Hoster Tully's answer required a five-day wait.
The raven descended on Winterfell's towers bearing a thick parchment, sealed with the leaping trout in blue and red wax. Rickard summoned Brynden and me back to the solar as soon as Maester Luwin entered the room carrying the untouched message. Brynden Tully's name was written clearly on the back. The parchment was intended strictly for the Blackfish's eyes.
Rickard pointed to the table, allowing Luwin to hand the letter directly into the hands of the Riverlands knight.
Brynden broke the seal with his thumb. The Blackfish read the lines written by his own brother in absolute silence. The knight's blue eyes scanned the ink from top to bottom. He let the air out through his nose, relieving the tension in his shoulders beneath the scale armor.
"Your brother used many harsh words in the letter, I imagine," I commented, evaluating the crease in the knight's forehead.
"Enough to try and salvage his own pride," Brynden confirmed, tossing the open parchment onto the oak table. "Hoster rants about the slight, but he accepts the terms."
Rickard did not move a muscle in his face, maintaining his cold posture at the head of the table.
"The promise of gold, Catelyn's position as Lady Consort, and the guaranteed inheritance for her children spoke louder than the offense of swapping grooms," I noted.
"Hoster demands that the first ten thousand gold dragons travel down the Kingsroad along with the retinue that will formalize the new betrothal," Brynden dictated, resting both hands on the edge of the table. "And he agrees to the succession terms for Eddard and his legitimate descendants with Catelyn. He also recognizes that Riverrun will have no authority over Moat Cailin. The alliance is sealed."
"I ride back to the Trident tomorrow at dawn to prepare the agreement papers," Brynden declared, rising from his chair. He looked at Rickard and then at me, bowing his head in practical respect. "It was a tough negotiation, Lord Stark. But the North knows what it's doing."
Away from the eyes of the lords and guests, in the days that followed, the rhythm of the castle continued to be dictated by my younger siblings.
A perfectly packed snowball hit the back of Kevin's neck as the archer crossed the lower yard. He spun around fast, his hand dropping to the dagger at his belt, but only found the empty stone corridor.
Up on the roof of the storehouse, hidden behind a chimney, Lyanna held in her laughter with both hands over her mouth, while Benjen molded the next ice ammunition.
I leaned my body over the edge of the roof, balancing on the slippery stone eaves without making a sound.
"Your throwing stance was crooked, Benjen," I muttered, crouching beside them. "If you rotate your shoulder along with your arm, the snow hits the target before he hears the wind."
Benjen widened his gray eyes, impressed by the tactical correction for a childish prank. Lyanna took her hands off her face and broke into a sharp, ear-to-ear smile.
"Show me," she challenged.
I packed the snow in my hands, raised my torso, and threw. The white ball cracked right on Perseus's left ear as he walked three paces behind Kevin down below. The mercenary grunted, brought his hand to his face, and drew his short sword instantly. The three of us ducked our heads back behind the chimney and laughed silently until our bellies hurt, listening to my soldiers cursing in the yard.
The next morning, I went down to the stables before breaking my fast. The stableboys were finishing brushing the dark coat of a young, slender, long-legged mare. The beast's nostrils blew hot steam into the cold air. She whinnied and stomped her hooves in the hay, refusing the weight of the saddle.
Lyanna came running through the wooden doors, her gray wool dress wrinkled and her hair messy. She stopped dead in the middle of the straw.
"She's fast," I stated, placing the leather reins into the girl's hands. "And she has an unbearable temper. The breeders said she won't take orders from anyone and threw three tamers."
My sister's eyes sparkled. Lyanna carefully ran her fingers through the animal's black mane. The mare snorted loudly but did not pull back under her touch.
Lyanna stroked the mare's forehead. The animal shook its mane impatiently, and she laughed when a black lock hit her face.
"She's perfect," she murmured. Then she turned to me, her gray eyes wide with hope. "Is she mine?"
I crossed my arms to hide the smile threatening to appear.
"The first mount that will be yours alone," I confirmed. "See that you don't break your neck jumping the old fences in the Wolfswood."
Lyanna didn't answer. She threw her arms around my neck, squeezing the hug tight, and ran back to the mare, already whispering names for the animal into the beast's ear.
The peaceful days in Winterfell passed quickly, until necessity exacted its toll.
The great oak and iron gates creaked heavily against the packed snow of the yard in a biting late afternoon wind. Loose white flakes flew through the air.
I stopped sharpening the blade of my hunting knife.
Five horses crossed the wall. Razdhan led the line, his spine straight and his military posture unmistakably of Astapor. Right behind, Rhoslyn pulled her mount's reins, her red curls escaping her wool hood. Eldric brought up the rear, silent as a shadow.
Between them, there were two new figures. An older man in gray robes that had once belonged to a maester, but without the chain around his neck. And a boy huddled under thick furs.
The blade stopped against the whetstone. I recognized Razdhan's posture even before distinguishing the faces behind him. I sheathed my knife and stood up.
"Finally," I muttered, feeling the tension of the last few days lift a little from my shoulders.
