Winterfell was near dead and abandoned, men said, and Addam Marbrand had been sent to plunder its last treasure.
Addam first sight of the castle was as a grey shadow through a sheet of falling snow. For all the difficulty of his orders, he was relieved to be here at last. It had been a long three moons on the road north. He was weary of nights sleeping rough in inns or tents, and the mounts and men both would well do with a period of rest before the journey back to Casterly Rock.
They had been fortunate in the weather. They days had been warmer than some and free from storms he had been told by the northerners. Warmer than some. He shivered at the thought. Although he had ensured his men were well-equipped for the journey and he had hired what local guides he could, he counted himself lucky that none of his party had been injured by frostbite or fallen ill on the way.
They were well-equipped to see to a noblewoman's comfort and security. Lord Tyrion had insisted on that point. Addam was accompanied by five other knights of the Westerlands, all of them well equipped and battle-hardened: Ser Tysen Kyndall, Ser Flemment Brax, Ser Kermit Greenfield, Ser Manfryd Yew, and Ser Martyn Yarwyck. They were accompanied by ten squires of fighting age between them – Addam had refused to allow page boys on the trip. Along with the noble-born, he had brought twenty five men-at-arms. With the three knights and ten men the Manderlys had sent, he had over fifty fighting men. Plenty to prevent any attack by Wildlings or bandits.
Of course, the opposition they faced would not only be raiders. He could not imagine that Lord Bran would be pleased to send his only surviving sister to the family which killed his father and conspired to end his line. Resolutely, Addam pushed that thought away. The girl was a Lannister by all the laws of gods and men, and the wife of his liege. She might weep and rail against marriage to the despised Imp, but she was noble-born and should know her duty.
As they came closer, he could see that the gates were closed. A solitary Stark banner hung defiantly from the walls, grey on white against the grey stones, white snowflakes blowing across it. There was no sign of life. A blast from a horn brought no response. Ser Paul Woolfield, the commander of the Manderly men, began to grouse about the lack of respect shown to the Regent's representatives, but Addam silenced him with a look.
Luckily, they did not need to attempt to breach the walls. Addam gestured the mounted troops to move ahead of the wagon convoy. By timing their arrival to coincide with a food shipment, he had prevented the Starks from simply refusing to open their gates. At least he hoped so. This was likely to be a very long and uncomfortable wait if they had to starve the Starks out.
"I'd not open my gates either, if it meant having the Imp between my legs." The comment came from one of the men behind him, and clearly carried further in the still air.
Addam turned and glared. He met downcast eyes from every face he scrutinized. "You are speaking about Lord and Lady Lannister," he snapped. "The next man who disrespects either will be disciplined."
"Just been a long trip, m'lord," a different voice said. The man shrugged. "We're all keen to get a look at Lady Lannister. They say she's a sweet thing, and pretty as a sunrise."
"Speak for yourself, man, I'm just hankering to get a look at a steaming cup of mulled wine," jibbed another. "You know what they say – the higher the birth, the prettier they're said to be, but it is all the same in the dar-." He stopped as Addam's eyes narrowed. "Well, it ain't always so."
"Blow the horn again." Addam ordered.
He had seen the girl with his own eyes, although he didn't care to share that with the men. He remembered a girl tall for her age, pretty, but pale and silent. At her wedding to Tyrion she had wept and spoke in a whisper: she had been no more than twelve years old. More a figure of pity than desire, he would have thought. But years had passed since that day, and she was no longer a child by any man's standard.
His musing was broken by a cry.
"Look," Ser Flemment shouted. "Against the trees … is that a wolf?"
The creature had silver-grey fur, and it looked like a heavy-set wolf, that much was true. But it was huge, as tall in the shoulder as a pony. It stood silent, watching them. Then it turned and ran back into the woods, vanishing amongst the tress like a dream.
"Something's happening," said Ser Tysen. "About time."
From the gates there came and thudding and a rattling of chains. Slowly, one of the huge wooden doors shifted and opened inwards. The hinges creaked. The party waited. A man walked across the space. The procedure was repeated on the other side, and then the gates stood open.
Addam gestured for the knights to take precedence with their House colors, following the squire who carried the Lion of Lannister, gold on red. As they started to move, he glanced back at the Stark banner. Then his gaze moved upwards, and his eyes widened.
A woman was standing on the walls, watching them. She was dressed all in black with a veil over her face and a cloak pulled close around her. She was as silent and still as the wolf had been, and for a moment Addam wondered if she was a statue. He glanced around to see if anyone else had noticed her. When he looked back up, she was gone.
The escort rode forward, and entered Winterfell.