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Early in the morning, all the northern nobles were awakened by the servants. As soon as dawn broke, they all set out by horse or carriage toward the military camp a few miles from Winterfell.
"We've arrived. There's our new military camp."
Lord Wyman, who had been dozing inside the carriage, had barely been asleep for long before Lord Rickard woke him.
Rubbing his eyes, Lord Wyman looked out the window in the direction he was pointing.
What he saw was a camp enclosed by a wooden palisade of sharpened logs driven side by side into the ground.
At first glance, that camp looked quite simple. But it had been raised on a broad, level stretch of land, and from the space it occupied, it could house several thousand soldiers.
"What is that?"
Lord Wyman pointed at a tall structure beside the simple camp, built from bluish stone and yellow clay, shaped like a short dagger. Compared to the camp beside it, that structure had clearly been planned and built with far greater care.
"I couldn't say. Lord Robb personally supervised its construction. Like I told you yesterday, if he doesn't volunteer the information himself, I don't ask."
Lord Rickard scratched his chin and answered with a shake of his head.
"In so short a time, building a camp and that structure as well must have cost a great many golden dragons. How many smallfolk were recruited in all?"
As a man used to trade, what interested Lord Wyman most was the cost of the construction.
"Mm, Lord Robb recruited the smallfolk by paying double the usual rate. At the time, the people of Winter Town nearly went mad trying to get work here."
"Double? Why? Even if he had recruited them for half that, they would have had no choice but to accept."
Hearing Lord Rickard's answer, Lord Wyman frowned, unable to understand it.
"Well, what Lord Robb said at the time was very strange. Something about 'currency circulation, stimulating domestic demand'... I think those were the words. In any case, I didn't understand a thing."
After thinking for a moment, Lord Rickard imitated Robb's tone and repeated those two expressions with emphasis.
When he finished speaking, those baffling words left Lord Wyman deep in thought.
The carriage fell silent because of that topic.
Not long afterward, the line of carriages entered that broad newly built camp.
Once they arrived, the nobles got down and began studying Winterfell's new military camp.
It was a standard rectangular camp, with one entrance to the north and another to the south.
On the eastern side, where the morning sun was shining, stood a high stone platform about the height of a grown man. On both sides of the platform were stepped stands, similar to the stands of a sports stadium on Earth. Upon them, rows of newly built wooden seats had been installed.
On the western side of the camp stood several neat rows of thick military tents.
At that moment, the one waiting on the platform to receive them was Theon Greyjoy, commander of the archers.
Smiling, he greeted all the nobles and enthusiastically guided them to the stands on both sides.
"The military review is about to begin!"
Seeing that all the nobles were already seated, Theon announced in a loud voice, smiling.
At the signal, a soldier waiting below the platform immediately pulled a black horn from inside his clothing and blew it with all his strength.
Wooooo!!!
At the sound of the horn, more than two thousand fully armed warriors came running out from the rows of tents on the western side.
They assembled in the direction of the camp's north gate, and in a very short time, more than two thousand men were already arranged into square formations.
When the messenger soldier saw that the formations were ready, he blew the horn again.
In the front formation, made up of spearmen, every man struck the butt of his spear against the ground at the same moment, producing a perfectly synchronized sound.
Then they gripped their spears with both hands, the points angled toward the sky at roughly seventy-five degrees, while beginning to march in perfectly aligned steps.
Clack, clack, clack!
More than five hundred spearmen, their armor ringing in the same rhythm, marched from the north gate to the south gate in the exact same cadence.
In the stands, everyone was completely stunned. Never in their lives had they seen an army with such perfectly aligned formations. Never.
As soon as the last rank of spearmen passed the stands, the messenger soldier blew the horn again.
Five hundred archers repeated the same march as the spearmen. The only difference was that they carried their bows and arrows over their right shoulders.
After them, at the sound of another blast of the horn, two hundred shield soldiers began marching first, carrying heavy kite shields toward the stands.
Right behind that formation came a thousand infantrymen with drawn swords. The two forces kept exactly the same orderly pace as they advanced before the stands.
In total, more than two thousand soldiers passed by without a single man making any mistake. The formations of every troop type remained flawlessly organized.
When the last rank of swordsmen had passed before the platform, the messenger soldier did not even give the audience time to recover from their stunned expressions before sounding another long blast on the horn.
Clop clop clop!
The sound of hoofbeats echoed from outside the camp, faint at first, then growing stronger and stronger.
Row after row of fully armed cavalry entered through the north gate. When they entered the camp, they came in at a fairly high speed, but as they passed in front of the platform, they suddenly reined in and slowed to a measured walk.
Even so, from the angle of those seated in the stands, those rows of riders still maintained an astonishingly intact formation.
More than thirteen hundred horsemen passed one after another before the platform.
When they reached the south gate, they lined up in orderly fashion beside the formations of archers and infantry that were already waiting in position.
Looking at the soldiers of Winterfell, now perfectly aligned and standing motionless in absolute silence, except for the occasional snort of a horse, the northern nobles slowly hid the astonishment on their faces and exchanged looks with the acquaintances beside them, unable to find words to describe such a perfect, disciplined military review.
But the military review was not yet over.
"Now, the lord regent of the North, Robb Stark, will bring out the criminal,
Roose Bolton, of House Bolton of the North!"
The instant Theon announced that in a loud voice from the platform, more than two thousand soldiers began shouting in perfect unison:
"Lord Robb! Lord Robb!"
With the deafening echo of those cries, Roose slowly appeared through the south gate of the camp. He was being escorted by Smalljon, Owen, and Dacey, all fully armed, while Edd and Torrhen held him tightly from both sides.
That time had been pure torment for Roose. Nothing remained of his former refined appearance. His face was haggard, his spirit exhausted, and he walked in chains with a trembling, unsteady gait.
"Oh, by the gods... what is that?"
At the sound of a cry of shock, everyone saw that behind Roose and his escorts, there came striding slowly a monstrous giant wolf.
An ordinary direwolf would never grow larger than a pony, yet this one was even bigger than a full-grown warhorse.
At that moment, its gray fur was bristling and rippling in the wind. Two fangs comparable to short daggers jutted from its jaws.
Its long limbs displayed visibly developed muscles, making it obvious just how explosive its strength must be, and its sharp claws left deep marks in the camp's snow with every step.
Most important of all, seated upon its broad back was a handsome young man with an imposing bearing, dressed in lordly clothes with a black cloak over his shoulders.
Robb Stark.
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