The wind cut across the banks of the Weeping Water, carrying the smell of sulfur and damp stone. The Dreadfort loomed at the top of the hill, its dark walls punctuated by triangular merlons that looked like sharp teeth against the gray sky.
We were camped in a rocky crevice two miles from the fortress, hidden by the dense forest and ice. Morghaz and Belzakar had covered the entrance with dead branches and white canvas. Fenrir and Hela slept curled up near the embers that Kevin kept to an absolute minimum, heating the stones without generating visible smoke.
I sat on the hard ground, leaning my back against the freezing cave wall. I closed my eyes and let my breathing slow down, sinking my consciousness out of my own body.
The wind hit my feathers with brutality. My vision changed in a fraction of a second. The world lost its warm colors and gained absolute contrast, focused on movement and geometry. I flew high, the frigid air sustaining Muninn's open wings. The Dreadfort appeared below, a block of black stone and dead angles wedged into the hill.
I tilted the raven's body and dove. The air hummed sharply. I passed through the thin blizzard and landed silently on one of the merlons of the east tower. My head turned in short, mechanical movements. My vision focused on the inner courtyard. Twenty guards marched in formation, boots sinking into the snow, the flayed man crest carved into their iron breastplates.
I shifted the connection, leaping through space.
The air cut again. I was lower, flying close to the base of the main wall with Huginn. The black raven glided over the dry moat and landed on an exposed root near the north wing. I tilted the bird's head, focusing its sharp vision straight at the exit of a drainage pipe. The iron grate was there. Rust corroded the edges and one of the fixing pins was bent, loose against the old mortar.
I opened my eyes in the cave. The smell of wet feathers and fresh blood was still trapped in my nose. A drop of blood ran down my left nostril. I wiped the dark liquid with the back of my leather glove.
"Eldric's jailer did the job," I said, my voice coming out hoarse. "Huginn confirmed the grate in the east duct. It's loose. Muninn saw the courtyard. Two extra patrols circulating near the main tower. The castle is restless."
Kevin stopped sharpening the tip of an arrow. The archer looked at me and then at the crevice entrance.
"I'll never get used to that," Kevin muttered, returning to scraping the whetstone against the steel.
Eldric slipped into the cave at that exact moment. The spy shook the snow from his shoulders, his face maintaining its usual neutral mask.
"Your shadow was right," I told him. "The entrance is clear."
"We have a bigger problem," Eldric reported. His fingers squeezed his leather belt. "The lord sent for the blacksmith's daughter in the mill village just now. Three guards dragged her to the fortress."
The whetstone stopped. Kevin jumped up, the weirwood bow already in his hand. The archer's breath came out heavy through his nose.
"I'll put an arrow in the eye of each of them before they reach the gate," Kevin growled, taking a step toward the exit.
I kept my eyes on Kevin and let my hand rest on the hilt of my dagger.
"Sit down," I ordered, waiting until the tip of the bow lowered.
Kevin froze. He looked at the bow and then at my face. Kevin pointed the arrow at the cave entrance. His hand shook with anger.
"The lord is dragging women from his own villages, boss," he insisted, without looking away from me.
"If you kill the guards now, Roose locks down the castle, burns the records, and hunts the villagers for revenge tomorrow," I replied, my voice coming out straight and cold in the echo of the crevice. "We didn't come to kill three soldiers in the dark. We came to pull House Bolton up by the root. The grave needs to be deep to fit the lord."
The muscles in Kevin's jaw jumped under his skin. He threw the arrow to the ground and sat back on the stone, still breathing heavily through his nose.
"We go in today," I decided, standing up from the stone and tightening the buckles of my breastplate. I held Kevin's gaze until his fingers loosened on the bow. "This first entry is to gather evidence, extract witnesses, and confirm the route. Eldric comes with me. Perseus, hold the perimeter with Kevin. If we don't return before dawn, take the horses to Winterfell."
I left the sword Truth with Perseus. The blue Valyrian steel shone too brightly for the dark tunnels. I took only the dragonbone dagger and the short knives strapped to my boots.
We crossed the frozen forest in absolute silence. The wind howled in the canopy, muffling any noise. Huginn cawed low from a high branch when we reached the base of the wall, confirming the area remained clear.
Eldric pulled the iron grate with a sharp jerk and we breached the duct. The smell of old feces, urine, and oxidized copper crushed the air from my lungs. The torches burned thin on the black stone walls of the lower level, throwing trembling shadows in the blind corridors. We descended the spiral staircase.
