Day Four.
The grey light of morning filtered through the barred window, painting pale stripes across the cold stone floor. I had slept in fits and starts, my dreams haunted by Ramsay's singsong voice and the image of his pale, hungry eyes staring at the tapestry I had hidden behind.
He knows something. He doesn't know what, but he knows something.
I pushed myself up from the straw mattress, wincing as my ribs protested. The wounds from my initial capture were healing—slowly, but healing. The system's passive benefits, perhaps, or simply the resilience of youth. Either way, I was grateful.
I pulled the Stark cloak from around my shoulders and folded it carefully, hiding it beneath the straw mattress along with the dagger and the ancient key. The direwolf brooch caught the faint light for a moment, silver gleaming against grey wool, before I buried it from sight.
Not yet. It's not time to reveal myself. Not until I have a way out.
I was halfway through a stale piece of bread—Harren's last delivery, now two days old—when I heard footsteps in the corridor. Multiple footsteps. Purposeful.
The lock on my door clicked, and it swung open.
Two Bolton guards stood in the doorway, their pink cloaks bright in the grey morning light. The younger one with the scar—Harren—was not among them. These were older men, their faces hard and expressionless. Men who had served House Bolton long enough to have forgotten what mercy felt like.
"Lord Bolton wants to see you," the taller one said. It wasn't a request.
I rose slowly, brushing the crumbs from my torn tunic. "Then I suppose I shouldn't keep him waiting."
They didn't respond. They simply flanked me as I stepped into the corridor, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords. I walked between them, my bare feet cold against the stone, my mind racing.
Why now? What does he want?
The answer came to me as we walked the familiar path to Roose Bolton's chamber. The spy. I promised him a name. A rat in his granary. He's calling in the debt.
I had prepared for this. During the long, silent hours in my cell, I had sifted through my knowledge of the show and the books, searching for a name that would be both plausible and useful. It couldn't be someone too important—if Roose investigated and found nothing, I was dead. It couldn't be someone too insignificant—if the information seemed worthless, I was dead.
It had to be someone real. Someone who could plausibly be a spy. Someone whose disappearance or punishment would benefit me, or at least not harm my long-term goals.
I had found the perfect candidate.
The guards pushed open the heavy oak door to Roose Bolton's chamber, and I stepped inside.
The Lord of the Dreadfort was seated at his long table, just as before. Maps and scrolls were spread before him, their edges weighted down with smooth stones. A single candle flickered at his elbow, casting dancing shadows across his pale, expressionless face.
He didn't look up when I entered. He simply continued reading a scroll, his pale eyes moving slowly across the text. The silence stretched. A test. A game. He wanted to see if I would speak first, if I would fidget, if I would show weakness.
I didn't. I stood in the center of the room, my hands loose at my sides, my face calm. I had faced Ramsay's madness. Roose's cold calculation was almost a relief.
Finally, he set down the scroll and raised his eyes to meet mine.
"Alann Snow." His voice was soft. A whisper of silk over a blade's edge. "You have had time to consider your position. I trust you have not forgotten our arrangement."
"I haven't forgotten," I said.
"Then give me the name." He leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled before him. "The rat in my granary. The man who carries my secrets to King's Landing."
In my mind, the ancient page flickered to life.
[Silver Tongue Skill Check: Initiated.]
[Charisma (11) + Intelligence Bonus (16) vs. Target's Perception (???)...]
[Warning: Roose Bolton is highly perceptive. Deception will be difficult.]
[Success Chance: 58%]
Fifty-eight percent. Not great. But not hopeless.
I met Roose Bolton's pale eyes without flinching. "The man's name is Walton. He serves in your stables."
A flicker of something—surprise, perhaps, or interest—passed through those cold eyes. "Walton. The stablemaster's son."
"Yes." I had chosen carefully. Walton was real. He was young, ambitious, and—according to Harren's whispered information—had been heard complaining about Ramsay's cruelty to the horses. A man with grievances was a man who might betray. "He travels to Winterfell twice a year to purchase new stock. He has family there. A sister, married to a Stark guard. He speaks to her. She speaks to her husband. And her husband speaks to Lord Stark's steward."
Roose Bolton was silent for a long moment. His pale eyes never left mine. I could feel him weighing my words, testing them for weakness, for deception.
"Interesting," he said finally. "If true."
"If you investigate, you'll find that Walton has been sending more ravens than a stable hand should. He claims they're to his sister. But the timing of those ravens... they coincide with your last three 'hunting trips.'"
