The smell of blood had yet to fade from the command tent when Robb turned first, his wolfskin cloak billowing as he strode outside.
The northern lords followed in silence. None looked at the pool of dark red blood congealing on the ground.
A few paces away, guards lifted the flap of another large tent.
At its center stood an enormous sand table.
The Riverlands' mountains and valleys, branching rivers, strategic crossings, castles, and villages were meticulously marked with colored wooden blocks, fine sand, and threads.
The craftsmen accompanying the army had spent days rushing to complete it.
Robb took his place on the north side of the table, where the northern army was represented. The others gathered around him, firelight dancing over the shadows of the uneven terrain and illuminating their tense faces.
Robb pointed to the broad expanse marked in black in the southern part of the table.
That was the territory under Targaryen control.
"According to our current intelligence," Robb began, his voice steady and clear, a commander's composure replacing his earlier murderous air, "Aegon Targaryen's main force consists of over three thousand heavy cavalry and roughly twenty thousand infantry."
"Their heavy cavalry are formidable, but their armor is cumbersome and limits their mobility. They cannot make long-distance raids or fight for prolonged periods. There are many ways to counter them."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the others.
"The real difficulty is the dragon."
The air in the tent grew still.
"Your Grace," Wylis Manderly said anxiously, "rumor has it that the monstrous dragon is as large as a mountain and breathes not dragonfire, but thunder. Even the walls of King's Landing melted easily before it."
"We do not know whether that is true, but I fear the rumors are not entirely groundless."
Robb nodded.
"A