Eldric stopped in front of a heavy oak door reinforced with iron. The spy pulled a thin wire from his pocket and worked the lock. The mechanism yielded with a muffled click.
I pushed the wood millimeters at a time.
The inside of the room churned my stomach. The center of the chamber housed a limestone table carved with deep channels. Thick blood coagulated on the edges, dripping slowly into wooden buckets. On the walls, freshly stripped human skins were stretched on frames to cure in coarse salt. Scraps of faces and whole arms preserving the scars of hard labor.
I walked to a metal workbench at the back. A red velvet-lined case displayed dozens of short flaying blades, each hilt carved in polished bone with the Bolton crest. I picked up the black leather-bound ledger next to the case. Roose's tiny handwriting detailed the thickness of the skin and the days of uninterrupted bleeding of the victims.
"Cut the skins from the center frames," I ordered in a whisper, rolling up the book and tucking it inside my doublet. "Empty the knife case."
The sound of heavy boots dragging on the stone echoed in the corridor. The rhythm was slow and calm. I pulled Eldric by the collar of his cloak into the dark alcove behind the glass shelves of leeches.
The door opened with a prolonged creak.
Roose Bolton entered, dragging a peasant by the collar. The man had his face ground by punches and his mouth gagged. Roose threw him against the wall and locked his wrists in shackles held by short chains.
"You hid three sacks of winter grain under the floorboards," he whispered. "Thought the snow would cover the theft."
He ran his knuckles along the prisoner's bruised jaw.
Roose tilted his head, watching the panic grow in the man's eyes.
"Without wheat, you will pay with leather," he continued, running his thumb along the curve of the blade. "The skin on the back of a man who works the land yields the strongest material."
Roose walked to the workbench, picked up a whetstone and a curved blade. The metal scraped against the stone.
Eldric released a chain on the other side of the chamber. The iron fell behind the frames with a muffled clink. Roose stopped his movement and walked toward the noise, keeping the knife close to his thigh.
I left the alcove. I pressed my hand over the peasant's gag. He struggled once.
"Stay still and you will return home," I whispered in his ear.
His body froze. I inserted the lockpick into the first shackle. Eldric brushed his boot against another chain and drew Roose two steps further away. The first ring opened. The peasant held his own arm to prevent the iron from hitting the wall. The second lock resisted, then yielded under the twist of the wire.
I pulled the peasant into the narrow passage behind the drainage grate. Eldric slipped in right after and fitted the iron back into place, letting the loose rust hide the fresh scratches.
=-x-=-x-=-x-=-x-=-x-=-x-=-x-=-x-=
[POV Roose Bolton]
Roose stopped the movement of the whetstone. The sharp sound ceased immediately in the damp chamber.
He turned his body slowly, testing the edge of the flaying knife with his pale thumb. His colorless eyes swept the bare wall.
The peasant was gone.
The two iron shackles hung empty on the stone. Roose did not shout. He did not alter the rhythm of his own breathing. He walked to the wall and touched the dark metal. The locks were open. No mark of brute force, no broken link in the chain. Just the loose mechanism.
He turned slowly. The metal workbench was clean. The red velvet case was empty. The black leather-bound accounting and records ledger had disappeared. Roose looked up. The ventilation duct grate showed fresh scratches of displaced rust.
Roose's mind separated the possibilities with the patience of a surgeon. The intruder had been in the room a few steps from him. The peasant could serve as a witness, as bait, or as a body left in some tunnel to attract the guards. The lack of certainty bothered him more than the affront.
"Walton," Roose called.
The captain of the guard, who was waiting in the dark corridor, swallowed hard as he entered the room.
"Lock down the entire castle," Roose ordered, brushing invisible dust from the sleeve of his black leather doublet. "No one enters. No one leaves. Double the patrols on the walls. Send men to search every caravan in the winter town. The wolves of Winterfell have smelled the blood and are already gnawing at the wood of my doors."
=-x-=-x-=-x-=-x-=-x-=-x-=-x-=-x-=
[POV Arthur Snow]
The peasant lost his strength before we reached the duct exit. Eldric threw the man's arm over his shoulders and dragged him through the frozen mud while I followed behind with the ledger pressed to my chest and the knife case tied under my cloak.
Huginn dropped from a branch and flapped his wings twice. Men were coming down the east trail.
