The torchlight had long gone out, and the cold began to seep into the stone.
"Turin. Enough," Ser Roderick's voice was low but firm. "You've done your watch. Go rest."
Turin blinked, his fingers still curled around his bowstring. His eyes burned from exhaustion. He looked out the shattered window once more, then back at the old knight.
"Alright." He stood up stiffly. "Wake me if—"
"If we're all dead, I won't bother," Roderick said, cracking a dry smile.
Turin gave a quiet laugh that didn't reach his eyes. He found a corner of the cold tower floor, nestled between collapsed stones and the body of one of the fallen. The boy wrapped his cloak tighter around himself and closed his eyes.
And he dreamed.
Fire. Screams. The Ironborn swarming the stairs like roaches. Ser William's head rolling across the floor. Roderick's body was dragged down the tower steps, blood trailing behind.
Then he, kneeling before Theon Hoare.
The prince grinned, his hair matted with sweat, and swung his sword—
"No!"
Turin woke with a start, heart hammering in his chest, as the dream-blade sliced through his neck. Morning light poured through the ruined window. The floor was damp with dew and death.
Everyone was staring.
"I'm fine," Turin lied.
Ser Willam stood by the window, sword drawn.
"They're coming."
The boy was on his feet before the words finished. He snatched up his bow and notched an arrow. Everyone still alive — only a handful — scrambled to their feet and took position. The stairwell still choked with Ironborn corpses gave no comfort. From below came the sound of boots, clanging swords, and war cries.
Bang. The bodies shifted. Then burst apart as the Ironborn surged up, roaring.
Turin fired. One arrow struck a warrior through the nose. Another took one in the gut, folding him over. But the other archers — slower, panicked — weren't fast enough. One Ironborn charged with a mad scream and sank his axe into an archer's throat, splitting it open in a red spray.
The other archer turned to run and was dragged down, screaming, stabbed through the ribs again and again.
"Bastards!" Ser Willam roared, cleaving down the killer. Blood sprayed across the stone walls.
Turin backed away, panting. He turned toward the window and froze.
A ladder.
Ironborn were climbing it, slowly but surely. Another front.
"Ser Willam!" Turin called. "Ladder—They're coming through the window!"
"Then stop them, gods damn it! We'll hold the stairs!"
Turin ran to the window, loosed an arrow — straight through a man's skull — and watched the body fall, flailing. He reached to shove the ladder, but it was too heavy, wedged tight between stones.
Shit. I need help.
He turned—
And saw death charging toward him.
A massive Ironborn, bald and bearded, eyes mad, swinging a huge battle-axe as he barreled forward. He was aiming to drive Turin through the window, down to the rocks below.
Turin dove aside at the last second.
Crash.
The Ironborn thundered through the open window — straight into the ladder — and with a scream of terror, plunged down with it. A chain reaction followed — the other Ironborn on the ladder fell after him, some crashing on stone, others crushed beneath the wood.
Thump. Crack. Snap. Bones broke. Screams cut short.
Turin didn't waste time. He shoved the ladder with all his might, and finally, it tumbled away from the wall and down into the field.
He turned to help the others.
What he found stopped him cold.
Bodies. So many bodies.
Only three were still standing.
Himself.
Ser Roderick, arm bleeding, armor torn.
And Ser Willam, face pale, blade slick with blood, chest heaving.
"What… what the fuck happened?" Turin whispered.
William answered, eyes flat.
"They died. Most were farmers playing swordsman. They weren't made for this."
Turin looked around. Young men with split skulls. Old ones with their bellies open. The floor was thick with blood, Ironborn and Riverlander both.
He tried not to throw up.
"So… now what?"
Another war cry echoed from below. More boots on the stairs.
"We fight," Ser Willam said grimly.
"Always another charge."
Turin dropped his bow. No time. He grabbed a sword from a dead man — too heavy in his hand, but better than nothing — and took his place beside them.
They came again. Ironborn screaming. Blades flashing.
Turin slashed one across the gut, then stabbed another straight through the heart. He felt the blood on his face, in his mouth. He tasted iron.
Ser Roderick drove his sword into a warrior's throat, ripping it free in a spray of red. Ser Willam fought with fury, parrying a blow, driving his sword under the ribs of another.
They held. Somehow, they held.
And then, finally — silence.
Turin collapsed beside the wall, gasping. His sword hand was shaking.
"That's it?" he asked. "No more?"
Roderick sat down heavily. "Not today."
But none of them looked hopeful.
Turin gazed out the window. Harwyn's head was still there. Birds had begun to peck at it.
We're not getting out of this, he thought.
Then Ser Willam broke the silence.
"Turin."
He looked up.
"Roderick and I talked. There's only one way this ends."
Turin frowned. "What are you talking about?"
