Chapter 15: Ambushed
Saelen remained in Winterfell for several days to rest and reorganize. After reuniting with more than twenty cavalrymen sent from Edd Castle, he set out at first light, leading the mounted detachment quietly out of Winterfell and northward.
On the tenth day of riding, Saelen and his party established a temporary camp in an abandoned village. A violent snowstorm forced them to halt and rest for a full day. The weather of the North was truly merciless—howling winds sharp as blades, carrying heavy snow that lashed against exposed skin until it burned with pain.
Several large bonfires had been lit among the ruined houses. The men clustered around them, drinking wine and tearing into slabs of roasted meat, laughter rising again and again into the storm-filled night. Crude jokes flew freely, echoing between the broken walls.
Looking more closely, Saelen noticed many faces among the group—some familiar, others unexpected.
Robb Stark.
Theon Greyjoy.
Ser Rodrik Cassel.
Fat Tom.
Bowen.
Several guards from Winterfell.
There were also men from other Northern houses:
Robett Glover of Deepwood Motte,
Dacey Mormont of Bear Island,
Lambard Tallhart of Torrhen's Square,
Ser Wylis Manderly of White Harbor,
and more besides.
Robb had brought them along, catching up with Saelen's party several days earlier.
Robb had also told him that Eddard Karstark of Karhold and Smalljon Umber of Last Hearth had set out ahead of them. They were to rendezvous at Crow's Nest Town.
Saelen looked at the men now laughing around the fires. Not a single one complained about the brutal weather. Nor did he see fear in their eyes—only eagerness. Hunger for battle. Thirst for glory.
It made him uneasy.
He still did not understand why Lord Eddard had suddenly changed his mind, allowing Robb to join the expedition—and not only Robb, but the sons and brothers of several bannermen as well.
Saelen had questioned Robb about it, but Robb himself did not know the reason.
He only explained that after the council meeting, he had immediately gone to Catelyn to plead his case, hoping she would allow him to ride north on the scouting mission. After hearing him out, she had refused without hesitation, and Robb had dropped the matter.
Then—after Saelen's party had already departed—Lord Eddard had suddenly summoned Robb again.
He told him he was permitted to join after all and ordered him to prepare.
In the days that followed, the sons and kin of Northern lords arrived in Winterfell one after another. Eddard then instructed Saelen to lead them out at once and handed him a sealed letter.
The letter was to be delivered to Benjen Stark.
Its contents were brief but weighty:
from that point on, all decisions were to be made jointly by Benjen and Saelen. Robb was to listen to them, act with restraint, and was strictly forbidden from using his status as the heir to Winterfell to issue orders.
Robb had sworn to this on the spot.
Saelen stared into the fire, snow swirling beyond the ring of light, unease settling quietly in his chest.
He grabbed a wineskin and took a deep swig of red wine. Warmth spread through his body, slowly driving the chill from his back. Reaching over, Saelen took the greatsword Ice from beside Gendry and handed it to Robb.
"You're the heir to Winterfell. One day, this sword will belong to you. You should be the one to keep it."
Ice was the ancestral Valyrian steel greatsword of House Stark, passed down through generations. Given the high likelihood of encountering White Walkers beyond the Wall, Saelen had deliberately set his sights on the blade. Before departing, he had gone to Lord Eddard with the request, half-expecting refusal. Instead, Eddard had drawn Ice, handed it to him, and told him to try swinging it.
Saelen had taken the blade and run through a full sequence of sword forms with effortless ease. Seeing this, Eddard had hesitated no longer. He lent Ice to Saelen on one condition—that it be returned intact once the expedition ended.
Robb accepted the sword, drew it, and studied the pale blade for a long moment. A complicated look crossed his face.
"Father entrusted this sword to you. You should keep it," he said quietly. "Besides, Ice is a two-handed greatsword. It's too large and unwieldy for me. Using it in real combat would slow me down."
He paused, then added with a faint smile,
"Other than a warrior like you, I don't think anyone else could wield it properly."
With that, Robb handed the sword back.
Saelen did not argue further. He sheathed Ice and passed it to Gendry for safekeeping.
Night gradually fell. Conversations died down, and one by one the men drifted into sleep.
"Saelen… wake up… Saelen… wake up… Saelen… wake up now… if you don't, you'll die…"
A familiar voice echoed faintly, then suddenly exploded beside his ear.
A dagger appeared at Saelen's throat.
In the dream, his throat was slit in one swift motion. The blade plunged into his chest—once, twice, again. Suffocation flooded his body, pain and darkness swallowing everything.
Saelen snapped awake.
He sat upright in an instant, gasping for breath, hands flying to his neck and chest. Beneath the protection of his armor, everything was intact—only a faint prickling sensation lingered on his skin.
A dream.
But it had been too real.
That voice… he knew it. Intimately. And yet he could not remember whose it was.
The memory of that pain, the choking helplessness, stirred a deep unease in his chest.
Saelen scanned the room. Several fire pits still glowed faintly. The men slept soundly. He listened intently—only snoring and the howl of the wind answered him.
Frowning, he rose, took up his sword, and stepped outside.
The wind was even fiercer now, though the snowfall had eased. Snow had piled up to his calves. He made a slow circuit of the camp. Everything looked normal.
Yet the sense of danger only grew stronger.
After a moment's thought, Saelen headed toward one of the sentry posts.
The guard there was curled up in the corner—fast asleep.
Saelen kicked him hard. No response.
His heart sank.
He drew his sword—
BOOM!
A heavy blow smashed into his back. Saelen staggered forward several steps, then spun around.
A dark figure had already rushed in, sword raised. The blade struck Saelen's armor with a ringing clang—but failed to penetrate. Relief flashed through him.
Trusting his armor, Saelen advanced instead of retreating. He drove his sword straight through the attacker's torso.
The man screamed and, with terrifying ferocity, clamped both hands around the blade embedded in his body.
Before Saelen could wrench the sword free, a second shadow lunged in. Seeing the sword fail, the man discarded it and drew a dagger, throwing himself onto Saelen and stabbing straight for his throat.
Saelen reacted calmly.
His left hand snapped out, crushing the man's wrist.
A shrill scream erupted as the attacker's hand twisted backward at an unnatural angle. The dagger fell.
Saelen's right fist followed.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Three brutal punches smashed into the man's face. He collapsed unconscious.
A third figure charged with a sword.
Saelen scooped up the fallen dagger and hurled it.
The blade buried itself in the man's throat. He clutched at it, mouth gaping, choking out wet, gurgling sounds before collapsing into the snow.
Saelen surged forward again, straight toward the fourth attacker.
He let the sword point strike his abdominal armor, trapped the blade between his palms, yanked it left, then right—then suddenly snapped upward.
The sword flew free.
Saelen slammed his shoulder into the man's chest, sending him crashing into the wall with a muffled grunt. Grabbing the man by the collar—
WHAM! WHAM!
Two heavy punches knocked him cold.
Saelen inhaled sharply, then roared at the top of his lungs:
"Enemy attack! Robb! Jon!"
The night answered—with chaos yet to come.