I put out the lantern and shoved the two of them into a depression covered by roots. Four Bolton soldiers passed less than twenty paces away, lanterns raised and spears lowered. The peasant began to tremble. Eldric clamped his hand over his mouth until the lights disappeared among the pines.
Kevin found us near the frozen stream. Seeing the man's bloody wrists, he opened his mouth. A distant horn cut through the forest.
"Later," I said, handing him the knife case. "Now we run."
Perseus placed the peasant on the saddle. Morghaz and Belzakar dismantled the shelter. We set off along the stony bank of the Weeping Water while the patrols scoured the main road.
The first entry had given us the proof. The next would have to bring down the castle.
I threw the black leather ledger onto the oak table in the solar of Winterfell. The heavy cover cracked against the wood. Then, I dumped the knives with the flayed man crest and the pieces of human skin cured in coarse salt. The chemical and metallic smell of dead flesh took over the air of the room immediately.
Rickard Stark evaluated the pages. The ink detailed the thickness of the skin and the days of uninterrupted bleeding of the victims. The knuckles of the Warden of the North lost their color.
"Is the peasant you rescued safe?" Rickard asked, shutting the book with a slam.
"Qyburn is treating the wounds on his wrists in the isolated wing," I answered, resting both hands on the edge of the table.
Rickard turned his face to the hearth. The fire reflected in his hard, gray eyes.
"I will call the banners. Karstark, Umber, Manderly, Mormont," Rickard sentenced. "The Dreadfort will fall."
"Wait." I straightened my spine and pushed the ledger to the center of the table. "The first entry served to prove his crimes. The next will serve to bring down the castle. If the army marches now, Roose shuts the gates and the siege lasts through winter. I go in ahead of the troops and open the fortress from the inside."
Rickard walked to the map and marked the Dreadfort with the tip of his index finger. His nail scraped the dark ink that represented the Weeping Water.
"Where do you go in?" he asked, without taking his eyes off the drawing of the fortress.
I stepped closer to the table and traced with my finger the road that passed through the winter town.
"Through the lower town. Eldric maintains agents among the workers and has smuggled the weapons into the catacombs over the last few months."
Rickard shifted his finger to the drawing of the gate and tapped twice on the side towers.
"How will I know you've reached the gears?" he asked, finally raising his eyes to me.
I touched the point where the bank narrowed.
"A torch will be thrown from the main wall to the side of the Weeping Water. The vanguard will be able to see it even through the snow."
Rickard studied the distance between the river, the wall, and the retreat road. The tip of his finger stopped over the path to Winterfell.
"And when should I assume everything went wrong?" he asked. His voice came out lower than before.
"Three nights after the army reaches the south bank. If the torch doesn't appear by the fourth dawn, assume we failed and pull the men out of range of the walls."
Rickard rested both hands on the table. The wood creaked under the weight of his body.
"You don't leave without an escape route, enough men to hold the gears, and a way to stop Roose from using villagers as shields."
I pulled the small map Eldric had drawn from my belt and unrolled it next to his hand.
"I have a retreat passage through the cistern, twelve chosen companions for the gate, and agents tasked with extracting the prisoners before the attack."
Rickard's eyes scanned the notes. He remained in silence for a few seconds, evaluating each mark before folding the map carefully.
Rickard collected the map and pushed it back to me. His hand rested on the parchment for a moment.
"Prepare your men," he ordered. His voice lost some of its hardness when he added: "And come back before I have to explain to your mother why I allowed this madness."
I left the solar and walked straight to the armory. I started fastening the straps of my breastplate when the door slammed against the wall. Brandon walked in with clenched fists and heavy breathing. He must have heard the last part of the conversation through the solar door.
"I'm going with you," he declared, stopping two paces away. "You found the proof, but the execution belongs to Winterfell. I am the heir. My sword will taste Bolton blood before the army arrives."
I continued tightening my belt buckle, refusing to match his outburst.
"You stay," I replied, pulling the leather until the metal locked.
Brandon clenched his jaw. He kicked an empty wooden barrel in the corner of the armory. The slats cracked with the violence of the blow.
"You're walking into the most dangerous castle in the North with barely a dozen men!" Brandon raised his voice, crossing his arms. "They will flay you alive if you're discovered, Arthur. I know steel and I can fight by your side."
I turned my body and faced my older brother.
