The last sliver of daylight slipped through the gap in the tent flap, leaving the tent completely dark.
An attendant stepped quietly inside and replaced the wick in the candle that was nearly burned out.
The flickering flame grew bright and steady again, stretching the shadow of the young man standing before the enormous sand table and illuminating the stubborn gravity and exhaustion etched into his brow.
"Your Grace," the attendant urged softly, his tone cautious, "it's late. You should... get some rest. You've been standing all day."
Robb did not turn. He merely waved a hand lightly.
The attendant opened his mouth, then swallowed the rest of his advice, bowed, and withdrew from the tent.
Indeed, he had stood there from dawn until nightfall, as though nailed to the spot before the sand table.
His lightly callused fingers had moved over the model of the Riverlands countless times, wandering across the raised and sunken markings of rivers, hills, and castles, only to return to the same area every time.
It was the last known general location of Roose Bolton and the northern troops under his command, a stretch of hills and woodland west of the Gods Eye and north of the Red Fork.
Three days.
Three full days had passed since he sent out more than a hundred mounted messengers to contact the scattered northern forces.
Ravens from Greatjon Umber and Wylis Manderly had returned yesterday, one after the other, confirming that they had received their orders and would act according to plan. That had eased half his anxiety.
Yet there was still no word from Roose Bolton's raven.
He had waited through a day and a night, from dawn to dusk and on into the deep darkness. He attended to military affairs, listened to scouts' reports, and issued