I walked across the yard. Razdhan dismounted first and struck his closed fist against his chest in a firm salute. I returned it by gripping the former Unsullied's forearm tightly.
I squeezed Razdhan's forearm and felt the stiffness of the accumulated journey in his muscles.
"It's good to have you back, my friend," I said.
Razdhan pounded his free fist against his chest. The short nod carried more exhaustion than ceremony.
Rhoslyn jumped from her saddle right after. Before she could say a word, a gray blur darted through the supply wagons.
"Rhoslyn!" Lyanna's voice tore across the yard. My sister threw herself at the redhead in a tight hug, wrinkling the wool of her dress and ignoring the stableboys around them.
Rhoslyn let out a free laugh and hugged her back, holding Lyanna's shoulders.
"I missed you, little wolf," Rhoslyn said, with a wide smile. "The South is warm, but the people there are very dull."
I approached the two. Rhoslyn let go of Lyanna and turned to me, the smile still stretching across her face. I pulled the redhead into a quick, firm hug, smelling the road dust on her cloak.
"The gold and perfume of the Reach didn't soften you," I commented, letting her go. "Your work down there was impeccable. Welcome home."
"The ladies of the South are easy to fool when you understand numbers and expensive fabrics, boss," she answered, her green eyes shining with pride.
Eldric dismounted a few paces from us. I extended my right hand. The Northerner gripped my forearm tightly, the leather of our gloves scraping in the cold.
I let go of Eldric's forearm and noted the dried mud on the hem of his cloak, the deep dark circles under his eyes, and the red mark left by the reins between his fingers.
"The journey through the West was long," I noted.
Eldric cast a look over his shoulder at the two figures still mounted. The exhaustion didn't vanish from his face, but a trace of satisfaction hardened the corner of his mouth.
"But it was worth it," he assured.
He turned his back and helped the boy dismount. The boy was only ten years old, but his height and the breadth of his shoulders already surpassed those of much older boys. The formidable genetics of the Clegane lineage were already present. His eyes, however, carried the weight of someone who had already seen the worst of the world. The left half of his face was a hardened mass of scarred tissue. Fire had melted the skin years ago, taking the ear and fusing the flesh over the jaw in thick, red puckers.
I stopped in front of the boy. He didn't step back, but he clenched his jaw.
I stopped at a distance that wouldn't force him to retreat. I kept my hands away from Truth and let him examine my face first.
"Sandor," I called, in a low tone.
The boy lifted his face, measuring my nearly two meters of height and my violet left eye.
"Your man pulled me out of that hell and said there are no knights in your guard," Sandor replied. His voice came out harsh and defensive. "Said you prefer real warriors and that you don't care about the false honor of the South."
"He spoke the truth, Sandor," I retorted, adjusting the clasp of my cloak. "The honor of the South is useless in the snow. Here in the North, steel is worth more than vows. And you won't need to swear falsehoods or call anyone 'ser' to prove your worth."
I turned my face to the side. Benjen was watching the scene near the armory door, holding a wooden training sword.
"Benjen," I called. My youngest brother ran over to us, his boots sinking into the fresh snow. "This is Sandor. He is younger than you, though he forgot to grow like a normal child. Show him the kennels, the stables, and find a decent room for him in the guest wing. And make sure the cook serves real meat today."
Benjen evaluated Sandor's scars and height for a fraction of a second, but Rickard's rigorous upbringing spoke louder. He asked no questions. He merely nodded.
Benjen rested the wooden sword on his shoulder and pointed with his chin toward the side door of the armory.
"Come," he said, without staring too long at the boy's scar. "The kennels are on the way. The dogs will like you if you bring meat."
Sandor clutched the furs against his body. A muscle twitched on the intact side of his face, too close to a smile to be contempt, and he followed Benjen across the yard.
The man in gray robes approached. He watched the entire interaction with curious, analytical eyes.
The man in gray stepped closer as he watched Sandor disappear through the yard. His eyes didn't follow the boy like someone concerned; they calculated the stiffness of the neck, the movement of the jaw, and the way the scar pulled the mouth.
"Qyburn, I presume," I said, intercepting his clinical gaze.
Qyburn inclined his head just enough to respect the title. His gaze remained steady, far too curious to be humble.
"The very same, Lord Snow," he replied. The pause before his next word was accompanied by a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. "Eldric mentioned you harbored more... pragmatic minds in the North. I was expelled from the Citadel for trying to understand life through the bodies that left it."
"I saw the boy's scars," I commented, evaluating the smell of herbs permeating the ex-maester's rags. "You've been preparing continuous poultices of beeswax and animal fat to try to ease the pulling of the hard flesh on his jaw."
Qyburn frowned, knitting his gray eyebrows together.
"Fire melted the boy's skin years ago, my lord. The tissue dried and hardened over the facial muscle," the ex-maester explained. "Stiffness is the absolute nature of an old burn. The most medicine allows is relieving the surface tension of the skin."
"Ointment alone won't solve it," I cut in. "Use white willow bark, boiled moss, and deep-sea fish oil. The willow will reduce the pain. The oil will prevent the skin from drying out, and daily massage work can restore some movement. When the tissue is more flexible, small incisions can release the bands pulling the jaw."