"The hunt is in the dark, Brandon," I said, keeping my voice low. "If I miss a step and die in there, our father loses a bastard. If you get captured and have your throat slit, the entire North loses its future. Your duty to this House is to stay alive."
Brandon lowered his eyes to his boots, chewing on his frustration. He raised his head and squeezed my shoulder with his heavy hand.
"Come back whole, brother," Brandon said. His voice came out hoarse.
I squeezed Brandon's forearm and forced a brief smile.
"I always come back," I replied, though neither of us believed that promise was under my control.
The courtyard was dark. Lyarra waited near the stables, wrapped in a heavy wool cloak. When I approached, she held my face between her cold hands. Her thumbs stopped near the difference in color of my eyes. Her mouth opened twice before her voice came out.
"Beware the shadows of that place," she whispered, squeezing the fabric of my doublet as if she could anchor me to Winterfell by her fingers.
I covered her hand with mine and leaned my face against her cold palm for a moment.
"I bring my own shadows, mother," I murmured, slowly untangling her fingers from my doublet.
Rickard stood a few steps away. He grabbed my shoulder with his broad hand.
"If you are discovered before we arrive, I won't be able to break those walls in time," he said. "Good luck, my son."
I adjusted my cloak over my shoulder and held my father's gaze.
"When the vanguard breaks over the Weeping Water, the gates will be open," I assured. Rickard squeezed my shoulder one last time before letting me go.
I pulled the reins and our troop marched into the night. I hadn't said goodbye to Lyanna. I had asked Rhoslyn to keep the girl busy with maps and sums. Long goodbyes weakened the will.
=-x-=-x-=-x-=-x-=-x-=-x-=-x-=-x-=
[POV Rickard Stark]
The winter council had been summoned weeks prior to discuss stocks, roads, and supplies. Now it served Rickard's purpose better than any call to war. Roose had refused the summons and remained locked in the Dreadfort, convinced that Winterfell was busy with grain, taxes, and feasts.
When the early hours emptied the castle of servants and lesser guests, Rickard ordered the doors of the Great Hall locked.
Only the lords of the major houses remained in the hall. Jeor Mormont, Wyman Manderly, Greatjon Umber, Rickard Karstark, Halys Hornwood, Medger Cerwyn, Lord Dustin, and Rodrik Ryswell surrounded the massive main table. The flames in the great hearths cracked loudly, casting long shadows over the lords' austere faces.
Rickard threw the black leather ledger onto the table. The thick cover cracked against the wood. Next, he unrolled the skins cured in coarse salt. The chemical smell of dead flesh instantly overtook the air in the hall.
Wyman Manderly pulled out a silk handkerchief to cover his mouth. Rodrik Ryswell clenched his jaw, his eyes fixed on the tattoos on the stretched skins. Lord Dustin squeezed his fingers on the edge of the table until his knuckles turned white.
Two Stark guards entered the hall supporting the peasant brought from Qyburn's isolated wing. The man trembled. His wrists remained wrapped in bandages. He repeated his story before the lords and recounted the secret chamber, the whetstone, and the sound of the shackles being opened in the darkness.
"We have the ledger and a witness," Manderly said, lowering his handkerchief. His face remained pale. "I want other names, other victims, and the tax records. When this ends, no Southern man will be able to call this march a feud between Stark and Bolton."
"While we gather parchments, he keeps flaying people," Karstark countered. His hand closed over the edge of the table. "Roose Bolton is a sickness that needs to be bled."
Jeor Mormont cast a hard look at them both.
"A sickness also kills whoever tries to cut it out without caution. The Dreadfort is prepared for a siege."
Rodrik Ryswell ran his thumb over one of the bronze plates.
"And, after Roose falls, someone will have to control those lands. If we leave a void, every lesser knight in the east will try to take a piece."
Rickard waited for the hall to quiet down.
"We will have enough proof, a plan for the fortress, and a council to decide the fate of the lands. Your forces are already gathered in secret. We march today in three columns, down different trails. Avoid Bolton villages, high fires, and loose messengers. We will only unite the army on the last night before the Weeping Water."
"The walls of the Dreadfort are built to withstand the end of the world, Rickard," Jeor Mormont pointed out, his raspy voice sounding like two stones grinding together. The Old Bear evaluated the black ledger. "Bolton is a cunning viper. The castle is already locked down for a siege. Without siege engines, a frontal assault will cost us thousands of men to hunger and cold."
