At a secluded ferry crossing on the southern bank of the Green Fork.
Robb stood on the bank, gazing at the broad, swift river and the woods on the opposite shore. Jeyne stood beside him, one hand resting lightly on her belly, which showed no change yet, while the other clutched his arm.
"Robb, can we really get across?" she asked, her voice trembling with uncertainty.
"Of course we can." Robb clasped her hand tightly and said firmly, "We've found quite a few boats now. We'll cross in groups, and we'll definitely have everyone across within three days."
Jeyne nodded and rested her head on Robb's shoulder without saying anything more.
The column moved slowly. With provisions running short, everyone received only a meager ration. The soldiers' faces grew increasingly haggard, and their steps grew heavier.
Before long, however, the northerners gradually gathered, and the first group assigned to cross began boarding. Leading horses and carrying supplies, the soldiers carefully stepped onto the rickety old wooden boats.
"Robb." Brynden the Blackfish rode up beside him, dismounted, and bowed. With concern in his voice, he said, "Our provisions will last ten days at most. If we don't reach the vicinity of Winterfell within that time, we'll probably have to eat the horses."
"I know." Robb's voice still sounded fairly calm. "I've already received a reply from Uncle Edmure. He said he would bring a shipment of grain here to support us soon."
The Blackfish sighed. Thinking of his disappointing nephew, he said helplessly, "Let's hope so. I only hope he keeps his word."
"Robb," the Blackfish spoke up again suddenly. "I nearly forgot. I just received word from Bolton's men. They've all withdrawn from Harrenhal and have reached the Green Fork. They're following the bank toward us now. They should join