Beneath the ancient, gnarled branches of the Weirwood tree, Lord Eddard Stark and his wife, Catelyn, found a fleeting moment of solitude. The haunting face of the Weirwood seemed to gaze intently at them, its blood-red sap trickling down like ancient tears. The setting was both beautiful and eerie, with the rustling leaves whispering secrets carried by the winds from days long past.
"You cannot go to King's Landing, Ned," Catelyn began, her voice soft yet insistent, heavy with concern. "I know Robert is like a brother to you, but I fear for you... You would have to leave us."
Ned turned to face her, his gray eyes searching hers, filled with a blend of determination and uncertainty. "And what would you have me do, Cat? Refuse him? Robert wouldn't ask if he had any other choice."
"You can tell him no, Ned," Lady Stark replied.
Before Ned could respond, the crunching of boots on fallen leaves signaled an interruption. Ser Rodrik Cassel, master-at-arms and a loyal retainer of House Stark, approached with a notably grave expression.
"Apologies for the interruption, my Lord, my Lady," he began, clearly troubled. "My lord, might I have a word?"
"Of course," Lord Stark replied.
"In private?" Ser Rodrik's tone and gaze conveyed deep concern.
Lord Stark's eyes widened as he briefly glanced at his wife before focusing back on his master-at-arms. "What must you tell me, Ser Rodrik, that cannot be said in front of the Lady of Winterfell?"
"Forgive me, my lord, but there has been a murder," Ser Rodrik declared.
Ned straightened immediately, shifting from personal concerns to the weighty responsibilities of his title. "Who?"
Rodrik hesitated, his unease clear. "A woman, my lord. Her face and skin... they've been removed. It's horrific. I didn't wish to alarm you, my lady, but it's perhaps the most dreadful sight one could encounter."
Catelyn gasped, her fingers tightening on Ned's arm. The implications of such brutality, especially as they were preparing to host the king.
"We cannot have a murderer at large when King Robert and his entourage arrive," Ned declared, his voice resolute. "Double the patrols, ensure every entrance to Winterfell is secured. I want this murderer found."
Rodrik nodded, the gravity of the task evident in his eyes. "It will be done, Lord Stark."
The master-at-arms turned and left, leaving Ned and Catelyn amidst the quiet whispers of the Weirwood tree. Their shared gaze conveyed a wordless understanding – the stakes had just gotten higher.
As dusk began to blanket Winterfell, guards could be seen patrolling more frequently, torches in hand, casting eerie glows and elongated shadows on the ancient walls. The atmosphere was thick with tension, as the inhabitants sensed that the impending royal visit was now overshadowed by a lurking danger.
The deepening blue of twilight heralded the approach of night. As the torches of Winterfell flickered to life, they illuminated pathways and cast dancing shadows against the stone walls, making the fortress feel both enchanting and ominous.
Sauron trudged homeward after an exhausting day. The soft echo of his boots on the cobblestone mirrored the rhythm of his anxious thoughts. The revelations and mysteries of the previous days were burdensome, even for resilient young shoulders.
As Sauron walked home through the dimly lit courtyards of Winterfell, he couldn't shake the unease that had settled over the fortress. There was a palpable tension in the air, and the presence of extra guards did not go unnoticed.
Approaching a guard, his armor glistening under the weak light of torches, Sauron decided to inquire about the heightened security. "Excuse me," he began, "I couldn't help but notice there are more soldiers about tonight. Is there something amiss?"
The guard, a burly man with a grim expression, looked at Sauron with a mix of pity and concern. "Aye, lad," he replied, his voice low and somber. "There's been a murder. Lord Stark has ordered more patrols to keep the peace. You should hurry home; it's not safe to be out at a time like this."
Sauron's heart sank, his mind instantly jumping to thoughts of his adoptive father, Hullen. Fear and worry gripped him as he muttered his thanks to the guard and quickened his pace toward their home, praying that his father and mother were unharmed.