"There won't be a siege of months, Jeor," Rickard replied. The Lord of Winterfell rested both hands on the table, leaning forward. "We won't try to break the locks from the outside in."
Greatjon Umber stopped tapping the table and leaned his body forward.
"What do you have in mind?" he asked, narrowing his eyes at Rickard.
The Lord of Winterfell ran his hand over the hilt of Ice before answering.
"My son Arthur left days ago," he revealed.
The immediate silence devoured the noises of the solar. The lords of the North froze in their positions.
"The boy?" Manderly lowered his silk handkerchief, his face losing its color. "Infiltrated in the Dreadfort with barely a dozen men? It's suicide!"
"Arthur operates where our heavy armies cannot tread," Rickard stated with relentless certainty. "Right now, he and his warriors are already hidden in the bowels of that fortress. Their role is to destroy the internal security and open the way."
Rickard Karstark stopped pacing. An aggressive, predatory smile tore across the Lord of Karhold's hard face.
"The Demon Wolf locked inside the Dreadfort," Karstark muttered. Respect shone clear in his hoarse tone. "Bolton locked his own door with the executioner inside the room. If the boy manages to turn the oak locks and release the gates..."
"Our cavalry rides in and we put that rotten garrison to the sword without mercy," Umber finished, drawing in the cold air sharply. "The North will deal the justice of the snow."
Rickard Stark rose from his high-backed chair. The Warden of the North pulled up his sword belt.
"Prepare your troops, my lords," Rickard sentenced, his gray eyes flashing. "When we reach the Weeping Water river, the castle will have its doors open for our vanguard."
=-x-=-x-=-x-=-x-=-x-=-x-=-x-=-x-=
[POV Arthur Snow]
I was nineteen years old and nearly two meters tall, a build that made any disguise difficult. Before leaving Winterfell, I sent Fenrir and Hela with my father's column. The two beasts would draw too much attention among refugees and merchants, besides being more useful when the gates opened. I hid my black and white hair and my mismatched eyes under a grimy hood. We wore grease-lined rags, blending my twelve companions into caravans of traders and refugees seeking shelter near the walls.
Eldric, Kevin, Perseus, Morghaz, Belzakar, Razdhan, Toyne, Harwyn, Ulmer, Fletcher Dick, Wenda, and Big Belly Ben crossed the gates of the winter town piecemeal.
The weapons and armor did not travel with us. Eldric had smuggled them piece by piece over months and hidden them in an abandoned cistern beneath the catacombs. We carried only small knives and lockpicking tools under our rags.
Wagons piled up in the lower courtyards while sentries shouted orders, stabbed straw bales, and kicked beggars away from the gates. A merchant protested upon seeing a torn sack of flour and received the butt of a spear to his stomach. We lowered our heads, coughing and limping, until we cleared the inspection.
The sound of heavy boots running through the lower courtyard alerted our group. Eldric slid into the dark alley where we were holed up.
"Roose knows the rats are inside the house," Eldric whispered, his breath forming smoke in the cold air. "He ordered the garrison to lock down the courtyards. They're hunting down any outsiders and putting anyone who doesn't belong in the castle to the sword. If we stay here, they'll surround us."
The sound of another patrol arose on the main street. I grabbed Eldric's shoulder and pointed to the dark opening between two buildings.
"Downward," I ordered, already ducking toward the grate.
We crawled through the alleys and descended through a drainage duct that ended below the torture chambers. The passage led us to an abandoned cistern, connected to the catacombs by a narrow corridor. The patrols avoided that part of the underground because of cave-ins and stories about the Red Kings.
The smell was a mass of saltpeter, stagnant water, and rotting meat drifting from the upper chambers. We hid among cracked pillars. The black water reached the soles of our boots and washed away our tracks.
Kevin covered his nose with the sleeve of his grimy tunic. The archer leaned his back against the black stone and looked at the empty wooden frames hanging on the wall.
"This place reeks of wretched death," Kevin commented, his voice muffled by the dirty fabric.
Harwyn let out a hissing laugh. The disfigured man was sharpening the blade of his new sword forged in Winterfell. The clean, sharp steel reflected the faint light of the gloom. His old rusted sword had been forgotten in the ashes of the Kingswood.
"I've slept in far worse holes in the Southern forests," Harwyn hissed, drawing the filthy air into his lungs with a sick pleasure. "Old blood at least warms the damp stone."
