As the Redwyne ships put into the shore along the Bay of Ice, Robett Glover, standing at Arbor Queen's bow, smiled for the first time since his brother had died. He was home. These were familiar sights, places he and his brother had played as a boy, lands that had belonged to House Glover for thousands of years. His lands now, with Galbart having fallen in the Westerlands. As ship after ship dropped anchor, gangplanks were thrown down and the Northern host slowly began making its way onto the shore. Robett set foot on Northern soil for the first time in nearly two years, breathing in the familiar scents of the Bay of Ice and the Wolfswood with joy.
Lord Paxter Redwyne supervised the disembarkation with care, ensuring that the ten thousand men, not to mention the horses, that he had been charged with transporting North reached land safely. When the last of the Northmen was ashore, along with their weapons and supplies, Paxter raised a hand in farewell. "Bring up that anchor" he commanded, and a crewman ran to do his bidding. Gesturing for the helmsman to take some relief, Paxter took the wheel himself, bringing the Queen back out to sea, plotting a course back south, headed back to the Arbor. The North was beautiful in its own way, and Paxter had appreciated the scenery, but now he wished for home.
As the sails of the Redwyne ships disappeared around Sea Dragon Point, the Northmen began making their way south through the Wolfswood, struggling to drag their supplies through the thick forest. Groaning under his breath as yet another wagon got stuck between two trees, losing a wheel by the time it was freed, Robett Glover knew it would be a long fifteen miles before he laid eyes on his home again. When he finally did reach Deepwood Motte, it was not as he remembered. Though he had known what he would find, no amount of warning could have prepared Robett for the sight of his home under siege.
That in and of itself wasn't too shocking, what was, however, was the banners of the besieging army. Over the largest tent flew the chained giant of the Last Hearth, something that still had Robett rubbing his eyes in disbelief. Never in all his years had he thought to see the Umbers, of all people, laying siege to his home. Though to say it was the Umbers laying siege was largely untrue; while the command tent bore the chained giant, it flew alone. Looking more closely, Robett spotted the black bear of House Mormont, and then smiled at the sight of his own familiar mailed fist on red.
The majority of the gathered men though, a full half of the two thousand encamped before Deepwood Motte, did so under at least ten different banners that Robett could see, most of which he had no knowledge of. The one he did recognise had his spirits soaring; the wooden buckets of House Wull; most powerful of the clans living in the mountains bordering the Wolfswood. Then a banner shifted in the wind and he identified another, three blue moons, one waxing, one full, and the last waning, on a white band over a field of blue. That was the sigil of the Harclays, the men who inhabited the western edge of the mountains, and Robett's closest neighbour to the north-west. House Glover maintained good relations with the mountain men, and now it seemed Robett's allies had come to repay the favor.
His good mood vanished, however, when he caught sight of the banners flying from the walls of Deepwood Motte. The gold kraken on its field of black was a bitter reminder to Galbart that while he may be so close to his home that he could see it, Deepwood was not his yet. Theon Turncloak's sister still occupied the castle, and her archers were vigilant about putting a shaft into any who approached the walls. Staring at a certain point as if he could see through the walls, Robett's fist clenched. There, on the other side of the wall, he knew, lay the dungeons, where his beloved wife and their children, still babes really, languished in chains.
As the Northern army drew closer, there was movement in the command tent and then the Greatjon himself emerged, Alysanne Mormont by his side as they shouted greetings to their returning countrymen. With a wince, Robett remembered too late that the Greatjon would know nothing of the events that had taken place in the last moons. Neither would Alysanne Mormont, who must needs be told that her mother and sister had fallen in the Westerlands. This would not be a pleasant conversation, but it must be done. Steeling himself, Robett forced a smile onto his face and rode forward.
"Lady Alysane" he greeted the She-Bear. Short, heavy and muscular, Alysane was as different from her tall, slim and graceful sister Dacey, yet when you saw them both on the battlefield, weapons in hand, it was impossible to deny they were daughters of Bear Island. "Lord Umber" he added, tipping his head to the Greatjon."
"Ha!" The Greatjon laughed, booming voice echoing throughout the Wolfswood. "No need to be so formal, Robett, we're all friends here!" A big hand clapped the Master of Deepwood Motte on the back, Robett reeling in his saddle from the sheer force of the big man's hand and forced to desperately grab for his reins or fall.
Alysane Mormont smirked, dark eyes flashing in mirth. "Just wish we could have taken the castle back already" the new heiress of Bear Island complained, "would have been a hell of a welcome home gift for you and your brother."
Robett's face fell at that, and Alysane sighed in sympathy. "I see. Did he die well?"
Unable to say the words, Robett struggled for a moment before he forced himself to speak, aware that he owed Lady Mormont the truth about her mother, and her sister. "My lady" he drew a deep breath, "my lord, there is something I must tell you."
Slowly, omitting no detail, for he owed them that at least, Robett informed the two of the Tullys surrender, of the planned attack on Casterly Rock and of the divide that ran through the Northern forces afterwards. He told them of the death of the King, and of the decision made by the Northern lords to bend the knee to Joffrey in exchange for safe passage home. When he was done, the Greatjon's face was red and the Umber lord's hand was gripping the hilt of his massive greatsword so tightly his fingers were white.
