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A few miles east of Winterfell, near the newly established military camp, the armies of the northern bannermen had pitched their tents outside the camp proper. Their heavy tents stretched on for miles.
Today was the day Robb had chosen for the march south. All the soldiers were packing up their tents and making their final preparations.
"Your Grace!"
"King Robb!"
Robb rode the majestic Bloodwind from Winterfell toward the new camp.
The moment he entered the tented area around it, the soldiers nearby immediately stopped what they were doing and saluted him.
They looked at the massive direwolf beneath him with awe and fervor in their eyes.
Sam's newly built intelligence network had already begun to play a crucial role. By now, most northerners believed Robb had to be an envoy of the old gods, or he could never have mastered such a terrifying giant wolf.
The lords of each house had also passed along Robb's promise that he would lead them south to seize the endless wealth of the southron lords. Now the soldiers were burning with fighting spirit, wishing they could march south at once.
Robb smiled and nodded to the soldiers along the way. Only after entering the camp could he finally relax his face, which had grown a little stiff from smiling.
But the moment he entered the camp, he discovered that the northern lords were already waiting before the platform. Behind them stood Theon, Smalljon, and the other Winterfell commanders, along with the commanders under each lord.
Behind those officers stood nearly seven thousand of Winterfell's own troops in neat ranks, silent and disciplined.
Robb had no choice but to put the smile back on his face. In his mind, he sent Bloodwind a thought, and the direwolf immediately shifted from a walk into a charge.
He rushed toward the platform, sprang lightly onto it, and landed with a heavy thud.
"Your Grace!"
"Your Grace!"
The lords in the front row bowed their heads as soon as they saw Robb take his place.
Then nearly seven thousand soldiers throughout the camp shouted as one.
"My lords, my brothers of the North, thank you all for answering my call!
The king we once served, Robert Baratheon, and the Lord of Winterfell, Eddard Stark, were both murdered by House Lannister after a long and careful plot.
This march south will wipe House Lannister from the map and cut down the false king Joffrey Hill.
I believe that any enemy who stands in our way will be torn to pieces by you, the warriors of the North."
When the shouting in the camp gradually died down, Robb spoke in a loud voice.
The camp covered a broad area, so the soldiers farther back would not be able to hear him clearly.
Careful Owen had therefore arranged dozens of loud-voiced soldiers in advance, one every few rows, to carry Robb's words back through the ranks.
"Whoa!"
"Kill them!"
"Tear them apart!"
The instant Robb finished that part of his speech, the soldiers below erupted into all kinds of furious roars.
Robb was quite satisfied with such high morale. He raised both hands, signaling for silence.
Those standing far away might not hear his words, but every soldier could see Robb's gesture as he stood on the platform atop Bloodwind. They quickly quieted down.
"At the same time, when we march south, we will borrow our enemies' wealth to build our homeland. We will make the North richer and our lives more comfortable.
And finally, brothers of the North, you need not worry for your families.
Every brother who dies bravely on this march will be recorded in the Warriors' Crypt. Your families will be properly cared for until... House Stark itself is gone!"
"Long live King Robb!"
"We will fight to the death for King Robb!"
"Fight to the death!"
The moment Robb finished, all the soldiers roared again in excitement.
In their eyes, if Robb's words came true, then those who returned alive from this march south would have no worries for the rest of their lives, perhaps even for several generations.
Even if they were unlucky enough to die in battle, their families would receive generous pensions and basic support. Better still, that support would last until House Stark itself was gone.
And to northerners, House Stark, with thousands of years of history behind it, was as ancient and dependable as the Wall.
So long as the Wall did not fall, House Stark would not perish.
By then, the soldiers in the camp had been whipped into a near-mad zeal.
The commotion drew the curiosity of the other houses' soldiers camped nearby. Robb's words slowly spread out from the camp, and before long, the tents stretching across those miles were filled with the shouts of men willing to fight to the death for him.
Clank, clank.
A column of infantry with newer equipment and neater ranks marched forward in high spirits. The lord responsible for leading them and his commanders rode alongside the formation.
They were now passing before Winterfell's eastern gate, marching toward the south gate and the kingsroad.
The eastern gate was crowded with smallfolk watching the spectacle. They stared at the seemingly endless column, talking loudly while craning their necks to see whether anyone they knew was among the soldiers.
"Hey, those are House Cerwyn's men. That is their silver battle-axe banner."
"Wow, Aven, you know so much. That's amazing!"
"Come on, lad, tell us about the others."
Among the smallfolk, a young man who had traveled across the North with merchant caravans was showing off his knowledge.
The girl beside him looked at him with open admiration, while the other smallfolk urged him to keep going.
"The merman with the trident belongs to House Manderly. The black bear in the green wood is House Mormont. The roaring giant with broken chains is House Umber...
Huh. I don't see House Tallhart's three sentinel trees, or House Glover's mailed fist."
"No need to wonder about that. I saw a great crowd of soldiers pass along the kingsroad a few days ago. They must be the vanguard arranged by the lords."
"Look, House Stark's men are coming!"
The smallfolk watched tirelessly as column after column passed through the eastern gate. As they were talking, Winterfell's own troops came at the rear, carrying the direwolf banners.
Clank. Clank. Clank.
Winterfell's troops marched forward in perfectly even steps. Unlike the northern lords' men before them, who had whispered to one another as they marched, these soldiers made no sound beyond their footfalls and the clash of mail.
A harsh air of slaughter swept over the crowd, and the chattering smallfolk fell silent almost by instinct.
Shieldmen, spearmen, swordsmen, and archers.
More than four thousand Winterfell infantry passed swiftly through the eastern gate, neat and silent.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Nearly two thousand light cavalry guided their horses forward in the same orderly formation.
Five hundred heavy cavalry followed behind them, appearing in the smallfolk's sight like men sealed inside iron cans.
If the infantry felt grim and murderous, then these cavalrymen seemed forged in iron and blood.
For a moment, the watching smallfolk could almost see them charging into an enemy army, leaving storms of blood and carnage in their wake.
Behind them, the smallfolk saw King Robb of Winterfell, mounted on a giant direwolf with cold eyes and a body radiating menace.
At his left and right walked two more direwolves, only half the giant wolf's size but every bit as fierce.
Watching them pass before his eyes, Aven swallowed hard and said in a slightly trembling voice:
"Gods, I don't think anyone can stop King Robb's army and his giant wolves!"
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