back to Robb; Robb listened carefully, confirmed it was correct, and gave a heavy nod.

The maester took out a small bamboo tube, rolled up the narrow slip of paper filled with writing, stuffed it inside, sealed it with wax, and then quickly walked out of the tent.

A moment later, the sound of flapping wings came from outside as a sturdy raven, carrying the will of the King in the North, soared into the pitch-black night sky toward the east where Wylis Manderly's army was located.

Robb walked to the tent flap, lifted a corner, and watched the direction the raven had flown for a long time in silence.

Bolton's loss of contact was like an important piece suddenly vanishing from the chessboard, making the already difficult game even more blurred and uncertain, with the chances of victory becoming even slimmer.

He let go of the tent flap.

Turning back to face the flickering candlelight inside the tent, his face was once again covered in resolve.

"Pass the word," he said to the Captain of the Guard standing outside, his voice not loud but carrying a decisive strength, "summon all lords and knights to the main command tent for a council immediately."

"Our army sets out tonight. The target... the The Trident."

"Yes, Your Majesty!" The Captain of the Guard obeyed sternly, and his footsteps quickly receded.

Though the night was already deep and the soldiers were weary, Robb knew that he, and his army, no longer had time to rest.

The beacons of Riverrun were burning, and Aegon Targaryen's net might be tightening. He had to move and make the play he had to make in this game of life and death.

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