The weather in the North had been fickle lately — clear skies one moment, a sudden snowfall the next. Thankfully, it hadn't yet affected the crops; otherwise, for Winterfell, it would've been disaster upon disaster.
At this moment, Ser Rodrik Cassel was pacing anxiously back and forth in the council chamber, while Maester Luwin tried to soothe the downcast Stark brothers. The Stark family was now on the brink of collapse.
Since the Red Wedding, most of the great Northern houses had been slaughtered by the Freys. Those near the Sunset Sea suffered the most—though their castles still stood, their villages had been brutally raided by the Ironborn. Fortunately, after Balon Greyjoy's death, most of the Ironborn had withdrawn.
Even Moat Cailin had been retaken by the crannogmen. Rodrik had heard from some captured Ironborn that the crannogmen used magic to defeat them—though he didn't believe a word of it.
Meanwhile, the 3,000-strong mountain clansmen who had broken the siege at Deepwood Motte were now stationed at Winterfell. Yet the crisis before Rodrik was worse than ever.
That morning, three raven messages had arrived at Winterfell.
The first came from Last Hearth—House Umber claimed they were under attack by forces of the Valyrian Empire and requested immediate aid from Winterfell.
The second was from House Bolton. They declared their allegiance to the Iron Throne. The Throne, they said, had branded House Stark traitors, proclaiming the Boltons as the true Wardens of the North and rightful Lords of Winterfell. Houses Ryswell, Dustin, and Karstark had already sworn fealty to them.
The third was from House Manderly. Lord Wyman Manderly announced his full support for House Stark's rebellion against the Iron Throne and proposed to crown Bran Stark as the new King in the North.
However, he insisted that Bran and Rickon must leave Winterfell for White Harbor, claiming his family didn't have the strength to hold the castle — and that reliable intelligence indicated the Boltons, with the backing of Houses Ryswell, Dustin, and Frey, had raised an army of over ten thousand men, now marching straight for Winterfell.
"Ser Rodrik! What should we do now?"
Bran Stark asked, forcing himself to stay calm. He was no longer a child—he had to shoulder his family's burden. Rickon was only four and knew nothing of such matters, so Bran had no choice but to act grown.
"Lord Bran," Rodrik said solemnly, "I have no good solution. If all else fails, we'll have to seek the Manderlys' protection. But the times are chaotic—if they were to hand us over to the Iron Throne, it would be disastrous. Still, rest assured: I swear, by the Seven, I will guard you and Lord Rickon as I once guarded Lord Eddard and Robb!"
Rodrik spoke firmly, though his heart wavered. The Manderlys had long been loyal to House Stark, yet they were never the most trustworthy of allies.
These lords from the green lands to the south had an almost sickly obsession with wealth and territory. When Robb marched south, the Manderlys had only sent a younger son with two thousand men, claiming they had to defend White Harbor from pirates.
Suddenly, the great bell of the tower rang out. Outside, shouts of battle echoed. A guard burst into the chamber, shouting in panic:
"My lords! The Hunter's Gate has been breached! The enemy is inside the walls! We're organizing a counterattack, but you must hurry—there's no holding Winterfell!"
Rodrik's face hardened."What happened? I ordered every gate sealed except the South Gate! How did they get in? What about the garrison in Wintertown?"
"I don't know, ser! The enemy is setting fires everywhere—I saw the flayed man and the twin towers on their banners! Wintertown's burning fiercely! What should we do now?"
The guard, overwhelmed by Rodrik's questions, could only stammer out what he knew.
The three thousand mountain clan warriors stationed in Wintertown had been scattered by fire and enemy cavalry before they could rally. Morale among the defenders plummeted.
As the sounds of steel drew nearer, Rodrik made a decisive choice—they would break out.
In the narrow corridors of the keep, the fighting was brutal. The enemy's hand crossbows were coated with poison; those hit either convulsed in agony or died before striking back. The defenders fell one after another.
Rodrik gathered the surviving guards and serving women. They would all escape together.After they crossed the hallways, Rodrik ordered the armory set ablaze.
Wildling spearwife Osha carried Rickon in her arms, while Hodor—now called Willis—lifted Bran. Willis and Osha had married not long ago. Osha used to tease that she wanted to "taste a castle guard" and had long fancied the strongest man in Winterfell. She proudly claimed she'd "stolen" him for herself.
As they reached the godswood, five Bolton assassins appeared from the shadows. Willis charged first, swinging his longsword with terrifying strength—three assassins fell before they could even react.
The armor he wore had been chosen specially by Bran. As the Stark children's lifelong companion, Willis was the only servant in full plate. His immense size and strength had earned him the nickname "The Giant." Except for Osha, no one called him "Hodor" anymore.
Rodrik and Osha swiftly dispatched the remaining two assassins. Together they fled through the glass gardens of the godswood toward the northern gate.
But when Rodrik saw the gate eerily quiet, a chill stabbed through his heart—danger.
Flames suddenly flared along the walls. Scores of Bolton soldiers emerged from the shadows.At their head stood a familiar face — Karbo, a brutal drillmaster from Skagos Isle, now serving the Boltons.
