[POV Arthur Snow]
Roose Bolton's head fell onto the snow with a muffled thud, rolled past the block, and stopped before the boots of the peasant he had intended to flay that morning. The blood advanced across the trampled white, found the worn leather, and climbed the open seams before the man could step back. The body remained kneeling for a few seconds, held up by the stiffness of its legs, until the weight of the cloak dragged it to the side. The pale eyes remained open, facing the black walls that had protected his House for centuries. Around the yard, the Northern lords held their positions in a semicircle before the block, while the kneeling Bolton soldiers near the well watched Ice still in my father's hands. No cry of victory crossed the walls. The battle had ended at the gates, on the stairs, and in the solar, yet its noises remained trapped inside the keep: men groaning under the galleries, splintered wood, boots running on stone, and the sound of healers calling for clean water.
My father wiped Ice clean on a piece of Roose's cloak, his eyes following the blood as it vanished from the Valyrian steel. When he sheathed the sword, two Winterfell men stepped forward to remove the body. The peasant in front of the block tried to move out of the way, but his legs gave out. A Mormont soldier caught his arm before he fell onto the blood. Filthy bandages covered his wrists, two fingernails had been torn from his left hand, and the skin around the wounds was swollen. The man stared at Roose's head, moved his mouth, and found no voice. Rickard made a short gesture for him to be taken to the healers, then turned his face to the rest of the yard. His eyes swept over the prisoners, the lords, and the thirteen figures clad in black leather, darkened mail, hoods, and demonic iron masks that still held a barrier around me.
"Until further notice, Arthur speaks with the authority of Winterfell within these walls," my father declared. "His orders will be treated as mine."
Some captains turned their eyes to me. Others struck their fists against their chests and returned to work.
The mask weighed heavily against my face. Dried blood had hardened near one of the fangs molded into the iron, and my breath came through the openings in short clouds. I raised Truth above my head and walked to the center of the yard, parting the bodies. The dark blade caught the gray morning light, making the Bolton soldiers look up.
"Weapons on the ground and hands away from your belts," I ordered, letting my voice pass through the slits of the mask. "Those who obeyed their captains to hold the gates will have the chance to explain how they came to this castle. Many of you were taken from your villages, handed a spear, and discovered your families would pay for your desertion. Those men will live. Roose's personal guards, the jailers, and any soldier who served in the lower chambers will be chained until the ledgers are examined. Anyone attempting to hide one of them will share their cell."
The prisoners exchanged glances. A young man kneeling by the well was the first to open his fingers. His spear clattered against the frozen stone, and the sound seemed to release the others. Swords, axes, and shields began dropping into the snow. A gray-bearded veteran kept his weapon crossed over his chest, his eyes darting between the Karhold knights and the passage leading to the stables. Fenrir stepped forward to my side, lowering his head. The wolf's growl broke whatever courage the man still held in his arms. He dropped the sword and raised his hands.
A Stark captain approached with his helm tucked under his arm. A cut crossed his cheek from his temple to his jaw, and blood had dried in the hairs of his beard. He surveyed the prisoners before turning to me. "We can separate them by units, commander, although many tore the sigils from their cloaks when the cavalry broke through. When we start asking who worked in the dungeons, everyone will say they came from some distant village and never went down a stair."
I lowered Truth and used the tip of the blade to indicate three clear areas in the yard. "Divide the wall guards, the gate men, and the soldiers who served inside the keep. Each group will provide the names of their own officers, their bunkmates, and the men responsible for changing the watches. Ask the same questions separately and compare the answers against the pay ledgers. Roose recorded taxes, punishments, salt purchases, and the amount of leather stripped from the dead. He also recorded who took silver to keep those chambers running. I want a scribe at every interrogation. No prisoner will be beaten to produce a convenient confession, because men with broken teeth say whatever the interrogator wants to hear."
The captain swept his eyes over the three areas and called two sergeants over with a wave of his arm. Before walking away, he tipped his chin toward a Karstark archer who was prodding a wounded Bolton with the toe of his boot. "I'll choose men who didn't lose kin during the taking. Some have already started deciding who deserves to reach the hall alive."