Simon Toyne wiped the blade of a short dagger on the leg of his ragged trousers and looked at Kevin.
"Our time in the Kingswood taught us to wait in the cold mud without complaining about the stench," Toyne said, keeping his voice low. "Breathe through your mouth and save your energy."
Toyne would take over coordination when we split up. Wenda had spent two days among the washerwomen and figured out the guard shifts. Ulmer and Fletcher mapped the roofs. Big Belly Ben examined the gate gears through an opening in the cistern. Harwyn only asked how many men he could kill before we needed silence again.
=-x-=-x-=-x-=-x-=-x-=-x-=-x-=-x-=
[POV Rickard Stark]
The vanguard of the North crested the gray horizon days later. The forces had marched in three columns through forest trails, avoiding Bolton villages and gathering only on the last night before the Weeping Water. The banners of Winterfell, Mormont, Manderly, Karstark, Umber, Hornwood, Cerwyn, Dustin, and Ryswell snapped in the wind.
The black stone walls of the Dreadfort rose atop the hill. The massive oak and iron gates were locked shut.
Rickard raised his gloved hand. The army halted out of arrow range.
He trotted forward on his warhorse. Greatjon Umber, Wyman Manderly, Jeor Mormont, Lord Dustin, Rodrik Ryswell, and Rickard Karstark rode right behind him. Fenrir ran alongside Rickard's mount, large enough to reach the horse's flank with his shoulders. Hela moved further away, nearly invisible among the snow and the stones of the bank.
Roose Bolton appeared atop the main wall. He wore a dark cloak lined with fine fur. His face remained pale and motionless while his colorless eyes evaluated the sea of spears.
"Open the gates, Roose," Rickard demanded, projecting his voice against the wind. "We have your ledger, the human leather from your dungeons, and living witnesses. Surrender to Winterfell's justice and spare the blood of your garrison."
The Bolton soldiers exchanged nervous glances.
Roose rested his hands on the parapet.
"The winter has corroded your senses, Lord Stark," he replied, his soft voice drifting down the stones. "The men in my dungeons were thieves, deserters, and traitors. You march to my door based on delusions, a stolen book, and old animal hides."
Lord Dustin spat on the frozen ground.
"Come down here and repeat that with my sword at your throat!" Greatjon roared. The vein in his neck bulged under his beard.
Roose ignored the Umber.
"You may freeze your army before my walls all winter," he said. Then he turned his back and disappeared into the tower.
Jeor Mormont watched Roose disappear behind the battlements. The Old Bear's hand closed over the pommel of his sword.
"He locked us out," he growled, staring at the walls as if already calculating how many men would die beneath them.
Rickard kept his eyes on the gates.
"He thinks he locked the threat outside," he murmured, adjusting his reins. "The executioner is already inside."
Rickard turned his horse back toward the line of knights. Fenrir followed the movement, letting out a low growl at the walls.
"Prepare the heavy cavalry," Rickard ordered, raising his arm so the commanders could see the signal. "The gates will open."
=-x-=-x-=-x-=-x-=-x-=-x-=-x-=-x-=
[POV Arthur Snow]
The air in the cistern grew even colder. The dawn drained the light from the upper cracks. The time had come.
I opened the bundles Eldric had hidden there over the last few months. I pulled out the pieces of boiled black leather overlaid with darkened chainmail and handed the gear to the men.
Lastly, I pulled out the masks. They were half-masks of black iron, molded like demonic faces, with twisted noses, long fangs, and short horns above the temples. They covered the nose and jaw. I also handed out the black hoods.
"If they want me to be the Demon Wolf," I said, locking eyes with each warrior, "I will show them my legion."
Harwyn tied the iron over his exposed gums. The hot vapor of his breath escaped through the slits in white gusts. The Dornishman let out a muffled cackle that reverberated in the metal.
Perseus, Kevin, Belzakar, Morghaz, Razdhan, Toyne, Wenda, Fletcher, Ulmer, and Big Belly Ben adjusted their hoods. We were thirteen against a garrison of four hundred soldiers. Fear could open a few steps for us. After that, we would rely on steel, speed, and the ability to stay on our feet.
We emerged from the underground.
We cleared the first patrols in the inner courtyard in absolute silence. Ulmer, Fletcher Dick, and Kevin scaled the roofs of the workshops with the agility of cats. The bowstrings of the weirwood bows hummed in the exact same fraction of a second. Three guards on the parapets tumbled into the snow with arrows planted in their necks, dying before they could scream.