"You killed him" the Greatjon growled, and Robett's gaze went without thinking to the big man's right hand, where two fingers had been violently torn off by Robb Stark's direwolf after the Greatjon drew steel on the boy in an attempt to test him. That test Stark had passed, and thereafter King Robb had had no follower more loyal than the Greatjon. "You betrayed your King, you killed him, and then you knelt to that boy in the Red Keep. A Southerner" he snarled, "and you all bent to kiss his boots."
Fearing this would come to blows, Robett's eyes whirled about him, taking in the situation. The Greatjon had two thousand with him, a fourth of which were Glover men. They at least, Robett could trust to fight for him. They however, were countered by another five hundred Mormonts, and after her sister and mother died fighting for King Robb, Glover doubted that the She-Bear would take his side. Then there were the mountain clansmen, fiercely loyal to House Stark. A thousand had come at the Greatjon's call, and hundreds more had returned home from the South. In total, around two thousand or so should it come to steel.
A glance to the rear, however, had Robett feeling far more confident, as he saw the weight of the returning Northmen at his back. Bolton, Cerwyn, Dustin, Ryswell, Manderly, Flint, Tallhart and yes, Glover, all had bent the knee to the Crown and pledged they would be loyal to Joffrey. None of them had any interest in continuing the war, all the men here just wanted to go home, and if Bear Island or the Last Hearth were fool enough to attack an army over five times their size, then the Northern lords would do what they must to defend themselves.
Until now Alysane Mormont had been standing silent, absorbing Robett's words but now she intervened. "What's done is done" barked the Lady of Bear Island, sensing that the situation could very well get ugly and knowing the numbers were not in her favor. She stared directly into the Greatjon's face, neither of them moving a muscle as the giant and bear fought for dominance. "What they did was foul, Umber, I won't deny that" she admitted, "but our King is dead, and sending thousands more to their deaths to avenge him won't bring him back to life."
Reaching up with a calloused paw, the She-Bear wiped a lone tear from her cheek, the only sign of her sorrow at her kin's death. Watching her, many found themselves admiring her control. The women of Bear Island were made of steel indeed! Setting her jaw, Alysane pointed up at the walls of Deepwood, where the Greyjoy banners still hung in place of Glover's. "Let's focus on what we came here to do."
Robett's hand moved away from his sword. "A fine idea." He turned to the Greatjon. "You've been here longer than I have, my lord. What are we up against?"
Lord Umber glowered a moment longer, before he released his death grip on his greatsword. "A shit show." Gesturing at the walls angrily, the Greatjon began pacing back and forth, almost unaware of it in his irritation. "We figure the Greyjoy bitch has around two hundred with her" he began. "I've got ten times that here, and rams, ladders and hooks aplenty. Truth is" his shoulders sank slightly in defeat, "we could have had that castle taken back for you moons ago but…"
"But the bitch has my family" finished Robett, wishing like nothing else that he had the wench in front of him so he could wrap his fingers around her throat. "And if we attack, she'll kill them."
An unusually solemn Umber nodded in response. Though he may still hate Glover for what he did, the man's wife and children were innocents, but more than that, they were of the North. And Jon wouldn't let a single Northerner suffer in the hands of those Ironborn scum. The problem was how to go about that.
Though many of the Northern lords favoured a quick strike at Deepwood, trusting in their overwhelming numbers to carry the day before the Ironborn could kill their hostages, Robett refused to risk his family's lives like that. He sent a rider to the castle gates, therefore, carrying a flag of parley. Everything he had heard of this woman had her as shrewd, and cold, but not cruel. Robett would trust that Greyjoy had the sense to save her men's lives, as well as her own.
An hour later, Robett was standing outside his own gate holding a flag of parley. With him was the Greatjon, as well as Alysane Mormont. They stood in silence for a few minutes, until the gates open and Robett got his first look at the woman who had taken his castle. She was pretty, he wouldn't deny that. Slim, dark-haired and clad in leather armor that hugged her tightly, he would have been attracted to her for certain had he not been a married man. An axe sat at her belt, with a dirk on her other hip. Considering the weapons he and the other Northern lords were bearing, Robett had no right to complain about that.
Greyjoy sauntered forward, hips swinging in her boiled leather, and stopped at the gate. "Lord Umber" she smirked, hand on her hip while she stared directly at the Greatjon. "Lady Mormont. Tired of camping outside my walls? I can promise you better lodgings, just as long as you surrender your weapons first of course."
"My walls" burst out Robett, unable to let that go.
"Your walls?" Greyjoy cocked her head, lips twitching as if this amused her. "And who might you be, my lord?"
"Robett Glover" the man in question replied through gritted teeth, "Master of Deepwood Motte".
"Ah yes" she smiled, "I believe your wife and children have mentioned your name many a time, claiming that'd you would return and see them free." Her smirk faded then, replaced by a steely stare. "Which, it seems, you have, so I owe your lady wife an apology. I told her to stop being a fool or I'd cut her throat."
Every inch of Robett's body screamed for him to draw his sword and charge for the gate at those words. The Ironborn bitch grinned, as if she were merely waiting for Robett to give her an excuse to have her men fill him full of arrows. Then the Greatjon's hand came down on his shoulder, and Robett shook himself from his rage, the red haze consuming his vision replaced with the familiar greens and browns of the Wolfswood. "If you've hurt them" he threatened at last, glaring at the bitch as if he could set her aflame.