As he neared his home, the warm light from the windows promised a brief escape from the chaos outside. He could smell venison stew coming from the window, signifying that his mother was home and safe.
As he entered the stony cabin, he could see his mother hovering over the pot, dumping potatoes and carrots into the kettle. "You're always late, Sauron," she remarked with a blend of relief and gentle rebuke as he stepped inside.
He gave a weary nod, placing his cloak on a hook. "Lost track of time, Mother," he replied, though his eyes hinted at deeper concerns.
She approached, her hand gently lifting his chin. "You have that look again; you know I can always tell when something is on your mind. What's wrong?" Her voice wavered slightly at the mention of his late father.
Before he could respond, a sudden knock broke the moment. Sauron moved slowly. Approaching the door with caution.
The knock was accompanied by a noxious stench that clawed its way into the room. Sauron's senses recoiled in horror as his gaze instinctively turned to the source of the intrusion. There, on the entrance to the other, lay the lifeless head of Hullen, the man who had been a father to him, now a chilling testament to the peril that lurked beyond their door.
Sauron's shock was palpable, his skin draining of color, his heart pounding so loudly that it drowned out the world. Time seemed to elongate as he glanced from the fallen form of his adoptive father to the mother he had known, only to see her menacingly lunging toward him, a glint of murderous intent in her eyes.
However, fate intervened in the form of a cloaked figure who abruptly burst into the room. The wooden door swung wide open, knocking Sauron aside, and a mysterious protector stood between him and the impending assault. Isul's countenance was a mask of unwavering determination as he adeptly disarmed the impostor.
As Isul intervened to save Sauron from the deadly blade, a flicker of recognition and astonishment passed over the face of the person who had impersonated Sauron's mother. "You?!?" she gasped, her voice laden with disbelief.
Isul, his visage calm and expressionless, met her gaze with an unyielding resolve. "Hello, Brother."
With those cryptic words, the pretender launched herself at Isul. The room bore witness to a deadly confrontation, with blades clashing and sparks flying in the dimly lit space. Sauron watched in a mesmerized blend of awe and fear, his heart pounding wildly as he observed the brutal struggle between the two combatants.
Isul's exceptional skills became apparent as he deftly parried the impostor's lethal advances, his movements a mesmerizing ballet of precision and control. With an almost fluid motion, he activated a hidden blade concealed beneath his sleeve, filling the room with the hissing sound of its extension.
The imposter's eyes widened in belated realization, but it was too late to retract her actions. Isul's hidden blade found its mark, and with a swift, decisive strike, he incapacitated the would-be assassin. The imposter fell to the floor, gasping for air and clutching her throat, rendered speechless.
Sauron, still quivering from the harrowing encounter, beheld Isul as he approached the fallen impostor. Isul's countenance held a mixture of relief and determination. With solemn finality, he delivered the finishing blow, extinguishing the threat once and for all. The room fell silent, the tension dissipating like the remnants of a vanquished storm.
Turning to face Sauron, Isul's eyes conveyed a sense of urgency. "We must leave, boy, now," he urged. "There may be more of them, and we cannot afford to waste any time."
Sauron, still struggling to come to terms with the unfathomable events, cast a longing and disbelieving gaze at the fallen figure that had once resembled his mother. A sense of helplessness and the haunting specter of unreality washed over him as he clung to the hope that this was all a fevered nightmare from which he would soon awaken. The words that escaped his trembling lips were laden with fear and disbelief. "Why would she... why would Mother?"
Isul cast a somber glance at the fallen figure, then decisively approached the imposter's lifeless form. Without a word, he gripped the skin along their face and tore it away, revealing the true identity beneath—a dark-skinned man, seemingly of a similar age, with a bristling beard and sinister intent.
Disbelief, grief, and fear wrestled for dominance in Sauron's eyes. "Where is she? What has he done to her?"
Isul responded with a cold, unyielding certainty. "She's gone, boy, and so will we be if we don't leave now."
