Along the banks of the Trident River…
"The Ironborn have taken Winterfell?"
Lord Eddard Stark stared in stunned disbelief at the messenger standing before him.
"Yes, my lord."
"How did the Ironborn manage to seize the castle? And where is Robb?"
"Lord Robb had left the castle with the army, having believed Theon Greyjoy's report that the Ironborn intended to attack Moat Cailin. But once he heard that Winterfell had fallen, he realized he'd been deceived. He also suspects that Theon betrayed him from within, aiding the Ironborn to breach the walls."
"Theon…" Eddard murmured, a bitter mix of sadness and anger flickering in his eyes as he spoke his ward's name.
After a long silence, he asked, "How many Ironborn are there?"
"At first, they numbered nearly two thousand, but some have since withdrawn. Now, fewer than five hundred remain in Winterfell."
"So, they withdrew some of their forces… but left a garrison behind?"
"Yes, my lord."
Eddard frowned deeply. To him, the Ironborn had only two logical options after seizing Winterfell: to loot and leave or to hold and await reinforcements. This partial withdrawal, leaving part of their forces behind, made little sense.
But with his family still in Winterfell, there was no time to dwell on the Ironborn's reasoning. Eddard felt an overwhelming urge to return, rally his men, and drive out the invaders himself. He quickly ordered his household knights to prepare three thousand men for an immediate march back to Winterfell.
Before he left, however, he needed someone to take command of the allied Riverlands, North, and Stormlands forces in his absence. After considering his options, Eddard called for his attendant.
"Send word for Lord Roose Bolton, Lady Anya Waynwood, and Lord Jason Mallister to meet me here," he instructed.
"Yes, my lord."
The attendant hurried off, heading first toward the tent flying the flayed man banner of House Bolton—the symbol of the Dreadfort's forces.
Lord Roose Bolton, the current lord of the Dreadfort, was known as the "Leech Lord" for his habit of using leeches on his own body, supposedly to cleanse his blood. The attendant found him reclining on his bed, his pale chest dotted with pink, glistening leeches steadily growing plumper as they fed on him.
"Lord Roose, Lord Eddard requests your presence," the attendant announced, trying to hide his discomfort.
"Very well," Roose replied softly, his voice barely above a whisper, compelling one to listen closely. He gestured for his maester to remove the leeches from his skin, then draped a robe over his pallid, bloodless frame before heading to Eddard's tent.
When Roose arrived, Eddard greeted him with a nod. "Please, have a seat. We're waiting for the others."
Truthfully, Eddard was reluctant to leave Roose Bolton in charge. The man was calculating, with a chilling air that was hard to trust. However, the other Northern lords lacked either the experience or the stature to command such a large force. Jon Umber was too reckless, Wyman Manderly too fat to even mount a horse, and Rickard Karstark had taken ill during their campaign in Dorne and was recovering back at Karhold. Roose was, for better or worse, the most capable and well-regarded leader remaining.
A short while later, Lady Anya and Lord Jason entered the tent, and Eddard spoke.
"I have just received grave news: Winterfell has been taken by the Ironborn. I intend to lead three thousand men back to the North to retake my home. While I am away, I leave the command of our allied forces in your hands."
"Thank you for your trust," Roose replied, bowing slightly. "How fares your family?"
Eddard's face twisted with anxiety. "I do not know," he admitted. "I pray that Theon remembers the years we raised him as one of our own."
"Arw Three thousand men enough, my lord?" Lady Anya inquired.
"Yes. Most of the Ironborn have already departed, and we know the North better than they do."
"I've received similar reports that the Ironborn seem to be withdrawing from our shores as well," Jason Mallister added, whose lands were directly exposed to Ironborn raids.
"To be cautious, I'll have the Dreadfort send reinforcements," Roose offered. "I can muster around a thousand men from my lands. I'll send a message to my son, Ramsay Snow, instructing him to join you in retaking Winterfell."
