The Northern Army (3,600 words)

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Twenty-four days had passed since Lord Eddard Stark had faced the false king in King's Landing, where honor ultimately failed to triumph over the sword.

Now, the young Lord of the North, Robb Stark, had summoned his bannermen in Winterfell. Leading approximately sixteen thousand Northern soldiers, he had departed from Winterfell, swiftly marching southward along the Kingsroad.

Part of this expedition aimed to search for his missing father, last known to be near Harrenhal. However, the true heart of this march was far greater: this army would fight for the honor of Eddard Stark.

The North would never kneel to the throne of a False King.

To destroy the false king and restore justice, the Northern host had set forth.

At present, this formidable force was encamped just north of the Neck, patiently awaiting the arrival of one of House Stark's most vital vassals: Clay Manderly, the young heir of House Manderly, along with the two thousand three hundred soldiers under his command.

---

Campsite at Moat Cailin, Headquarters of the Northern Army

Inside the central command tent, Robb Stark, the youthful commander of the army, stood with both hands pressed firmly on a table cluttered with maps. He was surrounded by many of his father's loyal bannermen.

Because Joffrey had not yet executed Eddard Stark, these men still saw themselves as Lord Eddard's vassals—not Robb's.

Originally, this council of war had been planned for the hall of Moat Cailin, but Robb had insisted that he should remain close to his men. The proposal was so compelling that none of the older lords could object. Thus, the meeting had been relocated to the tent at the very center of the camp.

In one corner, a cast-iron stove crackled and hissed as firewood burned within, offering warmth. However, the flames could not match the fervor of the gathered lords' debate.

"That old fool Wyman actually let a child lead troops this time? Has he gone senile?"

The deep, booming voice belonged to Jon Umber, known across the North as the Greatjon, head of House Umber. A towering man nearly seven feet tall, he stood at the map-covered table, loudly voicing his complaints, seemingly unaware that the army's own commander standing before him was, by all accounts, still a boy.

Lady Catelyn Stark, standing at her son's side, did not let the comment pass unchallenged. Her voice was firm as she cut in coldly.

"My lord, I feel compelled to remind you. There is someone in this tent even younger than the 'child' you speak of."

Startled by her words, Jon Umber, who had already been subdued by Robb and his direwolf Grey Wind, quickly recognized his blunder. He gave an awkward chuckle and cast an apologetic glance toward Robb.

To his surprise, Robb did not even lift his head. It was as if he had not heard the remark at all.

"Clay and his men should be arriving soon," Robb said, finally speaking as he looked toward his mother. "The scouts we sent out yesterday have already reported sightings."

Robb was looking forward to reuniting with his friend. In his heart, he felt a bond with Clay. They were both young men entrusted with great responsibility, both commanders of Northern forces. Naturally, he believed they understood one another.

Lady Catelyn also remembered Clay Manderly vividly. The young man had earned renown for his feats in Winterfell, and she nodded thoughtfully.

"When he arrives, you should go out and greet him yourself," she advised. "If I recall, the two of you were quite close."

Jon Umber, still recovering from his earlier gaffe, rubbed the back of his head and spoke up with a touch of curiosity.

"Is he the one who killed that Lannister brat right in front of King Robert?"

Robb glanced at him and offered a faint, knowing smile.

"In all of House Manderly, there is no one more suited to lead than him."

---

Elsewhere, on the road toward Moat Cailin

The young lord being discussed, Clay Manderly, was currently riding at the front of his column, speaking with Ser Marlon, the seasoned knight who had long served House Manderly.

Four of Clay's Witcher personal guards flanked them protectively, while another scout moved ahead and one behind to keep watch. Though Clay's own strength surpassed them all, he understood the importance of constant vigilance.

Because his forces included a large number of infantry, the army's pace was unavoidably slow. It was not a matter of discipline alone. Even the best-trained foot soldiers would be exhausted if they were forced into a grueling forced march. Arriving in Moat Cailin only to continue a rapid advance southward without rest would be foolish, and Clay, as their commander, would not permit it.

As he rode, Clay's mind was focused on strategy. He recalled everything he had learned about warfare, every detail that might become relevant. And then, he posed a question to Ser Marlon.