Extending a steady hand to help Sauron to his feet, Isul conveyed an unsettling truth. "I wish I had all the answers, but we need to move. We don't know who else might be lurking. Winterfell is not safe for you any longer."
Sauron, still consumed by fear, struggled to trust this enigmatic stranger. However, desperation compelled him, and he reached out, grabbing Isul's outstretched hand, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet.
"Follow me, and stay close," Isul whispered urgently as they swiftly departed from the cabin and navigated the winding alleys of Stonehold.
At a hidden juncture before entering the open area, they paused. The terrible events at the young man's home remained undiscovered, but guards maintained a vigilant presence, patrolling and scrutinizing anyone passing through the gates.
Sauron, his curiosity piqued, finally mustered the courage to ask, "Who are you?"
Isul's eyes darted to the surrounding shadows, assessing the imminent threat. "That's not important right now. We need to slip past these guards."
"But why should we hide? We've done nothing wrong," Sauron protested.
Abruptly, a shout rang out from the other side of the pathway. "Halt! Who goes there?" Both Sauron and Isul turned to see a guard emerging from the darkness.
"It's me, Sauron, the stable master's son," Sauron declared, his voice trembling as he slowly advanced toward the guard, with Isul trailing closely behind, hood obscuring his features, his frustration at Sauron's impulsive decision evident.
The guard scrutinized them and then inquired, "And who is this?"
"My savior," Sauron replied urgently. "My father and mother have been murdered."
"Show me," demanded the guard.
As they began to move forward and the guard fell into step behind them, Isul executed a swift, silent maneuver. He pinned the guard to the wall, covering the man's mouth with a gloved hand to stifle any potential cries, and then swiftly dispatched him with a concealed blade, ensuring the guard's grisly end went unnoticed in the dark recesses of the alley.
"Do you have a death wish boy?, were you dropped as a babe!?" Isul scolded in a hushed yet reproachful tone. "Anyone of these soldiers can be a killer sent for you! Anyone you have ever met or meet,Can be a killer. And until you can tell the difference do not trust anyone!"
Sauron, his eyes wide with a combination of fear and guilt, nodded meekly. "I... I didn't think, ser, I was just so frightened."
Isul's grip on Sauron's shoulder softened, and he sighed. "I know, lad, I know. But these people will not stop until you're dead. They will hunt you till the end of your days."
Sauron's voice trembled as he whispered, "But why? Why would anyone want to kill me?, I'm just a bastard stable boy."
Isul's response was laden with brutal honesty. "I will tell you everything, but right now, we have to focus on survival. If you wish to live to the morrow, then do as I say."
Sauron's eyes glistened with unshed tears, his voice shaky but resolute. "Yes ser."
Isul nodded, a hint of warmth in his gaze. "My name is Isul."
As the night shrouded Winterfell in darkness, Isul led Sauron to a quiet alley, away from prying eyes. He turned to the young boy and asked, "boy, can you climb?"
Sauron nodded with a hint of confidence. "Aye, I've climbed the stables and the trees around Winterfell countless times."
"Good," Isul said, a flicker of approval in his eyes. "Put this cloak on. The hood will conceal your identity. We'll have to make our way across the rooftops to avoid the guards."
Sauron donned the hooded cloak, concealing his features, and the two of them began their rooftop escapade. Sauron's natural climbing ability impressed Isul, who watched the young boy navigate the uneven surfaces with ease.
As Sauron and Isul crouched atop the rooftop, the night draped around them like a shroud, Sauron's heart raced, his breath quick and shallow. He turned to Isul, eyes filled with apprehension.
"Ser Isul, how are we going to get past the guards? There are too many." Sauron whispered, the fear of what lay ahead apparent in his voice.
Isul, his eyes scanning the guarded gate below, responded in hushed tones, "We'll need a diversion. Something that will draw the guards' attention away from the gate. It's a risk, but it's our best chance."