"You'll what" she laughed, hand lightly brushing the pommel of her axe. "But fear not. I'm no fool, to damage my greatest shield for no gain." Dark eyes turned to pools of shadow as her gaze hardened. "Though rest assured, I can and will harm them if you attack the castle."
"Harm my family" Robett promised, eyes burning in his fury, "and nothing stops us slaying you all down to the last man."
"What is dead may never die" Greyjoy shrugged with a laugh. "And I'm a woman, if you're too blind to see it," she added, thrusting her chest out.
Before Robett could inflame an already tense situation any further, Alysane Mormont raised her voice. "Do you see that banner there, my lady" she asked, pointing with her arm back at the camp, where Roose Bolton waited along with the others, his House's sigil fluttering in the breeze above him.
"I see" Greyjoy answered, unsure of what the She-Bear wanted. "A red man. Is that supposed to mean something?"
A grim smile found its way across Alysane's lips as she let the squid know exactly who she was dealing with. "Not a red man. A flayed man. That's Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort." Against her will, Greyjoy flinched, and Alysane knew her spear had hit its mark. "I take it" she asked, not truly expecting an answer, "that you know of his House's reputation?" Lady Mormont gestured to the banner again. "What is dead may never die, but there are many ways of dying, and some are kinder than others."
Now Alysane was staring directly into Greyjoy's face, bear and kraken locking eyes with one another. "If we take Deepwood after you've killed Master Robett's wife and children" she promised, "you and all your men will be given to Lord Bolton to do with as he sees fit. He'll peel the skin from your bodies while you live and remove your eyelids so you can't look away." She shook her head briefly. "How long do you think he'll make it last? Ten days? Twenty? Mayhaps for your men, but you yourself, your dying will last moons, and you'll be in agony every second."
Alysane herself wasn't sure whether she could actually stand by and allow such cruelties, but her words were clearly convincing, as the Ironborn woman drew a slow breath. "And if we yield?" she called.
Alysane and the Greatjon glanced to Robett, who clenched his fists. He wanted nothing more than to have the bitch's head on a spike, along with all her men. But he knew that if he said that, she'd have no reason not to kill his family. Inhaling slowly, he gave his response.
"You and all your men, save those who have committed crimes against my House" Robett hollered back, "will be given safe passage through the Wolfswood to your ships. I swear on on the honour of House Glover."
Dark eyes narrowed in thought. "And what would qualify as a crime" the Turncloak's sister demanded. "Many of my men killed some of your guards taking this place, would you have them all executed for killing armed men in war. Men trying quite hard to kill them back?"
"No." Despite his anger, Robett still had his sense of justice. "As you said, it was war." He considered a moment. As much as he would dearly love to claim that rape was a crime, he knew the Ironborn custom of paying their 'Iron Price' for women too well, and knew how many would likely have already partaken of their 'spoils'. The bitch wouldn't leave if it meant having half her men beheaded. Even if she was inclined to accept, her own men would put a knife in her rather than yield on such terms.
"Any man who slew a man, woman or child not holding a weapon" Robett stated at last, "is a criminal and will face Northern justice for it."
Greyjoy nodded slowly. "Very few of my men committed such a crime, there's no glory, no fun" she complained, "in striking down defenceless foes. Those who were fool enough to do such a thing I've no qualms losing." There was a brief scuffle then, as one of the men who had accompanied her reached for his axe, only for her dirk to flick free of its scabbard and glide across his throat.
"Sorry about that" she chuckled, ignoring the blood still dripping from her blade as her crewman gasped out his last breaths on his knees, trying in vain to stem the flow from his wound. "As I was saying, I've no sympathy for those who did, and I have no fear of your justice. I killed none but those trying to slay me, and I was a fair mistress to your people." She tossed her head for a moment, her long black hair bouncing in the wind as she considered the offer.
"Lower the banners" she commanded one of her other crewmen, making her decision. "Open the gates, and bring Lady Glover and her children up from the cells." She glanced about the Wolfswood in disdain. "I've had enough of these green lands. We belong on the sea boys. It's time to go home!"
That last came with a raised voice, and her men cheered, having had more than enough of these trees. Death they feared not, as men of salt and iron, but it would be better to die as an Ironborn, with the scent of salt in your nostrils and waves splashing against your hull, instead of a Greenlander, fighting off an endless tide of men climbing up the walls. Not to mention, the bear Lady's quite persuasive threat of flaying them all alive. No man wanted to die like that, being skinned alive as you screamed wasn't the kind of death remembered in a reaving song.
Deepwood's gates soon opened, and Robett watched, heart in his throat as a steady line of armed Ironborn began making their way out of his castle. The gathered Northmen jeered and cursed them, but stern commands from their lords had their weapons kept sheathed. For their own part, the Ironborn had no desire to remain in the North any longer than necessary and were already moving back towards the coast as swiftly as possible. Greyjoy herself came last, leading a horse she had clearly taken from the stables, something that had Robett raise a pointed eyebrow, before her theft was forgotten in favour of something far more important.
A dishevelled Lady Sybelle Glover raced out the gates and threw herself into her husband's arms, her young son Gawen soon following. As tears ran down Robett's face, the Master of Deepwood Motte embracing his wife and child for the first time in moons, Greyjoy cleared her throat and Robett released Sybelle, turning to see the Ironborn woman offering him a small bundle with the same care that she would have taken were she handing him spun crystal.