"Ser Marlon, in the context of the entire Northern host, where do our two thousand men stand in terms of strength?"

He rolled up the map in his hands and looked at the older knight beside him.

Ser Marlon stroked his beard thoughtfully. He turned to glance behind them, at the ranks of armored soldiers moving like a river of steel. After a moment of reflection, he offered his answer.

"Excluding House Stark's own forces, I'd say we rank comfortably in the top five."

Clay was not satisfied. In a coalition army such as this, numbers meant power, just as shares conferred influence within a merchant guild.

In war, command often followed numbers.

It was no mystery why Roose Bolton had been placed in charge of the Eastern army after the forces split at the Twins. House Bolton had contributed over three thousand soldiers, making them the largest contingent apart from the Starks themselves.

With House Stark preoccupied, the command of the eastern flank naturally fell to Bolton.

And that, Clay found unacceptable.

Roose Bolton was a man known for treachery and cunning. The mastermind behind the Red Wedding, he was skilled at deceit and betrayal, but in open warfare, his abilities were sorely lacking.

Clay had no desire to entrust his men to such a man. That would be as good as throwing them away.

If an opportunity arose, Clay was determined to secure command of a separate force. At the very least, he would keep control over the men he had brought. That was not negotiable.

He posed a second question, more direct this time.

"What do you think, Ser Marlon? If the army is divided, would House Manderly be given command of one of the wings?"

This question caught the old knight off guard. He was momentarily confused. Divide the army? Why would that happen? When? Where?

Still, he forced himself to consider the possibility. After a short pause, he gave a serious answer.

"If the army is split into two parts, I can say clearly: we will not be chosen. House Stark would naturally lead one wing. As for the second, it would likely go to either House Bolton, House Karstark, or House Umber."

"If we are speaking only of military strength, we outmatch everyone except the Boltons. But the problem is, Clay—you have never set foot on a battlefield. The Northern lords will not entrust the second command to someone untested."

Clay had expected that answer, yet it did not dishearten him. Instead, he shifted his thinking. If dividing the troops into two divisions would not work, then what about dividing them into three?

Back at the Twins, the army had split so Robb could personally lead a cavalry force to ambush Jaime Lannister, while the remaining infantry faced Tywin's approaching host.

But now, the circumstances of this war were different.

The last confirmed sighting of Lord Eddard Stark had been near Harrenhal, a region now under Lannister control, according to their latest intelligence.

Perhaps what was needed was not a massive army, but a swift and deadly cavalry force. One capable of bypassing Tywin's main host, striking deep into enemy territory, eliminating scattered Lannister patrols, and seizing the opportunity to retrieve Lord Eddard Stark.

With the Kingsroad under Lannister control, Eddard would have no choice but to go into hiding. His men would be forced to scatter into smaller groups. Without doing so, the Northern forces remaining with him would stand no chance against Tywin's army.

And if Eddard fell into Tywin's hands, then the North would have already lost half the war. Robb would hesitate in every decision, especially since he had not yet won the Battle of the Whispering Wood or captured Jaime Lannister.

Without a hostage of equal value, the game would be over.

---

Three days later

Dust-covered and travel-worn, Clay finally saw the Northern army's vast encampment sprawled across the hills before him.

He had thought his own force of two thousand men was impressive. But now, confronted by the sheer scale of the Northern host, he was awestruck. The sight of thousands upon thousands of tents and soldiers stretched across the landscape was both humbling and breathtaking.

In the distance, a group of riders approached. Their banners bore the pale grey direwolf of House Stark and a scarlet field emblazoned with a silver mailed fist—the sigil of House Glover.

"Men from House Glover," Ser Marlon noted with a smile.

Clay nodded. As a young noble well-versed in the heraldry of Westeros, he easily recognized the banners.

He was curious to see whom Robb had sent to receive him. As far as he knew, only Lady Catelyn had traveled south with Robb. It couldn't be Bran Stark, could it?

But his question was soon answered. He recognized the rider at the head of the approaching party: a tall young man in a grey-black cloak, seated atop a powerful warhorse.

"Ser, Robb Stark has come in person to meet us," Clay said, surprised yet pleased.

Robb was accompanied by a middle-aged man with a salt-and-pepper beard, whom Clay did not recognize but correctly assumed to be a member of House Glover.