Sauron nodded, determination flashing in his eyes. "What do you have in mind?"
Isul considered for a moment before outlining his plan. "See those barrels by the kitchen entrance? We're going to set them on fire and roll them down the hill toward the courtyard. The flames and commotion should distract the guards."
Sauron's eyes widened in realization. "Fire? But that's dangerous!"
Isul placed a reassuring hand on the young boy's shoulder. "I know it's risky, but it's our only option. We'll do it from here, on the rooftop, to minimize the danger. But we'll need to be ready with the horses to ride out as soon as chaos erupts."
Sauron hesitated for a moment, fear warring with determination in his eyes. Then, he nodded. "I'll do it."
With a steely resolve, Isul and Sauron gathered materials for the makeshift firestarter, using rags, oil, and a stray torch they'd found nearby. They doused the barrels with the flammable mixture, and Isul handed Sauron a torch.
"Light it, and when it's burning, push it down the slope," Isul instructed. "I'll be ready with the horses."
"Got it." Sauron replied "but wait, once we light it whats stopping the guards from chasing after us once we escape through the gate?" The genuine concern was then met with a confident smirk from isul. "Superstition."
Sauron's hands trembled as he struck the torch. Fire flared to life, illuminating their determined faces. With a deep breath, Sauron pushed the burning barrel down the slope. It rolled and tumbled, flames licking at the night, drawing the guards' attention with its fiery display as the barrels tumbled and clashed some even breaking casting flames into the surrounding area.
As the guards shouted and rushed to deal with the blazing barrels, Isul and Sauron seized the moment. They sprinted back to the stables, where the horses waited, their breath visible in the chilly air.
Isul swiftly mounted one horse, while Sauron struggled for a moment with another before finally getting a foothold. Their hearts pounded in unison as they turned to face the now-chaotic courtyard.
"Are you ready, lad?" Isul asked, his voice resolute.
Sauron clenched the reins, his knuckles white, and nodded, his fear transformed into determination. "I'm ready, ser."
Isul dug his heels into the horse's flanks, and they charged forward as one, galloping toward the gate, the thunder of hooves echoing in the night. Their escape from Winterfell depended on this daring charge and the chaos they'd created as their shield.
As Isul and Sauron charged toward the gate, the guards were dealing with the fiery distraction they'd set in motion. The commotion in the courtyard had drawn most of their attention, but it wouldn't take long for them to realize what was happening.
Isul knew they needed a cover to make it through the gate, and he had just the thing. With one hand holding the reins, he reached into his cloak and began tossing smoke bombs, one after another, onto the ground in front of them. Thick, billowing smoke engulfed the path, concealing their approach and shrouding the scene in an eerie, ghostly haze.
"Stay close, lad!" Isul shouted over the chaos, his voice barely audible amidst the turmoil. Sauron clung to his steed, his face obscured by the hood of his cloak, as he followed Isul through the smoke.
The smoke created a temporary shield, obscuring the view of the guards. Their calls and shouts were muffled as the two fugitives charged onward, hooves pounding against the ground. They could hear the alarm bells ringing now, but they had little time to spare.
Isul's heart raced as they neared the massive gate, the ominous silhouette of Winterfell looming above them. He knew they had to breach it if they were to escape Winterfell's clutches. As they approached, he tightened his grip on the reins and urged his horse forward.
With a final burst of speed, Isul led the charge, Sauron right behind him. The guards at the gate had just begun to react, realizing the threat. But it was too late. Isul's steed carried them through the gateway, narrowly avoiding a closing portcullis.
The pounding of hooves echoed through the night as they galloped out into the open. The cold wind bit at their faces, but they were free. The tumultuous cries of the guards were left behind in the now-distant Winterfell.
Isul and Sauron rode on, putting distance between them and the place that was once Sauron's home. As the night swallowed them whole, Sauron's heart was heavy with the knowledge that he could never return, for his life was forever changed, bounded by a dangerous journey that lay ahead.