The war council was a headache in the making.
The Northern lords were back to their usual selves, shouting at the top of their lungs about storming the walls of King's Landing. They were brave, sure, but they had the tactical patience of a toddler. To them, being "reckless" was the only way to solve a problem.
The Riverlords, on the other hand, were dead silent. They'd just spent months watching their fields burn and their families starve. Now that the Lannisters were gone, they wanted to go home and plant crops, not march south to die for a different Baratheon. Even the soldiers were exhausted. Every village in the Trident was full of widows waiting for a man to come home and keep the family line alive.
"We said we'd hit the capital! I want to see that Iron Throne!" Greatjon Umber roared, his voice shaking the tent poles.
"I want Tywin's head on a spike," Tytos Blackwood added, his eyes dark with a thirst for vengeance. Gregor was dead, but he knew the Lion had been the one holding the leash.
I stood up before Robb had to deal with the shouting. I spread my hands, calling for calm. "Gentlemen, the next battle isn't something we can just charge into. Renly is dead. The board has shifted."
I looked around the room. "If the Tyrells join Stannis, the war is basically over. They'll flatten the Lannisters before we even reach the Blackwater. We just sit back and negotiate. But if they join Joffrey? Then attacking King's Landing is suicide. We'd be walking straight into a seventy-thousand-man trap."
"Why wouldn't the roses join us?" Greatjon barked. "We're the winners!"
Good question, Jon, I thought. "Because Mace Tyrell grew up in silk and artificial waterfalls," I said, making up a quick excuse. "He looks down on us 'rough Northmen.' He wants a crown for his daughter, and we aren't offering one."
The lords grumbled, but they accepted it.
"So," I continued, "we hold Tywin's son and brother. We've cleared the Riverlands. Now, we wait. We watch the Baratheons and Lannisters tear each other apart, and then we pick up the pieces."
The room went quiet. Then, a soft, whispery voice cut through the air.
"Is this the King's plan?" Roose Bolton asked, his pale eyes fixed on me. "I heard the Karstark boy was the Hand. Now it seems he's the one wearing the crown."
The "Old Leech" had taken a beating at the Red Fork, Robb had successfully bled his infantry to "even the score" with the other houses. Roose had been playing the humble servant ever since, offering gold and land to appease the other lords. He was a master of bending so he didn't break.
I looked Roose right in the eye. I'd been waiting for him to try me.
"Whether I'm the Hand or the King's voice, Lord Bolton, I'm doing a lot more for this army than your bastard son is doing for the North."
The room went cold.
"I heard a story from the Hornwood lands," I said, my voice cutting like a razor. "Ramsay Snow didn't just 'help' Lady Donella. He imprisoned her, forced her to sign away her lands, and let her starve to death in a tower. I find it hard to believe a 'bastard' could mobilize Dreadfort soldiers for a crime like that without someone looking the other way."
Ser Farryd of House Hornwood stood up, his face red with fury. "The Hornwoods won't forget this!"
Wendel Manderly, whose aunt had been the victim, actually knelt before Robb, tears in his eyes. "Justice, Your Majesty! For my kin!"
Maege Mormont looked at me with a weird expression. She'd seen me do this before, pinpointing a weakness and twisting the knife with a few words.
Roose Bolton didn't even blink. He pushed his chair back and knelt on one knee before Robb. "What Ramsay did was his own madness. His blood is corrupted. Ser Rodrik has already executed him on the battlefield. The debt is paid, and I relinquish any claim to the Hornwood lands."
He was smooth. He was ready to sacrifice his own son to keep his position.
"That's not quite right, Lord Bolton," I countered. "My sources in the Dreadfort tell a different story. They say the man Ser Rodrik killed was a servant named Reek. They say the real Ramsay Snow is currently sitting in the Winterfell dungeon, pretending to be a commoner."
The silence that followed was absolute. Roose Bolton's eyes flickered for a fraction of a second, the first time I'd ever seen him show a crack.
How does he know? was written all over his mind.
Robb waved his hand, his face set in a look of disgust. "Enough. If what Eddard says is true, I will personally take Ramsay's head when we return to Winterfell. If it's just a story, the man known as Reek will take the Black and spend his life at the Wall. Justice will be done."
Roose bowed his head. "As you command, Your Majesty."
Inside, I knew Roose was already planning my murder. But I didn't care. I'd just stripped him of his heir and his leverage in one move.
We moved on to the actual business of the realm.
My dad, Lord Rickard, would hold the Golden Tooth with three thousand men. Everyone knew I was being groomed to take that castle and start my own line, so no one questioned the Karstarks holding the "Back Door."
As for Harrenhal? The Blackfish had already taken it.
Vargo Hoat and his "Brave Companions" had betrayed the Lannisters, thrown Amory Lorch to the bear, and handed the keys to Ser Brynden. The Blackfish had arrested the lot of them. He sent a raven asking Robb what to do with the mercenaries.
"My advice?" I told Robb later. "Give Vargo Hoat the 'Title' of Lord of Harrenhal for a day. Honor his contribution. Then, hang the whole lot of them for what they did to the Riverlands."
"Even the Maester?" Robb asked.
"Especially the Maester," I said.
I knew about Qyburn. He was a monster who played with dark magic and "unethical experiments." In a world where I was trying to build something stable, a guy who turn corpses into zombies was a liability I didn't need. I'd rather teach magic to people with actual souls.
"Hang them all," I said. "Clean the slate."
Robb thought about it, then nodded. He was tired of the cruelty of the South. A raven was sent to Harrenhal with the order.
The Brave Companions were about to find out that a "Stark Debt" was paid in rope.