We advanced on the rear of a larger platoon. The objective consisted of tearing a corridor of blood to the main locks and holding the position.
Harwyn slid into the middle of the enemy patrol. The new longsword forged in Winterfell severed the first spearman's head in a perfect arc. White vapor escaped through the slits of his demonic mask as he twisted his wrist and pierced the second guard's lung. Wenda drove a dagger into a soldier's armpit. Perseus cleaved a guard's chest with a brutal diagonal strike of his greatsword, the sound of breaking bones mixing with the whistling wind.
Razdhan, Belzakar, and Morghaz formed a wedge of slaughter on the left flank, their short spears punching through enemy mail with surgical precision. Hot blood melted the ice beneath our boots. The smell of oxidized iron and spilled entrails infested the fresh snow.
Eldric reached the stairs of the main wall. The spy lit a straw torch from the nearest brazier and hurled the burning wood straight over the wall, toward the darkness of the Weeping Water river.
The signal streaked down the dark night.
We advanced on the chains of the main gate. Eight soldiers guarded the crank gears. We struck down the sentries with fast frontal strikes, but the noise of steel cutting through plates alerted the lower patrol. A dying guard brought his horn trumpet to his bloody lips and blew with all his might.
The alarm rang out loud.
Dozens of soldiers began stumbling out of the barracks, drawing axes and spears, their eyes wide as they saw the fallen bodies and the thirteen black-masked figures seizing the gate.
"Turn the main gears!" I yelled, drawing Truth from its scabbard. The blue Valyrian steel caught the light of the braziers. "Big Belly Ben, Toyne, Morghaz, Razdhan! Pull the latch! The rest of you, form the shield wall. We hold the corridor."
The four warriors dropped their weapons, dug their boots into the stone, and pushed the massive circular crank with the full weight of their bodies. The heavy chains began to crack and groan.
The Bolton infantry charged at us.
The first collision almost broke the line. An axe split Morghaz's shield and opened a deep gash in his shoulder. Wenda took a glancing spear thrust to her thigh and fell to one knee. Toyne pulled her back before the second blow landed.
The main gear jammed with a sharp crack.
"Chain is stuck!" Big Belly Ben roared, forcing the crank without being able to move it.
I dug the sole of my boot into the limestone. The first soldier tried to skewer me with a long spear. I sheared the ash shaft with a twist of my wrist and shoved Truth through his throat. Perseus deflected an axe with his armored forearm and smashed his attacker's face with the pommel of his sword. Belzakar pierced the chests of two men with short thrusts.
Breath vapor escaped through the masks in short bursts, forming a white mist before our demonic faces. The enemy infantry hesitated for fractions of a second as they faced those figures advancing in the darkness. Arrows from Kevin, Ulmer, and Fletcher rained down from the roofs with precision, burying themselves into the eyes and necks of any soldier who tried to flank our shield wall.
Perseus abandoned the line for two seconds, wedged his greatsword between the teeth of the gear, and used the blade as a lever. The steel groaned. Big Belly Ben and Toyne pushed together. The stuck chain leaped from its catch.
The sharp groan of old hinges cut through the sound of the carnage. The immense black wood and iron gates of the Dreadfort swung wide open.
The war horn of the North sounded across the plains.
Rickard Stark's heavy cavalry crushed the snow in a devastating charge. Fenrir tore through the gate ahead of the horses and leapt onto the first Bolton spearman, bringing man and shield down into the mud. Hela vanished up a side staircase behind the archers. Greatjon Umber and Rickard Karstark charged roaring through the stone archway, their greatswords raised. The warhorses trampled the front line. Some of the soldiers recruited from the villages dropped their spears upon recognizing the banners of Winterfell. Roose's personal men retreated into the towers and kept firing from the stairs. The resistance shattered into isolated pockets as the vanguard flooded the courtyard.
"Roose's tower!" I shouted to my core of warriors, flicking the blood from Truth.
I left the general slaughter to my father's forces. I cut through the chaos of horses and red mud, sprinting for the central tower's staircase. Eldric, Perseus, and Harwyn covered my back, cutting down any straggling guards.
We kicked open the double oak doors of the solar atop the tower. The lock gave way with an explosive crash, splintering the wood.
