Declaration of War

When Robb arrived at the Training Ground with Theon, the entire field was already filled with Karstark cavalrymen holding their warhorses.

Every one of these riders was tall and powerfully built, rugged and fierce. Their faces were covered in untrimmed beards, their hair hung past their shoulders, and they wore cloaks made from bear, seal, and wolf pelts, embroidered with the white sunburst sigil.

Count Rickard stood at the very front, wearing a black half-helmet of iron and a black wool cloak bearing the same white sunburst sigil.

Behind him stood his eldest son and heir, Halyon Karstark. Eddard and Toren were there as well. The three brothers were eagerly chatting and catching up.

"Lord Robb!"

At Count Rickard's respectful greeting, everyone on the Training Ground fell silent and bowed.

"All right, no need for such formalities. We're family, after all. Count Rickard, you must have had a hard journey. What brings you to Winterfell this time?"

Smiling broadly, Robb walked over to Count Rickard, drawing closer as he knowingly asked the question.

"Lord Robb, House Bolton is openly destroying the foundations of House Stark!"

Count Rickard was straightforward by nature, but he was no fool. Right from the start, he pinned a grave accusation on House Bolton.

"All merchant caravans heading to White Harbor from across the North have been raided by House Bolton. Half the caravan members and guards were slaughtered by Roose Bolton's bastard.

Among the riders behind me are survivors from those attacks. They saw it with their own eyes—the bastard commands at least a thousand cavalry!"

"I know. Many noble houses have written to me. But House Bolton is an ancient house of the North, with ample troops, and the Dreadfort is easy to defend and hard to attack.

Several centuries ago, our Stark ancestors besieged the city for two whole years before House Bolton surrendered. Right now, there's simply nothing we can do to them."

Robb showed a troubled expression. His words were filled with dissatisfaction toward House Bolton, yet his tone was utterly helpless.

"Besides, Father has only just arrived in King's Landing to serve as Hand of the King. I've only recently taken over Winterfell's affairs, and I've never formally fought a war before. I lack the experience to contend with a battlefield veteran like Roose Bolton."

"Lord Robb! You cannot let Roose Bolton continue like this! He is destroying the fundamental order of the entire North."

Count Rickard answered anxiously.

"If you agree, I can lead troops to the Dreadfort and force them to spit out what they swallowed."

"Good! Count Rickard, we'll do as you say!"

Robb's face lit up. He nodded at Rickard, then loudly announced to everyone on the Training Ground,

"House Bolton has disrupted the order of the North, raided and slaughtered merchant caravans throughout the North, colluded with Wildling tribes and deliberately allowed them into House Stark territory, conspired with men of the Westerlands to assassinate Brandon Stark, and betrayed their liege house.

On behalf of Eddard Stark, Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell, I hereby declare war on House Bolton!"

"Roar! War!"

"Rip the Boltons apart!"

"For Stark! For David!"

The moment Robb finished speaking, before Theon and the Winterfell soldiers could even react,

the Karstark riders who had survived the raids immediately began shouting in excitement.

"???"

Hearing Robb's loud declaration of war and his own cavalry's fervent response, Count Rickard was instantly dumbfounded.

He had only intended to gather the strength of the victimized northern nobles and pressure House Bolton through House Stark. He had never truly planned to attack the Dreadfort!

And House Bolton had colluded with Wildling tribes and tried to assassinate Brandon Stark?

"The brave and fearless Count Rickard will lead the combined forces of House Karstark and House Stark in an assault on the Dreadfort! We depart today!"

"Lord Robb! Lord Rickard!"

"Lord Rickard, victory is certain!"

"Victory! Victory!"

With the noisy cries ringing around him and his head buzzing, Count Rickard could only force a smile and accept the order to march.

By the time his mind had fully cleared, he was already leading several hundred of his own cavalrymen, along with four thousand Winterfell infantry and five hundred logistics troops transporting food and supplies, toward the Dreadfort.

Clank, clank!

Creak, creak!

The Winterfell infantry marched forward in loose, disorderly formations, their worn chainmail scraping and rattling.

The logistics troops slowly pushed a long line of wagons loaded with food, supplies, and equipment.

Watching it all in silence from atop his warhorse, Halyon frowned deeply.

He turned his head and whispered to his father, "Father, Winterfell's infantry had already assembled in advance, as if they had been waiting for us to set out. And their weapons and equipment are far too worn—they don't look like regular troops at all!"

"Yes, I know."

Rickard nodded. With his thoughts gradually becoming clearer, he said to his son, "Besides what you mentioned, the Dreadfort is only a few days away. There is no need for so many logistical supplies.

Yet Lord Robb prepared so many wagons to transport provisions. This declaration of war against House Bolton is not as simple as it seems!"

"Father, what should we do?"

"Keep moving forward. Our house is entirely cavalry. If we truly fight House Bolton and the battle turns against us, these infantrymen can hold them back while we retreat safely at any time."

The Dreadfort stood upstream along the Tear River, backed against the entirety of Lone Mountain. This gave House Bolton access to the rare mineral resources of the otherwise barren North.

Thanks to this, House Bolton had remained strong in troops and horses over the years, with an army of considerable fighting power.

The Dreadfort's reputation for being easy to defend and hard to attack was well known throughout the North. It was an exceptionally sturdy war fortress, built in a tiered, ascending structure.

At least three troop garrison towers rose from each towering stone wall. The tops of these towers were lined with sharp, sawtoothed battlements.

Even from its outward appearance alone, it gave off a cold and ominous feeling.

The Dreadfort faced water on one side and mountains on two others, leaving only its front gate as an entrance or exit.

Roose had just returned to the Dreadfort through the front gate with more than seven hundred household cavalry.

A tall, lean warrior with a goatee stepped forward and took hold of his warhorse's reins.

After Roose dismounted, the goateed man reported, "Lord Roose, news has just arrived. Robb Stark has declared war on House Bolton. He has appointed Rickard Karstark as commander and is leading around five thousand infantry and five hundred cavalry toward the Dreadfort."

"Hmm? The little wolf cub declared war? He's even more impatient than I expected!"

Roose removed his black gloves and handed them to the goateed man. A smile curled at the corner of his mouth as he continued,

"Locke, send out the summons. Have every force in our territory, other than the Dreadfort garrison, gather at Ironstone Town."

"Yes, my lord!"

Locke accepted the order and left. After issuing several more combat orders, Roose remained at the Dreadfort, waiting for his guests to arrive.

An army of a thousand had no end!

When the combined army of roughly five thousand reached the outskirts of the Dreadfort, the sea of heads and the vast black mass alone placed an inexplicable pressure on the Dreadfort guards.

The Battle of the Dreadfort begins. Dear readers, please vote and keep reading. Thank you!