"Well, well. Didn't expect to catch such fat fish tonight!" Karbo laughed. "Lord Roose will reward me handsomely for this. Locke, they're yours. Bring me their heads, and I'll make sure you're knighted."
The thin, sharp-eyed man beside him—Locke—smirked, drawing his sword. He raised his torch high, signaling his archers.
A storm of arrows aimed straight at Rodrik's group.
At dawn the next day, outside Winterfell's South Gate—
The Bolton army and its allies were cleaning the battlefield. The mountain clan warriors of Wintertown had been annihilated—those not burned were cut down or fled into the woods.
"What did you say?!" Roose Bolton snapped from horseback, glaring down at the bloodied Karbo. "A Valyrian sent his men to rescue the Stark brats? How could you let that happen? How did someone sneak so close without you even noticing!"
Roose had secretly summoned his elite "Bloody Hands" unit from the Dreadfort, along with mercenaries from Essos, to launch this surprise attack on Winterfell.
Yet now, the last two living Stark boys had escaped.
Though Roose now commanded the allegiance of many Northern houses and a host of over ten thousand men, he knew well—many smaller families still secretly dreamed of the Starks' return.
If the last trueborn Starks were killed, then the Boltons could finally rule the North without challenge. Tywin Lannister had his own plans, but Roose no longer feared him.
Back in the Riverlands, he might have bowed to the Lannisters' might. But here, in the North, this was his domain.
He had already sent his two sons back to the Dreadfort. His next goal was clear—crush the rebellion at White Harbor with overwhelming force, unite all Northern power, and stand against the Valyrian invader known as Marco.
He hadn't always dared to dream this big—but his mysterious benefactors had promised him support and gold. That gave him confidence. With that backing, he believed he could seize the North entirely, resurrecting the Bolton family's glory.
Robb Stark's mistakes had left many lords bitter. That discontent was the very soil in which Bolton ambition grew.
At that moment, his aging father-in-law, Meryn Frey, turned to him.
"Roose, we should regroup the troops now and reorganize Winterfell's defenses. I've heard from survivors fleeing Last Hearth—they say the enemy has two dragons!"
"My dear Lord Meryn," Roose replied coldly, "there's no need to worry. Those dragons are still small. And I have… special weapons prepared just for them."
House Frey had sent many kin north after allying with the Boltons. Meryn had even sold most of his family's holdings to raise soldiers for his son-in-law.
In return, he sought a future fiefdom for his descendants once the Boltons secured the North.
When the Boltons rose, certain houses would fall—and that would be the Freys' chance to ascend. Though most Freys despised the frigid North, Meryn saw opportunity: its bread was still fresh, and its girls, just as fair.
The fire the night before had caused little real damage. Half of Wintertown had burned, but Roose didn't care. He forced the surviving mountain clan captives to rebuild the castle.
Those who disobeyed had been flayed alive—their pink corpses hung upon the walls beside the Bolton banners, a warning to any who might think of rebellion.
Though the armory had burned, Roose had already hauled in new weapons from the Dreadfort—along with his "secret weapon."
White Harbor, Mouth of the White Knife River
White Harbor lay northwest of the Neck and southeast of Winterfell, at the mouth of the White Knife—the largest river in the North. Though the smallest of the Five Great Cities of Westeros, its population rivaled that of Winterfell and the Dreadfort combined.
It was rich in silver mines, teeming with trade, and blessed with a harbor that never froze. Under House Manderly's rule, it had become the North's greatest and most prosperous city.
Now, in the great hall of House Manderly, nearly every noble from the western bank of the White Knife had gathered: the Howes of Hornwood, the Lockes of Oldcastle, the Flints of Widow's Watch, the Woolfields of Longbow Hall, the Welleses of Weirwood Keep, and the Ashwoods of Wolf Hall.
These were all mid-sized houses with deep ties to the Manderlys.
Lord Wyman Manderly slammed the table, drawing every gaze toward him.
"My lords! House Stark's rule teeters on the edge of ruin. I have received word—Winterfell has fallen to the Bolton traitors. The Umbers have been attacked by that Valyrian army, and Last Hearth is likely lost.
The Boltons seem intent on marching south toward us. Therefore, I propose this: all houses should withdraw their forces, relocate the common folk, and build twin lines of defense—one here in White Harbor, and another at Hornwood. The two strongholds can support each other.
Meanwhile, my fleet will sail up the White Knife, raiding their supply lines and harassing their rear!"
At that, Lord Olric Locke of Oldcastle banged his fist on the table.
"The Boltons and Freys murdered my heir! I'll never forgive them. I swear before you all—whoever brings me the heads of three Boltons will have my daughter, Shanna Locke, for a wife—and the inheritance of Oldcastle itself!"
The hall buzzed with excitement. The Lockes' wealth from silver mines and fishing made them one of the richest coastal families. To inherit Oldcastle was to gain power, wealth, and prestige beyond measure—temptation enough to drive every second son and bastard mad with ambition.
Then, a guard burst into the chamber, clutching a raven scroll. He rushed to Lord Wyman and handed it over.
Wyman's face darkened as he read. Then he looked up grimly.
"Hornwood has fallen. The enemy… anticipated our plan."