The moment the five minutes were up, Balon Greyjoy did not hesitate. He hewed off Robb Stark's arm and had it sent toward Winterfell not far away.
When that severed arm was cast carelessly upon the snow beneath Winterfell's walls, the blood flowing freely upon it struck Rodrik Cassel's nerves like a lash.
Yet the blade he held at Theon Greyjoy's throat would not move.
His threat to Balon had been clear: if Balon dared lay another hand upon Robb Stark, he would take Theon Greyjoy's head at once.
But when he truly watched, with his own eyes, as Balon continued to harm Robb without the slightest hesitation, his courage failed him.
He faltered. The resolve he had forced upon himself—to cut off Theon Greyjoy's head—shuddered beneath the cold brutality of Balon.
In this craven's game, his love for Robb proved stronger than the hardness he had shown.
Balon could be ruthless enough to stake his own son's life for the sake of a threat. He could not.
And Robb's final cry—wrenched from him with the last of his strength—had named Roose Bolton as his betrayer. That, too, shook him.
The anger long pressed down in his heart surged upward in an instant, hot blood rushing to his head.
Unable to bring the blade down, and not daring truly to kill Theon, Ser Rodrik could only stand by and watch as Balon tortured Robb to death. He threw back his head and roared, then lashed out with his foot, kicking aside Theon Greyjoy, who had long since fainted from pain.
"Roose Bolton!"
His voice, sharp and bleak with fury, rang out as Rodrik's eyes burned red.
"Seize him!"
Yet it seemed there had been a plan in place for such a moment. No sooner had Rodrik Cassel shouted than the Bolton men upon the walls—who had stood defending against the ironborn outside—turned their spears.
Without hesitation, they drove them into the backs of the "comrades" beside them.
Amid sudden screams, rebellion broke out once more.
"You should not have doubted me, Rodrik Cassel…" The Leech Lord spoke coldly, his gaze fixed upon that smear of crimson beyond the walls, half-lost in the snowstorm.
"Nor should Robb have spoken those words. I had thought he would die in the Wolfswood."
Roose's tone remained as soft and measured as ever, as though he spoke of some matter of no consequence.
And this sudden treachery left all within Winterfell stunned.
From the moment Robb, with the last of his strength, cried out the name of the man who had betrayed him, to the instant the Bolton men struck—no more than a dozen seconds had passed.
As the others were still struggling to digest what had happened—instinctively wondering whether it was true, or whether Balon had tortured Robb until he could bear no more and then forced such an accusation from him—
Rodrik had scarcely opened his mouth when Roose admitted it without the slightest attempt at denial.
And he moved against his own.
"Traitor!"
No proof was needed now. That Roose Bolton would act thus at such a moment was proof enough that Robb had spoken true.
Medger Cerwyn drew the sword at his waist with a sharp rasp and rushed straight at Roose Bolton.
But Roose, long prepared, had already positioned himself neither too near nor too far from them, with several Bolton men-at-arms standing between.
The moment they moved, those fully armored warriors in plate stepped forward to bar the way.
Medger's charge was but a signal.
At once, within Winterfell, House Mormont of Bear Island, House Karstark of Karhold, House Stark of Winterfell, House Cerwyn of Cerwyn, House Tallhart of Torrhen's Square, and House Glover of Deepwood Motte—
These northern nobles who still held their loyalty to House Stark turned their spears inward against the traitors in their midst.
Chaos erupted within Winterfell without warning.
Yet these remnants, already bloodied in the fighting at Deepwood Motte, could hardly overcome Bolton's soldiers, who had long been prepared.
Of those present, only the strength of House Cerwyn still held some fighting power, for they had not been spent before and had only just arrived as reinforcements.
Then there were the Stark soldiers within Winterfell.
All rose against Roose Bolton at once.
But Bolton's forces, who had quietly taken control of the gate's defense, used the moment to slaughter the Stark men stationed there beside them and then flung open Winterfell's southern gate.
Whether or not they could win no longer mattered. Roose had achieved his purpose.
The corner of his mouth curved into a faint smile as, under the cover of his soldiers, he withdrew toward the southern gate.
At the same time, not far beyond Winterfell, Balon saw the sudden betrayal upon the walls and the gate slowly swinging open—and he smiled.
Without the slightest hesitation, he brought his right hand down in a heavy gesture.
The ironborn, who had witnessed it as well and had long waited in the snowstorm until they were nearly frozen stiff, drew their weapons at once. With mad howls, they lowered their heads and charged toward the castle before them.
The outcome was all but decided.
Only then did Balon lower his gaze to Robb, who lay in the snow, staring at it all with a dazed expression.
"You look surprised, little wolf."
Balon smiled—a terrible smile.
That sharply cut face, as though carved from flint, and those black eyes—keen as drawn steel—pierced into Robb Stark's heart.
Yet Robb had no strength left to answer him.
A flush rose upon Balon's gaunt, haggard face.
After nearly ten years of waiting, he had at last come to his hour of vengeance.
"Perhaps you never once asked yourself why I brought you so close to Winterfell. Nor did you consider what would follow once you spoke those words."
As though seeking to pour out the harsh bitterness long pent within him, Balon no longer restrained his urge to speak.
He continued, his tone lighter than it had ever been.
"Plainly, your grasp of politics and of men's hearts does not match the talent you have shown upon the battlefield."
"Robb Stark, from the first to the last, in this game, you alone were the stone with which I knocked upon Winterfell's gate."
"The men within Winterfell knew it well. Rodrik Cassel, Roose Bolton, Medger Cerwyn—they all knew. They needed do nothing but wait in silence, and what awaited me would be defeat."
"And had you swallowed that secret and buried it forever, then Roose Bolton would have remained a loyal man of House Stark."
At this, a pleased smile spread across Balon's face.