Taking it from her with a gentle hand, Robett pulled the blankets back to be greeted with his daughter's happy gurgling as young Elena Glover realised her father had returned. His face twisted with rage at the thought of an Ironborn touching his daughter, only for Sybelle to place a gentle hand on her husband's arm checking his rage. "I couldn't wait to hold you again" she wept, still unable to believe she was truly staring at her husband after so long apart. "She offered to bring Elena for me. She's treated us well, Robett."
Against his will, Robett offered an almost invisible nod to the Greyjoy woman in gratitude for her treatment of his kin, which the Ironborn flicked aside with a gesture. "I did nothing to warrant thanks" she dismissed, before turning to Sybelle, "harming you would have brought me nothing but the wrath of every servant in that castle. Now" she turned and snapped her fingers. The last ten of her men exited the castle two by two, each pair dragging between them an Ironborn with empty scabbards whose hands were bound in front of him.
"These are your criminals" she announced to Robett, as if presenting him with a gift. "Five more chose to die fighting, and two more are still dying now. Are we done here?"
Robett snorted, now just tired of this whole business. "Go" he jerked his head to the young woman, who mounted her stolen horse with a smirk, Robett no longer having the patience to pursue her for the theft; bowed her head in a mocking farewell and then set off through the Wolfswood to catch up with her men. In their wake, Robett was left with five bound Ironborn at his feet and a nearly empty castle behind him, gates still open. His first business was to see to the scum who had killed his people, and five swings later his sword was bloody and the squid were less their heads. With that done, he offered the hospitality of Deepwood Motte to his fellow Northern lords, before setting foot in his home for the first time in nearly two years.
Barely had the servants brought food and ale to the lords gathered in Robett's Great Hall before the Greatjon demanded to know their next move. Many wanted to march on Winterfell immediately, to save the Stark boys, but just as many others cared for nothing any longer but home. After nearly an hour of arguing, they finally decided upon a plan. The Lords Robin Flint, Harwood Stout and Rodrik Ryswell would take their forces south, to retake Moat Cailin and then bring their men home. Meanwhile, those who had lands on the eastern shore of the North; the Boltons, Flints of Widow's Watch, Karstarks and Manderlys, would move on Winterfell and aid Ser Rodrik in retaking the castle along the way home.
Robett himself would remain here, as would his men. Greyjoy may have done little damage to the castle and lands during the moons of her occupation, but she had lacked the men to work the lands even if she did know how, which Robett doubted. The Ironborn, after all, did not sow. The Cerwyn and Tallhart men as well, would not be joining the march to Winterfell. Their homes were near, and it was faster for them to march directly home from Deepwood Motte.
As for the clansmen, they too were taking their leave. Their mountains beckoned, and they had no skill in laying sieges. The Greatjon had called them because he needed men, and now the Northern lords had more than sufficient numbers to take Winterfell. Saying their farewells, the clan chieftains led their men east through the Wolfswood, towards the edge of the mountains. With the Northern army preparing to march tomorrow, a rider was sent to Ser Rodrik, informing him of the recapture of Deepwood Motte. They refrained from mentioning the King's death as of yet, as Ser Rodrik was owed that news in person, but the old castellan should know of the imminent arrival of his reinforcements.
Sitting alone in his tent, Ramsay Snow, bastard son of Lord Roose Bolton of the Dreadfort, knew the time had come. When he had first received his father's raven, he had scoffed in disbelief at what Lord Bolton wanted. Then, he read it again, checking the numbers and being sure to read every scroll, for it had taken a great many birds to bring this missive. Usually if his father gave a command, Ramsay would treat it with disdain at best, but this was different.
Lord Bolton had been clear as crystal in his instructions, leaving no room for interpretation he had spelt out what Ramsay was to do in great detail, as well as what the consequences would be should his son be fool enough to defy him. To sweeten the hard words he threw at his son, Roose ended by stating that should Ramsay successfully serve their family in this matter, Roose would do all he could to see him made a Bolton in truth, as well as blood. Of all the wealth, gold and women in the world, Ramsay wanted nothing so much as to be accepted as his father's true son, to be named Lord of the Dreadfort, and the cunning Roose knew that.
Obeying his father's directions therefore, Ramsay sought out Roger Ryswell, commander of the Ryswell and Dustin forces gathered at Winterfell, and showed him the message. The Dreadfort had long been allies with Barrowton and the Rills ever since Lord Roose took Bethany Ryswell, Lady Barbrey's sister, to wife; and though Ryswell blanched at what Lord Bolton was asking him to do, he eventually came to see it was for the good of the North. Lord Bolton had promised rich payments to House Ryswell, including the now vacant lands of the Hornwood for one of Lord Rodrik's younger sons. A reluctant Roger promised that his men would stand ready, and for two weeks afterwards Ramsay had been on edge, waiting for the right moment.
