[Chapter Size: 1000 Words.]
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Winterfell
As the capital of the North, Winterfell covers a vast area and is the largest city in the region.
Theon led his men on the march for several days, during which a large number of Northern lords gathered in Winterfell.
To resist Theon's twenty thousand men, the North had mobilized nearly every available soldier in its territory.
A total of more than eighteen thousand had assembled.
But even if Theon divided his forces into three groups, he would still command twenty thousand soldiers.
The sudden deployment of fifty thousand troops from Riverrun far exceeded the North's expectations.
During the rule of House Tully in the Riverlands, their host had never exceeded forty thousand men.
Only the wealthy Westerlands and the fertile Reach could muster armies of fifty thousand or more.
Furthermore, the armies of each great house usually numbered between twenty and forty thousand men.
Yet no one truly expected Riverrun to send fifty thousand soldiers.
According to intelligence, the twenty thousand marching directly toward Winterfell were well-equipped and supplied with everything they needed.
"This will be a hard battle. How long will our food last?" asked one Northern lord.
As soon as he spoke, the room fell silent. It was clear that their supplies were critically low.
"At most two weeks. With nearly twenty thousand mouths to feed, once the food runs out they will scatter, and perhaps even riot."
Bran looked around at the worried nobles and sighed inwardly.
There was no hope of winning this war.
Eighteen thousand old, weak, and infirm men could not possibly stand against twenty thousand strong, seasoned soldiers of the enemy.
"Perhaps we should consider submitting to Theon Greyjoy," Bran suggested.
"What?"
"Impossible!"
"The North will never surrender!"
Hearing their protests, Bran replied, "And if Theon kills you all?"
The words silenced the chamber. Northerners were honest and brave, but that did not mean they were unafraid of death. No one truly wished to die.
"My lords, the Boltons are weaker than we are. How long do you think House Bolton can endure?"
Bran raised the most pressing question.
"The battlefield is here in the North. We cannot both fight and raid for supplies, nor can we abandon Winterfell. Once Theon's full army arrives, we might contain twenty thousand men, but could we contain fifty thousand?"
Finally, Bran said, "Let me speak with Theon. Sometimes problems can be solved without bloodshed."
After long debate, the nobles decided Bran would lead ten thousand men to meet with Theon.
…
On the other side, Theon warmed himself by the fire in his tent while his generals argued whether they should storm Winterfell directly or lay siege to it.
Theon stroked the feathers of Zeus and weighed the options.
For the resource-rich Riverrun army, a siege would minimize casualties.
But Theon preferred an assault, it would save time. With the Riverlands' siege equipment, capturing Winterfell would not be difficult.
Having lived in Winterfell for years, Theon knew exactly which gate was the weakest.
At that moment, a soldier entered and reported, "Your Grace, an envoy from House Stark wishes to see you."
"A Stark? Let him in," Theon ordered.
The Starks were likely here to negotiate peace, especially since Moat Cailin and White Harbor had not yet fallen.
Soon a burly, bearded man entered, his appearance perfectly suited to a Northerner.
"Your Grace, the King in the North wishes to meet with you," the messenger declared directly.
"Bran wants to see me? Very well. Where?" Theon agreed without hesitation.
"At Charcoal Keep, the King in the North awaits you," said the envoy.
Charcoal Keep lay not far from Winterfell and was a necessary stop along Theon's march.
"Good. Tell Bran I'll be there tomorrow."
The messenger bowed deeply before hurrying away.
Only after leaving the Riverrun camp did the envoy breathe a sigh of relief.
What he had seen was daunting: the soldiers of Riverrun were strictly disciplined, their armor and weapons gleaming with a cold, deadly sheen.
Their provisions, too, were far better than those of many lesser Northern lords.
The envoy had witnessed a cook dropping chunks of meat into a pot and adding fine white salt, salt as pure as snow.
It had to be refined salt from the Iron Islands, far beyond the means of many minor houses.
With that thought, the envoy quickened his pace. This information had to be reported immediately.
The outcome of the negotiations would surely change.
…
When the envoy returned to the Northern camp, he found Bran seated in a chair, gently stroking the head of his direwolf, Summer.
With silver fur and golden eyes, each direwolf of House Stark reflected the fate of its master.
Grey Wind had died at the Red Wedding. Lady had perished indirectly at the hands of Joffrey. Nymeria had disappeared into the wilderness, now leading a great wolf pack.
The only survivors were Summer, Ghost, and Shaggydog.
Shaggydog had once followed Rickon but was slain at Winterfell after the Umber betrayal in the original tale.
"Your Grace, the host from the Riverlands is far stronger than we imagined. I don't understand how they raised such strength," the envoy reported.
He recounted what he had seen, though many Northern lords doubted his words.
"It doesn't matter," Bran replied calmly. "We have already considered the worst-case scenario. I will do my best to protect the interests of all. That is all I can offer."
Since the deaths of his father, mother, and brother, Bran rarely displayed emotion.
Perhaps it was grief, or perhaps something deeper, but he was no longer the lively boy he had once been.
Since Robb had marched south, Bran had managed the affairs of the North with the help of the maester. Over time, he had grown quiet, solemn, and withdrawn.
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