The prisoner fell onto his side and clutched his hands to his belly. The archer raised his foot to strike him again, but I stepped in front of him and rested the flat of Truth against his chest. The tip rested just below his throat. The man held his breath and gripped his bow so tightly his knuckles turned white.
"My brother died at the gate," he said, keeping his eyes on my mask. His voice cracked at first but grew steady as he pointed at the fallen man. "Took a spear in the throat while this dog protected the mechanism. My brother is on a cart with the other dead, and now you want me to carry the man who helped kill him to the fire."
"The soldier at your feet dropped his weapon when ordered," I replied, without moving the sword. "Perhaps he served Roose by choice. Perhaps a Bolton knight took his children as a guarantee of obedience. The ledgers, his companions, and the men from his village will make that clear. If you open his belly right now, all that will be left is an unanswered corpse and another Northern soldier who disobeyed in front of hundreds of witnesses."
The archer looked at the prisoner. The Bolton's breathing moved the hand pressed against his wound, letting blood seep between his fingers.
"Carry him to the Great Hall," I continued, lowering Truth until the tip touched the snow. "Hand him over to the healers, return to your unit, and find your brother's body when this keep is secure. Those responsible for the dungeons will be brought before their victims. You'll be able to look every one of them in the face before they receive their sentence."
The man remained motionless just long enough for two Karhold soldiers to step closer. Then he slung his bow over his back, grabbed the Bolton by his armor, and hoisted him up with a rough jerk. The wounded man let out a groan but managed to find his footing. The archer pulled the man's arm over his own shoulders and began leading him inside, without looking my way again.
I called the captains waiting near the gallery and pointed to the open doors of the Great Hall. "Clear out the tables, push the benches against the walls, and leave space between the wounded. I want everyone organized by the severity of their injuries, with wide aisles for the healers and the men carrying water. Use the upper cisterns until someone inspects the reservoirs near the dungeons. Gather wine, honey, rags, needles, herbs, and any ointment kept in the maester's quarters. Those in danger of dying go in first, whether they are our men or Bolton soldiers. Between equivalent wounds, those who marched with us take priority. Every Bolton who surrenders his weapon and gives his name will be treated."
A Manderly man pointed to the bodies piled in the west passage. "The gallery is blocked. Some are still breathing beneath the dead, but we need to move them all to reach them."
"Use the prisoners fit enough to carry weight," I answered, watching two men struggle to move a fallen horse near the stairs. "The bodies will be taken to the lower yard and separated by colors. Look for sigils, rings, scars, and anything that allows identification. No dead man will be burned until his name is recorded. The men who marched with us have families waiting for news, and they will receive something better than a body count."
The captains began to disperse. Before they reached the gallery, an elderly servant hesitantly raised his hand.
"The west tower cistern cracked in the last thaw," he warned. "The water takes seepage from the stables. If you take that to the wounded, some will sicken before nightfall."
I had seen the reservoir on Eldric's map and assumed it was still usable. I gritted my teeth behind the mask.
"Seal the west tower and mark the door," I corrected. "Use only the central cistern until the other reservoirs are inspected. Do you know the aqueducts?"
The servant nodded.
"Then go with two Manderly men and show them every passage. No water reaches the hall without your approval."
The captains scattered, repeating the orders as they crossed the yard. Soldiers began hauling the long tables out of the hall, using the smaller planks as stretchers. An Umber sergeant tore one of the doors off its hinges when he found the opening too narrow for two men carrying a wounded man. Bolton servants remained gathered near the kitchens, keeping their hands visible and waiting for someone to decide their fate. I ordered the man in charge of the pantries to identify the bakers, cooks, blacksmiths, stablehands, and men who knew the aqueducts. The castle would still need food, horseshoes, water, and fire after the last soldier stopped bleeding.