But now, as the men camped around Winterfell cheered the news that a massive army would soon be there to aid them, Ramsay knew he had to act. His preparations had been made weeks ago, but there was still one step left. Under the guise of a celebration, he joined Ser Rodrik in his command tent along with the other lords and commanders there. Cley Cerwyn, heir to Castle Cerwyn, still a boy of fifteen. Leobald Tallhart, castellan of Torrhen's Square in his brother's absence. And the old knight himself, Rodrik Cassel, hair and beard white as the snow. He despised Ramsay, believing him a cruel bastard, and Ramsay had equal contempt for the old castellan following his failure to defend Winterfell. Had it been the Dreadfort Cassel had been charged with defending, Ramsay would have had the old man's head for that.
Even now as he entered, the old man pursed his lips as if he had bitten into a sour lemon, bowing his head somewhat reluctantly in deference to Ramsay's position. His personal feelings aside, Ramsay had command of five hundred men, and Ser Rodrik couldn't afford to vex him, lest he watch a tenth of his army disappear. "Lord Snow" he greeted Ramsay at last.
"Ser Rodrik" the Bolton bastard smiled in return. Before Ramsay could speak, an excited Cley Cerwyn was upon him.
"Have you heard the news, Lord Snow? Our King has returned! Now we'll see those iron bastards back to their islands in no time!" Cley's hand shot to his mouth then, realising what he had just said. "I mean no offence, Lord Ramsay!"
Though he bristled at being reminded of his low status, Ramsay kept a smile on his face regardless, the plan too important to risk endangering its success over mere words. "None taken, Lord Cley" he assured the boy, gesturing for a servant to bring wine. "I say such good news deserves a toast! Let us drink, my lords, to the King's return, and to seeing the North free of those Ironborn scum!"
"Here, here!" echoed Leobald Tallhart, already filling his own cup and with a sigh Ser Rodrik agreed. Standing by the casks and handing out filled cups one by one, Ramsay waited until Cley Cerwyn had Ser Rodrik engaged in conversation before he allowed a tiny package to fall out of his sleeve into Ser Rodrik's wine. The wrapping dissolved instantly, as did the powder within, and Ramsay knew that the strong taste of the Dornish red would hide any sign of the extra addition.
Without any sign that anything was amiss, he passed the Stark castellan his glass and then stood to make the toast, smiling internally as he watched the old knight down his with a gulp. Drinking his own wine absently, Ramsay excused himself for a moment and left the tent under the excuse of needing the privy. Once outside, he found the man he had placed in charge of the next stage of the plan and gave him the order to proceed, before returning to the command tent with a smile.
While Ramsay drank, japed and made merry with the lords, events that would shape the North for years to come were set into motion. A small force of carefully selected men, garbed in the boiled leather and iron helms of Greyjoy men, moved carefully up to the walls of Winterfell in the hour of the wolf. Trusting to the blackness of night to shield them from watchful eyes on the walls, they carried grappling irons with long ropes attacked and with one man watching carefully, whirled the hooks around before letting fly. It was a difficult task, Winterfell's walls were over fifty feet high and most men could not throw a grappling iron that high, but after a few attempts they managed to get hooks onto the walls.
For moments they waited for shouts of alarm, cautious in case the sound of a hook striking stone had alerted a nearby guard, but no shouts came from the castle and no alarms were sounded. Gesturing, the Bolton man in charge of the raid pulled a length of cloth from his pocket and stuffed it into his mouth, watching as his men did the same. When every mouth was stopped with rags or wool, he nodded in satisfaction before taking hold of a rope. This would be a dangerous climb, and should any man fall, his screams would betray the others to those inside Winterfell within seconds. Given the immense rewards Lord Ramsay had promised to those who took part in this mission, no man here wanted to fail.
With painstaking care the climbers made their way up the walls of Winterfell, stopping at the top of the outer wall. Most men would have simply continued down the other side, but that would be folly. While the outer wall may be near impossible to latch onto with a grappling iron, the inner wall, with its height set at a massive one hundred feet, was flat out impossible. No man could throw a hook that high. The Boltons had planned for this, however, and each man was carrying a second hook with him, along with a hundred feet of rope. The inner and outer walls were separated by a wide moat, making the distance between them thirty feet, meaning the gap was far too great for any man to jump.
Jumping however, wasn't their intention, and while five men made their way along the top of the wall towards the gatehouse, the others gazed up at the top of the inner wall. Unslinging their second hooks, the men unwound their ropes and chose their targets carefully before throwing the grapples upwards. Twenty feet taller than the outer wall, the battlements of the inner wall presented a difficult target, but nothing compared to the challenge it would have been to hurl a hook a hundred feet straight up. Tugging the ropes firmly to ensure the hooks were caught, the climbers hurled the ropes over the edge of the wall. They then paused a moment to catch their breaths, before pulling their first ropes up over the edge and dropping them over the inside of the wall.
Taking a deep breath to steel himself, the leader swung his body over the edge and loosened his grip on the rope, allowing the cordage to move through his gloves as he slid down. Risking a glance to the side, he could see his men doing the same although one misjudged the speed of his slide and lost his grip, falling away into the night, his muffled screams fading almost instantly. The gods were with the Boltons, in that his body caught hit the water of the moat feet first, resulting in much less of a splash than if he had fallen on his belly or back. Still, the water rose up and the men froze, pressing their backs against the wall for fear of being seen. A torch flickered on the top of the inner wall as a guard idly glanced over, before it faded away as he turned again, having seen nothing. Clinging to their ropes, the remaining men breathed low sighs of relief.