The riders drew nearer with speed. Clay spurred his horse forward to meet them.

The Young Lord of Winterfell had come himself. Clay could hardly remain behind in his ranks.

From a distance, he raised his arm and greeted Robb with a wave.

Within moments, guided by his skilled horsemanship, Robb brought his horse to a smooth halt in front of Clay.

The two young commanders clasped each other's forearms, grinning. Clay looked at Robb, who seemed just as he remembered, and joked with a warm smile.

"Well now, Lord Robb. It hasn't been that long, and already you're the master of nearly twenty thousand men."

Hearing this, Robb smiled and gave Clay a friendly slap on the shoulder. He then stepped slightly to the side, gesturing toward the middle-aged man who sat half a horse's length behind him.

"This is Galbart Glover, Lord of Deepwood Motte."

So this was the head of House Glover. Clay studied the burly man before him, then offered a courteous, noble greeting.

"Lord Glover, I am Clay Manderly. I bring greetings from my grandfather."

Galbart Glover, who had been quietly observing the interaction between the two young lords, now felt certain: Clay Manderly's bond with Robb Stark was unusually strong. Lady Catelyn must have known this as well, which explained why she had suggested Robb come in person to greet him.

Robb and Clay were close in age, which made Lord Glover take even more notice of this arrangement. In this war, he suspected that Clay would likely earn Robb's trust.

Extending his hand, Lord Glover clasped Clay's offered hand in a firm handshake. He smiled warmly and exchanged a few pleasantries with Clay, before falling silent. After all, the true host here was the young Stark.

Seeing that the two had already been introduced, Robb gave a command to Lord Glover.

"My lord, please find a piece of dry, level ground for the men of House Manderly to set up camp. I will take Clay to see my mother first. Once you are done with the arrangements, come to the command tent. Most of the men have arrived already, and it is time we begin discussing what comes next."

"At once, my lord," Lord Glover replied respectfully.

Clay had been about to call for Ser Marlon to come forward and help with the camp arrangements, but to his surprise, Ser Marlon had already ridden out of the column on his own.

It seemed Lord Glover was already acquainted with Ser Marlon. The two men laughed heartily, then repeated the same gesture that Robb and Clay had just exchanged—a firm handshake and a few friendly words.

"Come, let us go to the main tent. I will introduce you to my father's bannermen," Robb said as he pulled Clay along.

However, Clay noticed that when Robb mentioned these bannermen, his tone was no longer as relaxed as before.

"What is it? Do you think you can handle these lords?" Clay had already guessed what Robb might be facing, so he asked in a low voice.

Robb did not hide his thoughts from his close friend. With a trace of frustration, he said, "These are the men who fought beside my father and won the Robert's Rebellion. This time, when I summoned them to march south to rescue my father, not one of them hesitated. But I can tell, in their hearts, they still see me as a child."

"To be honest, in their eyes, both you and I are still just children," Clay said with a resigned shrug, his voice carrying a helpless note.

Clay now fully understood Robb's predicament. It was a classic case of a young lord surrounded by powerful and seasoned vassals. If Robb had not later earned his reputation in battle under the Stark banner, those old lords might have already stirred up some sort of trouble.

"Daeron Targaryen was only fourteen when he conquered Dorne," Robb said indignantly, clearly unwilling to accept that age should determine his authority.

"Oh, come now," Clay replied, half chuckling. "The Young Dragon may indeed have conquered Dorne at fourteen, but what good did that really do? The Iron Throne lost ten thousand men just to win that war, and afterward, it took more than fifty thousand lives to maintain control over the region."

Clay understood how Robb felt, but in his opinion, that example was not one worth following.

"In the end, Daeron Targaryen himself died in the very war he started. Robb, war is not only about fire and blood. Sometimes, women and garlands can accomplish more than swords and shields."

Robb grunted softly, not finding any argument to refute Clay's point.

Along the way, Robb muttered to himself and shared with Clay what had happened recently in Winterfell.

The two of them, followed by their respective personal guards, proceeded together. Behind them fluttered the banners of the direwolf and the merman clutching a trident.

Amid the organized chaos of the military camp, Clay followed Robb through the encampment of more than ten thousand Northern soldiers.