Another flicker. This time, I was certain. I had hit something real. Walton might not be a spy—I had no evidence of that—but he was doing something suspicious. And in the Dreadfort, suspicion was as good as guilt.
Roose Bolton rose from his chair. He walked around the table and stopped a few feet from me, his pale eyes boring into mine. He was taller than I had realized. Lean and predatory.
"If I find that you have lied to me," he said softly, "I will not kill you. I will give you to Ramsay. And I will tell him to take his time."
"I understand."
He studied me for another long moment. Then, without another word, he gestured to the guards. They stepped forward and took my arms, leading me out of the chamber and back toward my cell.
But as I reached the door, Roose Bolton's voice stopped me.
"Alann Snow."
I turned.
His pale eyes glittered in the candlelight. "My son is very interested in you. He finds you... intriguing. I would advise you not to intrigue him further. Ramsay's interests have a way of ending badly for their objects."
"I'll keep that in mind, my lord."
I left the chamber with my heart pounding and my mind racing. The first test was over. Roose Bolton would investigate Walton. He would find something—perhaps not espionage, but something. Enough to keep him occupied. Enough to buy me time.
Time for what?
The answer came as the guards locked me back in my cell. Time to find a way out.
Night fell on the Dreadfort like a shroud.
I waited until the hour of the wolf—the deepest, darkest part of the night, when even the guards grew sluggish and inattentive. Then I retrieved the ancient key, the dagger, and the Stark cloak from beneath the straw mattress. I didn't wear the cloak—it was too conspicuous—but I folded it into a tight bundle and tied it to my waist with a strip of torn cloth. If I found a way out tonight, I wouldn't leave it behind.
The leather strip Harren had given me made short work of the door's faulty bolt. I slipped into the corridor and moved through the shadows like a ghost.
I didn't head toward the Weeping Tower this time. That secret was uncovered, its treasure claimed. Tonight, I went deeper.
Harren had told me about the old passages—the ones even the Boltons had forgotten. They ran beneath the castle like veins, connecting towers and halls that had been built and rebuilt over thousands of years. Most were sealed. Collapsed. But a few, Harren had heard, were still passable.
I found the first one behind a loose stone in the wall of the old armory. The stone swung outward on hidden hinges, revealing a narrow tunnel that sloped downward into darkness. The air that rushed out was cold and stale, smelling of earth and ancient decay.
In my mind, the ancient page flickered.
[Hidden Passage Discovered: The Old Blood Tunnels.]
[Quest Updated: Escape the Dreadfort within 14 days.]
[Hint: The oldest paths remember the oldest ways. Follow the cold air. It leads to the surface.]
I stepped into the tunnel.
The darkness was absolute. I moved by touch, one hand trailing along the damp stone wall, the other holding the dagger ready. The floor was uneven, worn smooth by centuries of footsteps that had long since turned to dust. The air grew colder as I descended, and I felt the passive warmth of Winter's Blood stirring in my chest, pushing back against the chill.
The tunnel branched. Left or right. I paused, listening. From the left passage, I heard nothing. From the right, a faint whisper of moving air. Cold air. Fresh air.
Follow the cold air.
I turned right.
The tunnel narrowed, forcing me to turn sideways and squeeze through gaps where the ancient stone had shifted. My shoulders scraped against the walls, and more than once I had to stop and control my breathing to keep from panicking. The weight of the Dreadfort pressed down from above—thousands of tons of stone and history and blood.
Then, suddenly, the tunnel opened into a small chamber.
It was circular, perhaps ten feet across, with a low ceiling supported by ancient wooden beams that looked ready to collapse at any moment. In the center of the chamber was a stone well. No—not a well. A shaft. It rose straight up into darkness, and from somewhere far above, I could see a pinprick of pale light.
Moonlight. The surface.
My heart quickened. I approached the shaft and looked up. The walls were rough, lined with ancient handholds carved into the stone. A ladder, of sorts. A way out.
But as I reached out to touch the stone, the ancient page in my mind flared with a warning.
[Environmental Hazard Detected: Unstable Structure.]
[Risk of collapse: High.]
[Recommended Action: Do not climb without reinforcement or assistance.]
[Alternative Route Hint: The cold air flows from the east passage, not the shaft. The shaft leads to the inner courtyard—heavily guarded. The east passage... unknown.]
I lowered my hand. The shaft was a trap. Even if I climbed it without bringing the whole thing down on my head, I would emerge in the inner courtyard, surrounded by Bolton guards. It wasn't an escape route. It was a death sentence.
But the system had given me another hint. The east passage.