They waited a few minutes more, just in case his fall had drawn attention, before resuming their descent. When they reached the bottom, the men dropped near silently into the dark, cold waters of the moat before swimming over to the other side. Struggling to stay afloat in the icy waters, they grabbed in the dark for their dangling ropes before heaving themselves out of the water and starting up the inner wall. Nearing the top, the leader drew his dagger with one hand, placing the blade between his teeth before he resumed his ascent. Glancing carefully up as he approached the top, he pulled himself up in one motion, dagger already slashing out in case someone was waiting.
His strike met only air however, and the man cursed himself for his haste. The hour of the wolf was past by the time the Bolton men gained the top of the inner wall, and dawn was fast approaching. The commander gestured to the stairs leading to the yard, and most of his men began their way down, knives held ready in case they should come across any unwelcoming eyes along the way. That proved a wise precaution, as they were forced to silence two more Ironborn before they gained the yard. Glancing about the courtyard, the commander gestured towards the stables, choosing it almost immediately as the best place to hide his men. At his whispered command, his men concealed themselves within stalls, covered themselves with hay and waited.
Three hours before dawn, the Northern lords at last departed for their own beds, many too drunk to stand. Ramsay himself had rigidly controlled his drinking, and still retained his wits about him. For two hours he waited, ensuring that the camp was indeed asleep, before he made his move. Striking flame to a torch, he raised it over his head and quickly waved it back and forth three times. That done, he thrust it into the snow, extinguishing it in a heartbeat and moved away lest any of the camp sentries think to come looking for the source of the flame.
Without warning, the gates of Winterfell crashed open. The drawbridge dropped down and out of the castle charged a party of mounted men, armed to the teeth with burning torches in hand. Alerted by the screams, Ser Rodrik woke and grabbed for his sword, but he was too late to stop the attack as the Ironborn swept into the camp, striking down men too slow to retrieve their weapons or too hasty to bother donning their ringmail.
Knowing that he had to gather men so he could form some form of defence, Ser Rodrik left his tent only to be met with the Bolton bastard, fully armoured despite having just been woken and with naked steel in his fist. Immediately, the experienced old knight knew he had been betrayed and lashed out, but his reflexes were slowed and the younger Ramsay easily avoided his attacks, ducking under a cut and plunging his steel into Ser Rodrik's chest.
As Winterfell's castellan, loyal to the last, lay in a steadily growing pool of his own blood, the Northern camp was in chaos. Ironborn were everywhere, having infiltrated the camp during the night, and though they were fewer in number, they had the advantage. The sun had not yet risen and the Northmen, only just now woken from their beds, were struggling to see in the dark, a problem not shared by the attackers, who had been awake for hours and had lit no torches to preserve their night vision. They also had the advantage of being fully armored, unlike many of the Northmen, fighting while still in their nightshirts.
The sound of hooves pounding against the ground heralded the approach of a force of charging cavalry, and the Stark loyalists rejoiced at their salvation as Ryswell cavalry swept through the camp, Ironborn falling like weeds before them. Not breaking their charge, the men of the Rills continued despite men screaming for them to stop and smashed through the Northern lines like a hammer.
With Ser Rodrik dead already and the other lords slain by Ironborn assassins in their tents, the sheer shock of the cavalrymen crashing through them was the last straw and Ser Rodrik's army broke; Karstarks, Manderlys, Cerwyns, Flints and countless others taking to their heels and fleeing for their homes, anything to get away from this killing field. Few men had died as of yet, but without their lords the men were leaderless and had no one to command them to stay.
Theon Greyjoy, Prince of Winterfell, had no idea what was happening inside his castle. He had been woken just before dawn, by one of his men who shook him awake violently, spouting something about the gates being opened. Theon would have struck the man for his foolishness, but when he came out to the yard after hastily dressing himself, he did indeed see the gates open. Not the Hunter's Gate or the smaller East Gate either, but the great gates. With five thousand men just waiting for an opportunity like this, opening the gates was not just folly, it was pure suicide and Theon meant to deal with the idiots responsible personally.
Still buckling on his sword, he made for the battlements only to stop halfway up the stairs, as he saw Red Rolfe lying there in a dark pool that matched his name, throat cut to the bone. Hastening his pace, Theon all but ran towards the gatehouse. There he found the doors locked and barred, with Black Lorren pounding on them in vain with a warhammer. The reaver turned at the sound of Theon's footsteps, raising his hammer only to let it fall to his side when he saw Theon's face.
"No good" he stated flatly, not taking the time for the princely title Theon demanded, and at this moment Theon had other things to worry about. "You'd need a battering ram to break through that."
"We have to close the gates" Theon insisted. "Ser Rodrik won't let this chance go by…" He trailed off as the sounds of faint fighting echoed out from the army encamped in front of Winterfell. Squinting, he struggled to make out details in the night but from this high up even a torch couldn't pierce the blackness. With way of seeing what was going on down there, Theon had no idea who was fighting, which side was winning, and whether or not they were friend or foe, but he did know one thing for certain. The gates were still open, and there were thousands of Northmen down there, easily more than enough to storm the castle if they could breach the defences, and now they could.
Grasping Black Lorren's shoulder, Theon gave his orders quickly, trying to stay as calm as possible, well aware that any respect the experienced reaver had for him would be lost if he acted like a green boy unsure of himself. "Get every man you can find and guard that drawbridge" he commanded, not waiting for an answer as he turned and fairly ran for the Great Keep, aware that only one thing could save him now. On the way he passed Ulf the Ill, and gestured for the man to follow him, in need of a second pair of hands.