Near the entrance to the Great Hall, four men carried Morghaz on a door torn from the tower. The iron mask was still fastened to his face, though one of the straps had broken and dangled by his neck. An axe blow had destroyed part of his shield and opened a deep gash in his shoulder. Blood seeped through the leather plates, running down his arm and dripping from his fingertips. He still kept his eyes open, tracking the movement of the soldiers around him as if looking for a threat.
I approached the stretcher and rested my hand on the intact part of his armor. "You're going to let Qyburn work before you decide to get back up," I said quietly, keeping my body between him and the circulating soldiers. "The gate is open. Roose lost his head. Your part is done."
Morghaz shifted his eyes toward the central tower. His voice rasped from behind the iron fangs. "There are still armed men in the galleries."
"There are thousands of Northerners inside the castle. They'll manage to find a few corridors without your help."
His fingers closed once, searching for the spear he no longer carried. "My shield broke."
"Perseus pulled it from the mechanism. We'll find another when you can raise your arm."
Morghaz let out a breath through his nose and allowed the men to resume their path. One of them informed me that Qyburn had taken over the maester's quarters and turned two nearby rooms into treatment areas. Before I could respond, another stretcher appeared under the archway. Wenda lay on her side, keeping one hand pressed against her thigh. A spear had grazed through her leather and opened a long cut, deep enough to soak her trousers and the edge of the cloak used to staunch the bleeding. The mask hid most of her face, but her green eyes remained alert.
She raised two fingers as she passed me. "I can still draw a bow."
I leaned close to the stretcher, keeping my voice low enough to reach only Wenda.
"You'll be able to do that after Qyburn sews up your leg. Try to leave the hall before he clears you, and I'll put the biggest of our men sitting in front of the door."
Her eyes narrowed. "That seems like an excessive threat."
"It was chosen to work."
Wenda rested her head back against the wood and didn't argue further. The men carried her inside.
Eldric appeared from the central passage carrying a wooden box under his arm. His mask hid his face, and his right glove was blackened by the fire that had nearly consumed the ledgers in the solar. The leather had shrunk over the fingers, leaving some areas stiff. He placed the box on an empty barrel and lifted the lid. Inside were scorched scrolls, small account books, and letters tied with cords.
"The documents Roose tried to burn are here," he said, keeping his voice low. "Most of the fire caught the edges. The seals and names remain legible. I also found two books inside a compartment beneath the floorboards, along with a list of payments hidden in the cover of a tax ledger."
"Take everything to a dry room and keep two of ours in front of the door," I ordered, pulling out one of the books to look at the soot-stained leather. "No one enters without my authorization or my father's. I want letters, taxes, payments, visitor lists, and dungeon records separated before any lord gains access. If there are accomplices outside these walls, some will try to destroy the rest as soon as they know Roose is dead."
Eldric pulled off the burnt glove and examined his reddened fingers. "The castle's men know passages we haven't found yet. Simon is searching the solar with two of the masked men. Belzakar and Razdhan sealed the stairs connecting Roose's quarters to the crypts. We found a windowless room beneath the tower, chains on the walls, a stone table, and an open drain in the center. There's a tapestry hung over a hollow section of the wall."
"Seal the corridor and leave everything in place until Qyburn finishes with the most critically wounded," I replied, returning the book to the box. "I want the instruments, the stains, the chains, and the bodies examined before anyone cleans the room. The men from the dungeons will be kept separate. Hoods, bound hands, and guards from different Houses at each door. No prisoner will speak to another."
"Harwyn found the chief jailer trying to slip out through the kitchens in servant's clothes," Eldric added, closing the lid. The shift of his eyes behind the mask made it clear the capture hadn't been peaceful. "The man is still alive. His two helpers as well."
"Put the chief alone and keep Harwyn away from the room until we begin the questioning. I want to know who went down to the chambers, which villages supplied the victims, and where the bodies were buried. Then take that hand to Qyburn. The hot leather may have burned worse than it looks."
Eldric opened and closed his fingers once. "There are men with worse injuries."
"There are enough healers to look at your hand while you organize the documents. Use one before the fingers stop closing."
He held my gaze for a few seconds, bowed his head, and carried the box toward the north tower.