All around them, warriors were moving about with weapons and armor. Clay caught sight of the sigils of many noble houses of the North. The deeper they went into the camp, the more men of House Stark he saw.

They dismounted in front of the central tent. Clay's guards were taken away by Stark soldiers to rest. For now, they were not permitted to enter this inner circle.

"Come," Robb said, lifting the heavy flap of the command tent. "Let me show you just how many unpleasant things a boy is forced to hear in this place."

Clay stepped inside with him.

The moment they entered, they saw that the tent was filled with people, either standing or seated. Every eye turned toward Robb and Clay.

Clay scanned the tent. As he had expected, everyone present was around his father's age and all were seasoned veterans of past wars.

He noticed Lady Catelyn sitting at the far end of the tent. She nodded and smiled at him. During Clay's stay in Winterfell, he had left a very favorable impression on her.

The Northern lords present had all realized who Clay was.

Clay had just settled into an empty chair when a towering, burly man who looked even larger than him suddenly raised his voice and called out to him.

"Boy from House Manderly! How many men did you bring with you this time?"

His voice boomed across the tent. His tone was harsh and quite rude.

Clay frowned. He did not know who the man was. Lady Catelyn spoke up to introduce him.

"He is Jon Umber, Lord of Last Hearth."

Clay nodded toward her to show he understood, then turned his attention back to Jon Umber. His voice was calm, but not polite in the slightest.

"My lord Umber, may I ask in what capacity you are asking me this question?"

The tent grew quiet. Everyone turned to listen closely to their exchange.

Jon Umber frowned, his bushy eyebrows white at the tips. He shouted, "What are you trying to say, boy?"

"If you are asking this as the head of House Umber, then as the heir of White Harbor, I am under no obligation to answer you. If you are asking as a bannerman of House Stark, then we are equals, and I still have no reason to answer."

Clay's gaze remained fixed on Jon Umber's increasingly furious expression. His voice remained steady and cold as he continued.

"If you are asking as a more experienced military commander, then I can answer you. But be careful, my lord. A boy in his teens once had a wolf bite off two of your fingers. I may not have a wolf, but I do have a sword, and I can make you lose two more."

With a loud crash, Jon Umber kicked his chair back and his big hand reached for the massive sword at his waist.

But before he could draw it, a thin, pale-skinned man seated beside him grabbed his arm and stopped him from drawing his sword.

"What are you thinking, Lord Umber?" Robb shouted, stepping forward. Only then did Jon Umber angrily let go of the sword hilt, pick up the chair, and slam it back down as he sat.

His eyes, wide and bloodshot like a bull's, glared at Clay with such intensity, it was as if he wanted to devour him on the spot.

"My lord, may I have the honor of your name?" Clay asked the pale man who had just intervened. He even smiled politely as he spoke.

However, when he heard the reply, his smile stiffened for just a moment.

The name was—

"Roose Bolton."

---

(Author's Note🔔)

This was the first time I wrote a chapter of this scale. It was truly a new kind of experience. From how I see it, having more space in a chapter allows me to describe more, to create deeper scenes, and to lay out the elements I enjoy more fully.

By the way, since the female lead recently revealed her identity, I noticed some readers had thoughts of their own. I want to share my perspective.

In the entire Game of Thrones saga, Daenerys Targaryen is certainly one of the most vividly written female characters. She is no mere flower vase. She is a queen, not just a consort.

Of course, I could have the protagonist travel to Essos early and kill off the Khal Drogo. But then, the problem arises—would that Daenerys still be herself?

Probably not. That would just make her a decorative figure bearing her name, someone who had never experienced Fire and Blood, pain and loss. She would end up like Myrcella, a flower nurtured in a greenhouse.

And that, to me, is uninteresting.

I do not yet know whether I will write any romantic plotlines. I may give it a try. If it does not work, I may not pursue it further. A character as important as Daenerys should not be treated lightly.

Whether the protagonist has real feelings for her or not, I believe that is secondary. What matters more is that she possesses a legitimate claim to the throne.

If the protagonist marries Sansa, and the male Starks are all gone, he effectively gains a claim to the North. The same principle applies to Daenerys.

As for what happens afterward, I shall let my pen decide.

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