Racing through the halls, fairly shoving servants out of his way, Theon stopped outside the door to Rickon's room, gesturing for Ulf to take Bran's chambers, before he burst into Rickon's room. The young lordling was still asleep, covers tucked up peacefully under his chin, though he woke quickly enough when Theon shook him.
"Theon" the boy asked, still drowsy from sleep. "Is it time to go talk to Ser Rodrik again?"
"Not quite" Theon replied grimly, drawing his dagger and though Rickon kicked and screamed, he calmed down long enough when the knife was held at his neck to allow Theon to bind his hands in front of him. Dragging the young Stark by the rope, Theon hustled him towards the courtyard, Ulf joining him after a moment, Bran held firmly in both hands, an axe steadily resting on the edge of the cripple's neck.
Passing a window, Theon nearly wept as he saw that he was too late. Riders were crossing the drawbridge, armoured men in crimson plate bearing the flayed man of the Dreadfort, who effortlessly struck down Black Lorren when he raised his axe in defiance. Curiously, one of them then slew a servant who had emerged from hiding to cheer his saviours. Already the Dreadfort men were making for the doors of the Great Keep, and Theon quickened his pace, determined to meet them in the Great Hall. He barely had time to sit himself on the high seat of the Starks, where Kings of Winter had sat for thousands of years, before the doors of the Keep crashed open.
Using every ounce of control he had, Theon greeted the intruders as he had seen Eddard Stark greet guests, acting as if the men attacking his castle were nothing more than visitors. "My lord" he addressed the leader, a man whose helm was fashioned into the shape of a screaming, skinless man. With such fine armor, he must be a noble, and there were only two members of House Bolton. Lord Roose was in the south warring with Robb, so it must be his bastard son. "What brings you to my castle?"
Reaching up, Snow pulled off his helm. "Cut the shit Greyjoy" he sighed, sounding almost exhausted by Theon's attempt. "You know damn well why we're here." Ramsay gestured to Rickon, still squirming in Theon's lap despite the dagger held at his throat. "Give us the Stark boys and you'll die cleanly." He stepped forward, and Theon gestured to Ulf, who grabbed Bran's hair, dragging the boy's head upright.
"One step further" he warned, axe blade pressing into Bran's skin just hard enough to leave a faint scarlet line, "and I kill the brat."
His face made it clear he was not bluffing, and yet Ramsay seemed almost amused by this, sliding a thin dagger from a sheath at his belt. "As if you have the stomach, Greyjoy" he scoffed, taking another step forward. What happened next was something Theon really should have seen coming. Whatever Ulf's faults, the man was neither a craven, nor a liar. Theon watched in horror as Ulf hurled Bran to the ground, but before he could open his mouth to stop him, the fool grasped his axe with both hands and smashed it into the back of the boy's head, killing him in an instant.
As the blood and brains of Eddard Stark's second son spilled across the floor of his hall, the boy's body collapsing to the ground, Theon froze in place. This couldn't be happening, he hadn't meant for Ulf to actually kill Bran, now the Northmen would show no mercy. Before he could think to use Rickon as a last, desperate shield, Snow hurled his dagger and Theon howled as the blade pinned his hand to the ancient oaken chair. Still stunned by Bran's death as well as slowed by the pain, he was unable to stop Rickon as the boy ducked under his arm and ran for the safety of the Bolton men.
As if he hadn't just wounded Theon in front of him, Snow ruffled the boy's hair and gestured for his men to escort Rickon to safety. Once the boy was gone and the doors closed, the kindly smile melted away from Snow's features like wax and the bastard drew his sword. Struggling wildly, Theon managed to tear his arm free and pulled his own blade, though the contest was brief indeed. Snow was older, taller, stronger, protected by plate instead of mail and had the added advantage of not having a painful wound on his sword arm hindering his skills.
Within moments, Theon's sword had spun away across the floor and he was backed up against the high seat, Snow's blade pointed at his neck. He opened his mouth to plead for his life, or perhaps to remind Lord Bolton's bastard that his father was King of the Iron Islands, and would pay a hefty ransom for Theon's safe return, but before he could the sword flashed forward and suddenly Theon felt it hard to breathe. Looking down, he saw the hilt jutting from his chest and realised that Snow had stabbed him.
Mouth open in disbelief, he collapsed to the ground and felt an armoured boot press into his ribs as the sword was pulled free, the steel dripping with his blood as it emerged. Gasping for breath, Theon clawed forward, reaching for his sword, for Maester Luwin, for help, for anything, but he found only empty air. As his life's blood spilled onto the ground he managed one last desperate breath before the darkness closed in and then Theon Greyjoy, one-time ward to Lord Eddard Stark, heir to the Iron Islands and Prince of Winterfell, died.
It took five days for the Bolton, Karstark, Manderly and Flint host to reach Winterfell, but they were still more than a day's march out when they saw smoke rising from the direction of the castle. In dismay Lord Harrion dispatched his fastest riders, who returned hours later to report that Winterfell was in ruins, and Ser Rodrik's camp in disarray. The furious lords hastened their pace, pushing their men through the night and every man in the army was just about ready to fall over by the time they sighted Winterfell the next day.