Near the stables, three Umber soldiers were dragging sacks of oats out of a storehouse, while another hoisted a silver-plated saddle onto his shoulder. Further on, two men with the Winterfell wolf on their cloaks debated the best way to move barrels from the cellar without crossing the main yard. I strode through the snow to the storehouse and ordered everything returned. The oldest Umber let the sack drop, but kept his grip on the rope.
"We marched for days, lost men at the gates, and took the castle with our blood," he said, pointing to the dead scattered by the wall. "Roose hoarded grain, horses, silver, and wine while his villages starved. One sack of oats and a saddle won't empty the coffers."
"That grain came from the villages paying taxes to Roose," I replied, pointing Truth at the storehouse door. "The horses, tools, and food stay here until they are counted. The army will be paid by the lords who called it. Any man who takes goods from this castle home is stealing from the very people we marched to free."
The soldier with the saddle shifted his weight between his feet and looked at his companions. "Plunder always paid the risk of battle."
"Not today, it won't."
The shadow of the Greatjon Umber fell over the four of them. The giant approached, wiping his greatsword with a piece of cloth torn from a Bolton banner. A cut above his eyebrow had left dried blood in his beard, but his step remained heavy and firm. He surveyed the sacks, the saddle, and finally his own men.
"Put it all back before I break your arms and pick prisoners to carry you to the healers," he roared, resting the greatsword against his shoulder. "When I need thieves in my army, I'll fetch some from the South. At least they'll have experience."
The men vanished inside the storehouse without another word. The Greatjon waited until the saddle and sacks were returned to their places, then watched two Stark soldiers bar the door with an iron rod.
"And the coffers?" he asked, running his thumb over the dried blood on his eyebrow. "Roose hoarded enough silver to feed a war. Half the lords in this yard are already calculating the cost of keeping four hundred men inside these walls. Karstark will be looking at lands near his borders. Manderly will be counting roads, rivers, and granaries. Ryswell and Dustin will prefer neither gets too much power."
I wiped the edge of my cloak down Truth's blade, clearing the blood gathered near the guard. "The coffers remain sealed until my father gathers everyone at the same table. The villages need seeds, livestock, and tools when our army leaves. Every sack taken today will be charged to some family during the coming winter."
The Greatjon tilted his head. His eyes tracked a line of prisoners being led to the east side of the yard. "You haven't been granted these walls yet, boy, and you're already guarding the granaries like someone who intends to sleep behind them."
"I am fulfilling the duty of the man who opened the gates," I answered, sheathing Truth as two men placed the Winterfell seal on the storehouse. "Roose controlled these lands through fear. Now there are hundreds of people waiting to see if the army that struck him down will take whatever is left."
The Greatjon's smile faded slightly beneath his beard. He slapped his heavy hand against my shoulder, forcing me to brace my feet in the snow. "Keep on like this, and the lords will start to think Rickard has already chosen the new lord."
"Then they'll have something to talk about on the ride back."
The Greatjon's laugh echoed across the yard, though as he walked away he kept his eyes on the seals placed upon the doors.
Almost an hour later, the first survivors emerged from the dungeons supported by Mormont men. Some were wrapped in blankets. Others carried short chains still locked to their ankles, because Qyburn had forbidden the soldiers from tearing metal from swollen wounds. A woman clutched a thin boy to her chest, keeping her hand over his eyes as they passed Roose's body. The peasant who had been in front of the block appeared among the rescued and walked toward me. A healer followed close behind, protesting that he had left the hall without permission. The former lord's blood still stained his boots.
He tried to kneel. I caught him by the arms before he touched the snow.
"Stay on your feet. Your wrists have suffered enough."
The hand missing its fingernails grabbed my forearm. The bandages began turning red again. "My wife's name is Mara," he said, pushing the words through a dry throat. "They took her down three nights ago. The jailer came back alone and said she died. Later I heard a woman scream. It might have been someone else. I need to go inside and look. I won't touch a weapon, I won't get in the soldiers' way. I just need to know if I should keep calling for her."