"Very well," Eddard replied, nodding. "The Starks will remember House Bolton's assistance."
"It's my honor to serve," Roose said. His face was a mask of calm, devoid of any visible emotion.
Eddard continued, "While I am away, you three will oversee the armies together. Hold your positions, and do not be baited by the Lannisters' provocations. Wait for my return before any further action."
The three nodded in agreement, and the meeting soon concluded. Roose left the tent, heading back to his own quarters.
Once there, he summoned an attendant to help him into his armor.
"Prepare my equipment," he ordered. "I'm going hunting in the woods."
"You may want to bring a few extra men, my lord," the attendant suggested. "A wolf pack has been seen prowling nearby. They even entered the camp last night and killed a warhorse."
Roose's lips barely curled into a thin smile. "Wolves are precisely what I aim to hunt. They've been keeping me awake."
"The North was once said to be overrun by packs of direwolves that roamed without fear of man or mammoth," his maester remarked with a sigh.
"An age of darkness breeds monsters," Roose replied as he fastened his cloak. He instructed his maester, "Send a raven to Lady Walda. Tell her that I am eager to father a child with her."
"Yes, my lord."
"And remember, the raven is to fly to the Twins, not the Dreadfort. My wife is with her grandfather."
The maester nodded, aware that Roose had recently wed Walda Frey, granddaughter of Lord Walder Frey of the Twins. Lord Walder had allowed Roose to choose any of his granddaughters to wed, promising her weight in silver as a dowry. Roose had, unsurprisingly, chosen the plumpest granddaughter, Walda, who had brought both silver and the prospect of heirs to House Bolton.
---
Meanwhile, off the coast of the Shield Islands…
The Shield Islands, situated at the mouth of the Mander River, west of Highgarden, had long served as the first line of defense against seaborne invaders. Along the rugged coastline, a chain of watchtowers was manned by "greybeards," a traditional group of veteran sentinels charged with sounding the alarm at the sight of approaching enemies.
Asta had served as a greybeard for over forty years, and his watchtower had practically become a second home to him.
As always, he climbed to the top to relieve his shift partner. He brewed a pot of oatmeal, periodically glancing out at the vast sea.
After years on duty, Asta knew the waters around the islands like the back of his hand. He could identify each passing ship by its silhouette alone, often knowing to which noble house or even which captain a vessel belonged without seeing its flag.
Pirates had always been his greatest concern, though it had been years since any Ironborn longships had appeared on these shores. After the Ironborn's crushing defeat ten years ago, the Shield Islands had remained peaceful, with only the occasional smuggler keeping him on alert.
Recently, however, rumors had begun to spread that the Ironborn were stirring again. Though they seemed focused on the North, he couldn't help but wonder if they'd turn their sights southward again, back to the Reach's rich coasts.
Asta was just about to enjoy his oatmeal when he heard heavy footsteps ascending the winding staircase. He looked down to see a tall knight in armor, bearing the three-leafed oak sigil of House Oakheart.
"Ser Torgen? What brings you here?" Asta asked in surprise, recognizing the knight from a wedding he had attended three years earlier.
The knight nodded curtly, turning to scan the horizon. "Have you seen any unusual ships?"
"No, Ser. If I had, I would have lit the beacon."
"Good. Stay vigilant," Torgen advised. "The Ironborn have left the North, and I suspect they'll sail south next."
Asta, somewhat puzzled, assured him, "You can count on me, Ser. I'll be watching closely."
Seemingly satisfied, Torgen turned as if to leave, but Asta caught a strange glint as the knight's hand moved.
With a swift motion, Torgen drew his sword. Before Asta could react, the blade pierced his chest.
The old greybeard slumped to the floor, his final thought one of confusion as he tried to understand why Ser Torgen had killed him.
Outside, on the horizon, black-sailed ships began to appear, their banners marked with the golden kraken of House Greyjoy, heralding the arrival of the Ironborn.
(End of Chapter)