He lifted his head once more and looked toward Winterfell ahead, thrown into turmoil by a single sentence from Robb Stark.
"It was your honor—and your folly—that killed them all."
"Plainly, you understand it now."
Balon explained with great care why such things had come to pass.
When he finished, he gave a knowing smile and walked forward at a measured pace, leaving behind one last command in the wind and snow.
"Bring him to me. Before him, I shall take Rodrik Cassel's head—and the others'. I will make him watch. He will be the last to die."
Hearing those words at his ear, Robb lay in the snow, rolling onto his side and crawling as he stared toward his home. The arrogance that had once been upon his face had long since frozen there.
Like water locked in ice beneath the bitter cold, his features became a mask carved of frost—astonishment, regret, unwillingness, fury, self-reproach all fixed upon it.
But it was too late.
Winterfell had been lost because of that single sentence.
Rodrik Cassel, Maester Luwin, and all within Winterfell had lost their lives because of his one bitter cry.
It was an outcome he had never imagined.
With Balon's reminder, he understood it well: once Balon Greyjoy held Winterfell, even had he done nothing, Roose Bolton would never have allowed those men to live.
At the thought of it, Robb felt a heaviness in his chest. A mouthful of blood burst from his lips, staining the white snow before him red once more.
Darkness closed over his vision, and beneath the weight of blow after blow, Robb fell unconscious.
Asha had stood where she was all along. Watching Robb lose consciousness in regret, she merely shook her head.
She felt nothing for it. Their positions were opposed.
Moreover, between House Greyjoy and House Stark there had long been deep-seated enmity. The hands of House Stark were stained with Greyjoy blood.
Even setting aside those old grievances and speaking only of the present—
In this blizzard, had they not acted as they did, death would have awaited them just the same.
They had no other choice.
For this was a war in which either you died, or we did.
A quiet sigh drifted upon the wind.
Yet just as Asha bent down, preparing to drag the heir of Winterfell back into a castle that no longer belonged to House Stark, an unexpected voice suddenly came from within the storm.
"I did not expect to witness such a spectacle. It seems my earlier guess was not wrong."
"For the North to have fallen to this state, it cannot be a matter of outside forces alone."
At the sound carried through the wind and snow, seasoned as she was in battle, Asha felt a sudden chill down her spine. The hairs upon her neck bristled, as though some vast terror had descended upon her heart.
Instinctively, she snapped her head up and looked toward the source of the voice.
Out of the storm stepped a great golden hound, as large as a forest tiger, bared fangs flashing as a low growl rumbled in its throat.
At that very moment, behind her, a streak of orange-red flame tinged faintly with blue tore through the wind and snow and fell from the sky upon the ironborn who were about to surge into Winterfell.
The frigid air was scorched in an instant, turned searing hot by the sudden blaze.
…
House Cerwyn of Cerwyn is a noble house of the North, and among House Stark's most friendly and powerful bannermen.
From Cerwyn to Winterfell by horse takes less than half a day.
At this moment within Winterfell, the main force fighting against the suddenly treacherous House Bolton was made up of the men of House Cerwyn and Winterfell's own guards.
The others—such as House Mormont and the smaller houses—had already been nearly spent, first in the war against the Lannisters in the Riverlands, and then in the successive wars within the North.
Only House Karstark still retained a measure of strength, enough to lend support and attempt to sweep up the flaying house that had once again betrayed the North.
Yet no matter how firmly they pressed the Bolton soldiers, they could not prevent them from opening Winterfell's gates.
As the great doors swung wide and the roar from outside poured in, all understood that a defeat long foreseen was about to descend.
And just as all were filled with fury, yet heavy with sorrow in their hearts—
A burst of flame tore through the wind and snow, sealing shut Winterfell's gates that had stood open.
The sudden blaze caused both sides fighting within Winterfell to freeze.
Including Roose, all stood staring blankly through the southern gate at the ironborn outside, one by one engulfed in fire. Their ears filled with the shrill screams and frantic struggles of men burning alive.
The next instant—while all were still struggling to grasp what had happened—a deep roar rolled through the blizzard, a sound heavy enough to make the heart quail.
Then a golden shape soared forth, cleaving through the wind and snow, spreading vast wings before the eyes of men.
And they saw clearly what flew above them.
A dragon.
The name rose in every mind at once.
In that single heartbeat, the little color remaining in Roose Bolton's already pale face drained away entirely, leaving him like a corpse.
…
The great golden hound walked forward until it stood some ten paces from Asha.
As Asha trembled, wary of the immense creature before her, wondering whether it had been this very beast that had spoken to her moments ago—
A tall man stepped out slowly from behind the golden hound, clad in black, red, and gold robes, a heavy white bearskin cloak draped across his shoulders.
The instant she saw him, Asha's pupils contracted.
In the next moment, a dragon's roar sounded overhead, followed by another torrent of blazing fire descending from the sky.
She knew that black, red, and gold sigil. In this world, only one man bore it.
Kal Baratheon.
The new dragonrider.
The moment she recognized who stood before her—and the dragonfire behind him that scorched even the frozen air as though it were summer—how could Asha fail to know the man's identity?
Yet precisely because of that, snapping out of her shock, she acted without hesitation. She seized Robb by the hair—whether he lay insensible from his wounds or from the blow to his spirit—and dragged him up from the snow.
At the same time, Asha drew the short blade strapped to her calf and set it against Robb's throat.
"Release—"
"Woof!"
The golden shape flashed and vanished.
Asha, who had just drawn her dagger and had not yet brought it to Robb Stark's neck, froze where she stood.
At that same instant, as though time itself faltered for half a breath, a spray of crimson burst forth under pressure from the severed stump of Asha Greyjoy's neck, jetting upward like a fountain.
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