Roose Bolton stood before the high hearth. His pale hand gripped a short crossbow aimed at the blacksmith's daughter's throat. The girl's wrists were bound, her face marked by dried tears. Two personal guards protected the side passage while parchments burned in the fire.
"One more step and she dies," Roose warned. His voice remained low, even as his finger squeezed the trigger.
Hela dropped from the top of a bookshelf like a living shadow. The shadowcat's claws tore open the first guard's face. The second swung his sword at the beast and exposed his flank. Eldric sank his knife under the man's armpit.
I threw Truth. The pommel of the sword slammed into the crossbow before Roose could fire. The bolt shot through a curtain. The blacksmith's daughter fell to her knees and rolled away.
I crossed the room in three wide strides. Roose pulled a thin blade from his sleeve and tried to pierce my throat. I grabbed his wrist, twisted until the bone snapped, and slammed him on his back against the thick rug. Harwyn leapt onto the fallen lord. The disfigured man drove his knee into the noble's chest and pressed the clean steel of his sword to the pale throat.
Eldric plunged his leather-clad hand into the flames of the hearth and yanked out the untouched scrolls. He beat the charred papers on the stone floor until the embers died.
"The illicit accounts and the vault records survived," he reported, shaking the soot from his glove.
I dragged Roose by his arms down the staircase, shoving his body without the slightest gentleness toward the center of the courtyard. Dawn was beginning to break. The enemy garrison was already kneeling in the bloody snow, surrendered to the strength of the Northern vanguard and the swords of Umber and Karstark.
Rickard Stark, Wyman Manderly, Rickard Karstark, Jeor Mormont, and Greatjon Umber walked through the open doors of the main keep to inspect the castle. The lords' boots stopped suddenly near the archway leading to the underground. They descended the spiral stairs toward the dungeons.
The group of nobles returned to the courtyard minutes later. Wyman Manderly's broad face was livid with horror. Jeor Mormont kept his teeth clenched. Down in the catacombs, ancient skins were kept alongside corroded bronze plates, shattered crowns, and strips of parchment with names of Stark kings who had died in the wars against the Red Kings. The Bolton records detailed the origin of each trophy. Next to them hung the fresh skins of peasants from the neighboring villages.
When the lords raised their eyes to the square, they stopped in their tracks. My troop formed a circular barrier around me. Men wearing black leather, dark hoods, and demonic iron masks. The white vapor of our breath escaped through the metallic slits into the freezing air. Fresh blood ran down our blades and dripped into the mud.
Greatjon Umber gripped the hilt of his own greatsword, his wide-eyed stare torn between visual revulsion at our armor and absolute respect for the pile of disemboweled Bolton guards near the gate gears.
Rickard Stark strode into the center of the courtyard, stepping hard on the red-stained snow. The Warden of the North drew Ice from its leather scabbard. The sound of gray Valyrian steel hissed. My father stopped before Roose Bolton, forced to his knees in the mud by Harwyn's hands.
The blacksmith's daughter appeared beneath the tower archway, supported by Eldric and draped in a Stark cloak. Seeing her, Kevin released the breath he had been holding since the cave and lowered his bow a few inches. Qyburn and the healers began extracting the prisoners from the cells.
The lords formed a semicircle. The rescued peasant, the blacksmith's daughter, the half-burned records, and the bronze plates from the catacombs were placed before them.
Rickard scanned the gathered faces.
"Does any man in this square contest this evidence?" he asked.
The wind blew between the walls. Not one lord spoke. Even the kneeling Bolton soldiers kept their eyes downcast.
"The North has come to know your cowardice and your atrocities, Roose Bolton," Rickard's voice echoed heavy and resounding. "You broke our peace, flayed your own people in the dark of your dungeons, and kept the dead of the ancient wars as trophies. Before your peers, your victims, and the proof written by your own hand, I condemn you for treason, murder, and breaking the laws of the North."
Roose tilted his face up to meet Rickard's eyes. Mud stained his pale skin, and a thin line of blood ran from the corner of his mouth, but his voice remained low.
"Kill me," he said. "Another lord will occupy these walls. Fear always finds a new name."
Rickard adjusted both hands on the hilt of Ice and tilted the blade until the pale morning light ran down the steel.
"Perhaps," he replied, staring at Roose without blinking. "Yours ends now."
Ice came down. Roose Bolton's blood ran across the snow until it reached the boots of the peasant he had intended to flay.