The banners of the Flayed Man swayed stiffly in the wind, while more than a dozen banners belonging to other northern lords flew among the ranks.
The northern army commanded by Roose Bolton advanced through the Riverlands at a pace that could only be called a crawl.
While Greatjon Umber swept forward in the northeast, taking castle after castle, and Wylis Manderly steadily cleared the eastern shore of the Gods Eye, Bolton's army still lingered and prowled along the fringes of Targaryen territory.
The few positions they had captured were less strategic strongholds than insignificant outposts or villages.
What secretly angered some of the northern lords loyal to the Starks even more was that whenever they encountered any resistance, Bolton always sent the most eager, most ardent supporters of Robb to face it.
He called them the vanguard or the flank guard, while keeping his own troops and those of certain lords whose loyalties remained ambiguous in the relative safety of the rear.
After several such engagements, the northern lords loyal to Robb had suffered losses and a blow to their morale, despite never having fought a truly hard battle.
An undercurrent of doubt and resentment quietly stirred through this army of divided loyalties.
The atmosphere inside and outside the command tent was as oppressive as the damp, cold, overcast skies of the Riverlands.
Just then, a rapid clatter of hooves broke the camp's gloom.
A lone horseman charged into camp, drenched in blood, his armor battered, his face smeared with mud and exhaustion, as though he had just crawled out of a pool of blood in hell.
He shouted hoarsely, "Messenger from the King in the North! Urgent news!"
Led by several Bolton soldiers, he stumbled toward Roose Bolton's central command tent.
The tent flap lifted, admitting the breeze