Qyburn narrowed his eyes.
"Oil doesn't penetrate a deep scar like that," he contested. "And cutting retracted tissue can open a wound that will never close."
"Which is why you will start with a small area, far from the mouth," I answered. "Observe the reaction for seven days. Then we will repeat it with fine linen stitches and skin taken from a healthy region of his own body. It won't bring back the face he had. It might reduce the pain and allow him to chew without feeling the scar tear."
Qyburn's eyes widened. The man opened his mouth and closed it, processing the medical precision of a formula the wise men of the South were entirely ignorant of.
Qyburn took a half step closer. The objection still lingered on his furrowed brow, but his eyes were already racing through the possibilities with an almost indecent hunger.
"How... where did you get this knowledge?" he asked, lowering his voice as if fearing someone in the yard might steal the answer.
I ran my thumb over my glove's buckle and held his gaze.
"The archmaesters read old books," I replied. "I prefer to test in practice and record what works."
Qyburn blinked slowly. The fascination remained in his eyes, mixed with professional suspicion.
"Eldric was right about your boldness," he declared. "Give me a space, instruments, and the freedom to test the first stage. If the tissue responds as you claim, we will continue the conversation about what each can offer the other."
"You will have a laboratory and the necessary materials," I assured him. "The tests will be recorded. No man, woman, or child will be used without consent. You will begin with Sandor only when he accepts the treatment."
Qyburn cast one last look toward Sandor, now almost hidden by the snow and the wagons. Suspicion still furrowed his brow, though his fingers twitched beneath his sleeves as if searching for invisible scalpels.
"Then show me where I will work, Lord Snow," he said, gripping the worn cuff of his own sleeve. "I want to examine the boy before the cold hardens the scars even more."
Eldric walked over to me. I gestured with my head toward the stone corridor that led to my makeshift solar. We walked side by side away from the commotion of the yard, leaving Rhoslyn and Lyanna chatting animatedly near the stables.
The heat from the hearth hit my face as soon as we entered the room. Eldric let out a heavy sigh, took off his gloves, and tossed them onto the oak table.
"I pulled the boy out of that hell," Eldric began, crossing his arms. "As I explained in the reports, the Lannisters swept the brazier incident under the rug. The boy's father upheld the lie about the bed catching fire. Sandor was going to grow up cornered in the same house with the monster who mutilated him."
I clenched my jaw, disgust rising in my throat at the complacency of Casterly Rock. I walked over to the hearth and rested a hand on the stone mantel, letting the heat bite through the glove. Through the still-ajar door, Qyburn slowly crossed the yard, turning his head to examine towers, windows, and men as if Winterfell were an open body on a table.
"And the ex-maester?" I asked, keeping my eyes on him. "Where did you find a man like that?"
"I found him in a tavern in the Reach, on the way to the West," Eldric explained. "The archmaesters expelled him without a single copper. The man was paying for dinner by mending the broken bones of local drunks. I made the North's proposal and your gold took care of the rest."
I nodded, walking to the small table to pour two cups of mead. I handed one to Eldric.
"You and Rhoslyn spent weeks alone on the road from the Reach to the West, and then rode together straight here," I teased, a half-smile appearing on my face. "Enough time for you to stop stuttering when you get two steps near her. Or did you keep sleeping facing the trees the entire trip?"
Eldric's face turned red all the way to the roots of his dark hair. The Northerner nearly choked on his sip of mead, turning his face toward the lit hearth to try to hide it.
"The Southern roads are dangerous, boss," Eldric deflected quickly, nervously adjusting his tunic collar to hide the flush. "I had to keep both eyes on the camp watch. The boy was scared of everything, and the maester doesn't know how to hold a sword."
I let out a low laugh, clapping him hard on the shoulder.
"The hunt in the South is over, Eldric," I said, cutting the smile and shifting my tone to the gravity our war in the North demanded. "Your time of rest ends today."
Eldric set the cup on the table, matching the shift in posture. The redness vanished from the spy's face, replaced by the tactical coldness of his trade.
Eldric set the cup down before finishing his sip. The flush vanished from his face, replaced by the sharp stillness that always surfaced before a mission.
"Roose Bolton," he said, narrowing his eyes.
"My father authorized the invasion and the investigation of the dungeons," I confirmed, running my thumb over the sapphire on Truth's pommel. "Have the men prepare the mounts and supplies. We ride for the Dreadfort this very day to get the proof we need to put his head on the block."
I spurred Sleipnir's belly at nightfall. The outer yard was dark, lit only by the faint torches on the walls. The departure's clock demanded absolute secrecy so the bannermen sheltered in the keep wouldn't question our sudden route. Kevin tested his weirwood bowstring. Perseus secured the tool chest on the pack mule. Belzakar and Morghaz took up formation side by side, two silent shadows beneath dark wool cloaks. Fenrir and Hela waited near the iron gates, the beasts' breath turning to mist in the gloom.
The group crossed the keep's gates, disappearing into the infinite whiteness of the North.