I turned and examined the chamber walls. There—behind a fallen beam—was another opening. Smaller. Darker. But from it flowed a steady stream of cold, fresh air.
I squeezed through the opening and found myself in another tunnel, this one sloping gently upward. The air grew fresher with every step. I could smell pine. Snow. The clean, sharp scent of the northern night.
And then I saw it. A faint grey light ahead. Not moonlight—it was too diffuse, too steady. The first light of dawn.
I emerged from the tunnel into a narrow crevice in the side of a rocky hill. Behind me, the Dreadfort loomed against the lightening sky, its dark towers like jagged teeth. Before me, the northern wilderness stretched to the horizon—endless forests and frozen hills, blanketed in snow.
I found it. A way out.
I stood there for a long moment, drinking in the cold, clean air. Freedom was so close I could taste it.
But I didn't run. Not yet.
I have no horse. No supplies. No map. If I run now, I'll freeze to death or be hunted down by Ramsay's dogs before nightfall.
I needed more time. More preparation. And I needed to know what Harren had discovered.
I turned and slipped back into the tunnel, making my way carefully through the darkness toward the Dreadfort. The journey back was faster—I knew the path now—but no less tense. Every sound, every shift of ancient stone, made my heart lurch.
When I finally emerged from the hidden passage behind the armory, the castle was stirring. Servants moved through the corridors, their footsteps quick and fearful. Guards changed shifts with curt nods and empty eyes. I slipped through the shadows, back to my tower, back to my cell.
I had just closed the door behind me when I heard a soft knock.
I tensed, my hand closing around the dagger. "Who's there?"
"Harren." His voice was a breathless whisper. "Let me in. Quickly."
I opened the door a crack. Harren slipped inside, his face pale and slick with sweat despite the cold. His scarred eyebrow twitched uncontrollably.
"He knows," Harren gasped. "Ramsay. He knows something is wrong. He questioned me this morning. Asked if I'd noticed anything strange about the new prisoner. Asked if I'd spoken to you."
My blood ran cold. "What did you tell him?"
"Nothing. I said I'd only brought you food, like I was ordered. I said you seemed frightened. Pathetic. Not worth his attention." Harren shook his head. "He didn't believe me. I could see it in his eyes. He's planning something. A hunt. He's been talking about it for days. 'A special hunt,' he keeps saying. 'The best one yet.'"
I stared at him. The pieces clicked into place with terrible clarity.
He's going to release me. Let me run. And then hunt me down like an animal.
"He's giving me a head start," I said slowly. "He wants me to run so he can chase me."
Harren nodded miserably. "That's his way. He did it with my brother. Gave Dale a horse and a day's head start. Told him if he made it to the White Knife river, he could live." His voice cracked. "Dale made it. Ramsay was waiting for him on the other side. Laughing."
The room felt colder. The Stark cloak, hidden beneath my mattress, seemed to call out to me. A reminder of who I was. What I was.
I am a Stark. The blood of winter. The blood of kings.
And I will not die in a Bolton hunt.
I met Harren's desperate eyes. "How long do I have?"
"A few days. Maybe less. He's like a child with a new toy—he can't wait to play with it."
I nodded slowly. The system had given me fourteen days. Reality was giving me far less.
"Harren," I said quietly. "I found a way out. A tunnel that leads beyond the walls. But I need supplies. Food. A horse, if possible. And I need to know the way to Winterfell."
Harren's eyes widened. "Winterfell? That's... that's a week's ride. In winter, maybe more. You'll die out there."
"Not if I'm prepared." I gripped his arm. "You said your brother deserved better. You said you wanted to hurt Ramsay, even just a little. This is how. Help me escape. Help me reach Winterfell. And one day—I swear it on the blood of my mother—I will come back for Ramsay Bolton. And I will make him pay for what he did to Dale. For what he's done to everyone."
Harren stared at me for a long, trembling moment. Then, slowly, he nodded.
"I'll get you what you need," he whispered. "Give me two days."
"One day," I said. "Ramsay won't wait longer than that."
He swallowed hard. "One day. Tomorrow night. Be ready."
He slipped out of the cell and was gone.
I stood in the silence, my heart pounding, my mind racing. The game had changed. It was no longer about surviving day to day. It was about escaping before Ramsay's hunt began.
I pulled the Stark cloak from beneath the mattress and wrapped it around my shoulders. The direwolf brooch gleamed in the faint morning light.
One day. One chance.
I looked out the barred window at the grey northern sky.
Winter is coming. And I intend to meet it on my feet, not on my knees.
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