Roderick didn't meet his eyes. "You're thirteen. You have a sister. We've lived our lives, fought our wars."
"We're not going to watch Elle grow up," William said quietly. "But you can."
Turin's heart clenched. "No. No, I'm not leaving you."
"You will," Roderick snapped. "Because someone has to live."
"And because that girl is waiting for you," William added. "She needs you more than we do."
Turin felt something crack inside him.
"How?" he whispered. "How do I escape?"
William's face was stone.
"The only way. We attack. You run. No heroics. No tears. Just live."
Turin swallowed hard. His throat burned.
He nodded.
He didn't want to.
But he nodded.
20 minutes later
The tower reeked of death.
Blood clung to the stone like tar. Flies buzzed. Bodies lay stacked at the stairs, silent sentinels of a last stand. Turin looked at Ser Willam and Ser Roderick, the last of their men. He wanted to speak, to say something — anything — but his throat was a knot.
There were no goodbyes in war. Only blood and what followed after.
"You remember what we said, lad?" Ser Roderick asked, buckling his sword tight.
Turin nodded, chest tight.
"Then run."
Ser Willam turned toward the stairwell, blade drawn.
"NOW!"
They didn't wait. The old knights charged down the stairs with a fury Turin would remember for the rest of his life. Their roars echoed off the stone like lions loosed from a cage.
Turin turned and ran.
He didn't look back.
He heard the clash of steel — the brutal crash of bodies meeting in war — and Ser Roderick's scream as he cut into the first man. Iron met flesh. Someone gurgled. Another screamed. Then silence.
And the sound of footsteps behind him.
The Ironborn were coming.
Turin burst out of the tower and into the broken ruins of Oldstones. The wind hit him like a whip, but he didn't stop. His legs pounded the earth, dodging rubble and fallen stone as he made for the tree line.
The sun was climbing, burning away the morning mist, and the woods loomed like a promise — or a grave.
Behind him, voices rose.
"There! The boy! AFTER HIM!"
He didn't look. He couldn't.
Every breath was fire. Every step was pain. The cold air stabbed his lungs. His bow bounced against his back, forgotten in the sprint. His sword was still in his hand, but it felt like dead weight.
He reached the trees, half-leaping into the brush, thorns tearing at his cloak. The branches closed behind him, and the shouts grew fainter, muffled by leaves and distance. He pressed on.
Just a little farther. Just keep going.
And then pain like he'd never known.
THWACK.
Something hot and sharp slammed into his left leg. He didn't see it — didn't have to — the pain told him enough.
A spear had pierced clean through his thigh.
Turin screamed.
He collapsed against a tree, blood pouring from the wound. The spear pinned him awkwardly to the earth like a hunted boar. His hands scrambled at it, but it was wedged in deep. His vision blurred.
Footsteps. Laughter.
"Look what we caught!"
Turin twisted his head. Three Ironborn emerged from the trees, bloodied and grinning. One was tall and broad, axe in hand. Another had a rusted sword and no helmet. The last was lean, hollow-eyed, with a jagged scar running from his nose to chin.
The scarred man spat.
"This the little rat that ran?"
"Aye," said the one with the axe. "The boy who led the slaughter. My brother's brains were on the stair because of him."
He walked forward.
Turin reached for his sword with shaking fingers. The axe-wielder kicked it away.
"None of that."
The other two just watched, amused. The scarred man picked his teeth with a knife.
"Killin' a crippled boy, huh?"
"Not just any boy," the axeman growled. "He killed my kin. I'll have his head."
He raised the axe.
Turin didn't beg. Didn't cry.
He just stared at the man, his face pale with blood loss, his mouth tight with fury.
The axe came down—
THWACK.
But it wasn't the axe.
It was an arrow.
Straight through the Ironborn's left eye, the shaft buried deep in his skull.
The man jerked, spasmed, and collapsed like a sack of meat. The other two spun in shock.
"What the—?"
TWIP.
Another arrow hit the man with the rusted sword in the throat. He gurgled and fell, hands clawing at the shaft.
The last Ironborn tried to run — but too late.
TWIP.
An arrow struck his back, and he fell forward, thrashing, then went still.
Turin blinked.
Three dead Ironborn. One after another. Precise. Silent.
Then — movement.
A figure stepped into the clearing.
A black cloak trimmed with red. Leather armor. Bow in hand.
Turin's eyes drifted to the sigil on the man's chest.
A white weirwood tree surrounded by black ravens, on a red field.
House Blackwood.
His vision dimmed. Blood ran down his leg, pooling beneath him.
The man took a step forward, lowering his bow.
Turin wanted to speak. To ask who he was. But everything was getting distant, muffled.
His mouth opened. Nothing came out.
And then —
darkness.