I summoned one of the scribes and told him to record the name. "You will go with the Mormont men and show them where you last saw her. If Mara is alive, she'll be taken to the hall. If they find her body, no one will move it without your presence. Describe the jailer, his clothes, his voice, and any words he used when he returned."
The man gripped my arm tightly. His shoulders began to shake, but his eyes stayed fixed on the entrance to the dungeons. The scribe finished writing, called two soldiers, and led him toward the stairs.
When I raised my head, my father was still near the block. Ice was sheathed, and the snow was beginning to cover Roose's dark cloak. Rickard watched the prisoners being separated, the wounded entering the hall, the storehouses receiving seals, and the masked men securing doors, roofs, and stairs. His eyes shifted to me and lingered for a few seconds. He did not interfere.
A captain came running down the north passage, dodging two stretchers before stopping. His helm was tucked against his chest, and he avoided my gaze when he reported that soldiers had knocked down the cellar guard and begun hauling out barrels before the seals arrived.
"From which House?" I asked, adjusting the mask against my face.
The captain looked at the wolf embroidered on his own chest. "Ours. One of them has served in Winterfell for fifteen years. When they tried to stop him, he said no bastard had the authority to put chains on his father's man."
Rickard heard. His expression remained closed, but his right hand rested on the pommel of Ice.
I started walking toward the cellar, feeling the blood-stained snow crunch under my boots. "Bring the chains. He will repeat that in front of me."
I crossed the north passage with the captain at my side. Two soldiers trailed behind carrying chains taken from the stables. The corridor between the kitchens and the guards' quarters was thick with the smell of burnt grease, wine, and blood tracked in on boot soles. Servants pressed against the walls to make way, eyeing the demonic mask and Truth belted at my waist.
We found the cellar guard sitting by the entrance, pressing a cloth against a split forehead. The beam meant to bar the door had been snapped in the center. One piece still rested in the iron brackets; the other lay on the floor, marked by recent splinters and blood.
Inside the cellar, six Winterfell men were rolling barrels toward the corridor, while two others were pulling bottles from the shelves. One of them already had wine spilled in his beard. The veteran who appeared to lead them had graying hair at his temples, an old chainmail shirt, and the gray wolf sewn over his chest.
I knew him from the Winterfell rounds, from the escorts sent to the villages during harvests, and from the patrols that kept the nearby roads clear of highwaymen. Fifteen years of service had given him scars, confidence, and younger men willing to repeat his mistakes.
The rumbling of the barrels stopped as I entered. The veteran kicked a barrel aside with the toe of his boot and lifted his chin at the mask.
"So the bastard came himself," he said, keeping a bottle gripped in his fingers. "I've spent fifteen years under Lord Rickard's colors. I've escorted wagons through winters where men froze to death in the saddle, chased thieves through the woods, and fought whenever Winterfell gave the order. Today I charged through those gates in the front rank while your demons covered the roofs. You aren't going to lock me up for a few bottles left by dead men."
The captain at my side reached for his sword hilt. I caught his forearm before the metal cleared the scabbard and swept my eyes over the other soldiers. Three had already backed away from the shelves. Two still held bottles. The last one was eyeing the exit, calculating the distance to the corridor.
The word bastard served a purpose. The veteran was trying to turn the theft into a dispute between an old soldier and a boy offended by his own birth. The men around him formed the audience he needed. Allowing the provocation to dictate my response would mean accepting the ground he had chosen.
I undid the straps behind my head and pulled off the mask. The iron left my damp skin exposed to the cold of the cellar. I set it on the barrel between us, with the black fangs facing the veteran, and took the bottle from his hand.
"Now you're talking to Arthur Snow, without iron, horns, or anything you might mistake for a threat," I replied, inspecting the Bolton seal on the glass before placing it beside the mask. "Fifteen years under my father's colors means you know discipline better than all the men who followed you down here. It also means you knew exactly what you were doing when you struck down a guard, broke a sealed door, and began looting provisions under Winterfell's custody. A recruit could claim ignorance. You just stripped that defense from yourself."