To Harrion's fury, his scouts had spoken true. Winterfell had been put to the torch, with large parts of the castle blackened and burned, and the camp outside the castle's gates showed signs of a battle having been fought there recently. Instructing his men to make camp, Harrion rode forward, along with Lord Bolton and Ser Wylis, to discover the truth of things for himself. He narrowed his eyes when he saw the rear section of the camp, where the Bolton, Dustin and Ryswell banners flew, almost entirely untouched by the fighting. Their approach had clearly not gone unnoticed, as an armoured man rode forth, his banner bearing the flayed man of House Bolton. When he removed his helm Harrion did not know his face, yet from his words, Lord Roose evidently did. "Ramsay." Despite the situation, the Lord of the Dreadfort remained emotionless. "What happened here?" he gestured at the ruined castle.
"Father" the man replied and then Harrion knew the man's name. This was Ramsay Snow, Lord Bolton's bastard son. "My lords" the bastard added. He shook his head in sorrow, glancing back over his shoulder at the ruins of Winterfell. "What happened is those fucking Ironborn don't know how to lose."
"What?" Harrion demanded, unable to believe his ears! "Talk sense, man!"
Heaving a long sigh, Snow paused a moment, as if deciding how best to deliver the grim news. "The Turncloak found out that you'd retaken Deepwood Motte, and he knew he was finished." Ramsay gestured to the space in front of Winterfell. "He called for parley, and the castellan, Ser Rodrik, went to meet him, only for the Turncloak to cut his throat under the guise of asking for surrender terms."
"They dare spill blood during a parley" roared Ser Wylis Manderly, the ends of the fat man's moustache standing up in his rage. "Are there no ends these godless bastards won't stoop to?"
"I wish I knew" Ramsay shook his head, holding up his hands to show his own helplessness in this matter. "But once Ser Rodrik was dead, our army went into chaos and Greyjoy took the chance to attack. His attack killed hundreds, including Leobald Tallhart, and once Cley Cerwyn fell, half the men scattered. I managed to rally the rest though" he said with modesty, "my own Dreadfort men, as well as forces from Barrowton and the Rills, some three thousand all together and we drove the scum back into Winterfell. They tried to close the gates, but we were too quick, and our cavalry gained the yard."
"Go on" Harrion urged, eyes fixed upon Ramsay as Lord Bolton's only son continued to spin his tale.
"With our men inside the walls, the Turncloak knew he was lost, and like most spoiled children, he decided that if he could not have Winterfell, no one would." Ramsay snorted at the thought of Greyjoy's foolishness, as did the others. "His men began slaughtering the castle's inhabitants and then put it to the torch. As for the Turncloak himself, he decided to kill the Stark boys personally. We were too late to save Prince Brandon" he mourned, regret clear in his voice for all to see. "My men burst in to see Greyjoy seated on the high seat, dagger held to Prince Rickon's throat while his brother's body still bled out on the floor."
Harrion Karstark sneered, refusing to believe a word this bastard might tell him. Not only was he a bastard, creatures given to lies and deceit, but he was a Bolton bastard, and anyone with sense in their head knew not to trust a man wearing the flayed man as far as you could throw him. "A pretty story" he scoffed, disbelief written all over his features, "but why should we believe you? Seems strange that you and your allies should escape unharmed while Ser Rodrik and all those loyal to House Stark are killed. I'd say it's more likely that you turned on Ser Rodrik and then sacked Winterfell after the Ironborn opened the gates for you!"
"And why would I do that" dismissed Ramsay, gesturing for one of his men to bring forward a small figure huddled under a fur cloak. "If I betrayed the Starks as you say, then why would I bother to save him?"
The cloak was lifted away, and Harrion gasped as he set eyes upon Rickon Stark for the first time since he had left Winterfell, marching south to free Lord Eddard back when this whole mess started. "Lord Rickon! But, how? You said…"
"That the Turncloak killed his brother?" Ramsay smiled. "I did, and that was true, but I managed to cut the traitor squid down before he could do the same to Prince Rickon."
Almost unable to believe his eyes, Ser Wylis bent down next to Rickon. "Are you harmed, my lord?"
At once, the boy shook his head, eyes still red from crying. "No, they saved me before Theon could kill me. He killed Bran, and Shaggy too!" His lip wobbled, but the young Stark manfully held back his tears. "I could hear him howling in the fires, Summer too."
This had the lords stumped for a moment, before they deduced that 'Shaggy' must have been the boy's direwolf, and Summer his brother's.
"You've done well" Bolton praised his son, glancing over at the young boy kneeling on the ground.
"Indeed" agreed Ser Wylis. "The whole North owes you a debt for this, Ramsay Snow, you've saved our Lord!"
While Manderly and Karstark began to fuss over the recovered Stark boy, Roose turned to Ramsay and gave him a short, simple nod, acknowledging everything he had done. His son had followed the plan perfectly, and Roose meant to fulfil his half of the bargain. Before that could be done though, there was other business that must be attended to first. The Ironborn scum still held Moat Cailin, and the fortress must be retaken if the North was to be free once more. Then there was the matter of sending his men back to their homes so they could get back to the harvests before winter came, and of course that brat on the Iron Throne had to be informed of the massive happenings which had just shaken one of his Seven Kingdoms.