The Parade

Early the next morning, all the northern nobles were woken by their servants ahead of schedule. As soon as the sky began to lighten, they rode or climbed into carriages and headed for the military camp a few miles from Winterfell.

"We're here. That's the newly built Winterfell military camp."

Count Wyman had been catching up on sleep in his carriage, but he hadn't slept for long before Count Rickard woke him.

Count Wyman rubbed his eyes and looked through the carriage window in the direction Rickard was pointing.

He saw a military camp surrounded by a wooden wall made of sharpened logs set side by side.

At a glance, the camp looked very crude. But it had been built on a wide, level stretch of ground, and judging by its size, it could hold at least several thousand soldiers.

"What's that?"

Count Wyman pointed at a towering structure beside the crude camp, built from bluestone and yellow earth and shaped like a shortsword. Compared with the crude camp beside it, the structure had clearly been carefully designed and built.

"I don't know. Lord Robb personally oversaw its construction. As I told you yesterday, I won't ask unless he chooses to tell me."

Count Rickard scratched his head and shook it as he replied.

"He's built a military camp and that structure in such a short time. It must have cost a lot of gold dragons. How many commoners did he recruit in all?"

Count Wyman, a shrewd businessman, was more concerned about construction costs.

"Well, Lord Robb paid the commoners twice the going rate. The people at the Winter Market were practically fighting to get the work."

"Twice as much? Why? Even if he'd offered less than half the going rate, the commoners couldn't have refused!"

Count Wyman frowned at Count Rickard's answer, unable to make sense of it.

"Um, Lord Robb said something strange at the time. 'Currency circulation, stimulating domestic demand'—I think those were the words. Anyway, I didn't understand."

After thinking for a moment, Rickard imitated Robb's tone and emphasized the two phrases.

After Count Rickard finished speaking, those words he hadn't understood left Count Wyman deep in thought.

The carriage fell quiet as the conversation came to an end.

Before long, the northern nobles' carriage procession entered the newly built, spacious military camp.

Once they reached their destination, the northern nobles dismounted and stepped out of their carriages, looking over Winterfell's new military camp.

The camp was a standard rectangle, with an entrance on both its northern and southern sides.

To the east, where the morning sun rose, stood a bluestone platform about as tall as a man. On either side were tiered stands like the stadiums of Robb's former world. Brand-new wooden seats filled the stands.

To the west of the camp stood rows of sturdy military tents, neatly arranged.

Standing on the platform to welcome them was Theon Greyjoy, commander of Winterfell's archers.

He smiled and greeted all the northern nobles, warmly ushering them into the stands on either side.

"The parade begins!"

Once all the noble spectators were seated, Theon smiled and announced loudly.

A messenger standing below the platform heard the order and immediately drew a black horn from his chest, blowing it with all his might.

Hoo!!!

At the sound of the horn, more than two thousand fully armed warriors rushed out of the neat rows of tents to the west.

They gathered by the camp's northern entrance, and in a short time, the two thousand men had formed into square ranks.

Hoo!

Seeing that the warriors had finished forming up, the messenger below the platform blew the horn again.

Thud!

The spearmen in the front rank planted the butts of their spears on the ground in unison, producing a single, crisp sound.

Then they gripped their spears with both hands, angled the points skyward at seventy-five degrees, and marched forward in perfect step.

Clack, clack, clack!

The armor of the more than five hundred spearmen rattled in unison as they marched in lockstep from the camp's northern gate toward its southern gate.

The northern nobles in the stands were utterly dumbfounded. They had never seen an army form ranks so neatly. Never!

As the last rank of spearmen passed the stands, the messenger blew the horn again.

Five hundred archers began marching, repeating the spearmen's steps. The only difference was that they carried their bows over their right shoulders.

Thud!

Behind them, at the sound of the horn, two hundred shield-bearers led the way, marching toward the stands with their heavy kite shields raised.

Swish!

Following close behind them was a thousand infantrymen with drawn swords. Both units marched toward the stands in the same neat, unified formation.

Not a single one of Winterfell's more than two thousand soldiers made a mistake. The formation of every unit remained perfectly intact.

As the last rank of swordsmen passed the platform, the messenger gave the northern nobles in the stands no time to compose themselves. He blew a long blast on the horn.

Clip-clop, clip-clop!

Hoofbeats came from outside the camp, growing louder and louder.

Rows of fully armed cavalry entered through the camp's northern gate. They were moving fairly quickly as they came in, but slowed abruptly when they passed the platform.

Yet from the northern nobles' vantage point in the stands, even as they slowed, the cavalry ranks remained perfectly intact.

More than thirteen hundred cavalrymen rode past the platform in succession.

At the camp's southern gate, they formed up neatly beside the ranks of more than two thousand archers and infantrymen already assembled there.

The Winterfell soldiers stood completely still in their ranks. Apart from the occasional snort from a cavalry horse, not a sound could be heard.

The northern nobles slowly recovered from their shock and exchanged glances with the familiar faces beside them. None of them knew how to describe the parade, with its flawless, perfectly ordered ranks.

But the parade wasn't over!

"Now, the acting lord of the North, Robb Stark, will escort the criminal.

Roose Bolton of House Bolton!"

As Theon announced loudly from the platform, more than two thousand soldiers suddenly shouted in unison, "Lord Robb! Lord Robb!"

Amid the deafening shouts, Roose slowly entered through the camp's southern gate. Little Jon, Owen, and Daisy escorted him in full armor, while the brothers Eddard and Toren held him by the arms on either side.

The past few days had been torture for Roose. He no longer looked as refined as before. His face was haggard and his spirits low, and he staggered as he walked in his shackles.

"Oh, gods! What's that?"

At an exclamation, everyone saw a Direwolf behind Roose and the others, moving forward at a slow pace like some kind of monster.

An ordinary Direwolf was never larger than a pony, but this one stood taller than the adult warhorses of the North.

Its soft gray fur bristled and rippled in the breeze, and two fangs as long as shortswords protruded from its jaws.

Its long limbs were visibly packed with muscle, and it was surely powerful. Its sharp claws left deep tracks in the snow as it walked through the camp.

Most striking of all, seated on its broad back was a handsome, imposing young man dressed in a lord's casual clothes, with a black cloak draped over his shoulders.

Robb Stark!