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Winterfell was fighting its own battle.
Seven hundred men of House Manderly clashed against five hundred mounted Frey infantry and two hundred Dreadfort soldiers.
House Manderly had never truly intended to submit.
Their surrender had come for one reason only. Lord Wyman's eldest son, Wylis, had been taken captive.
Now Wylis was being held inside Winterfell, and Lord Wyman had secretly sent orders to his cavalry commander.
If the chance came, rescue Wylis and flee.
And if that bastard proved capable enough, then White Harbor and Moat Cailin would block any forces coming up from the Twins.
…
The Manderly troops and the mounted men from the Twins had arrived at Winterfell at nearly the same time.
The Boltons might have treated the Manderlys coolly, but they would never dare slight the Freys.
At least, not while Ramsay had yet to execute Walda Frey.
As long as she lived, the Twins remained House Bolton's strongest ally.
So the Manderly soldiers were welcomed in as well.
But that very night, a squad of Manderly men slipped into the dungeons and freed Wylis.
Unfortunately, in the middle of the rescue, an iron cage above the kennels was knocked loose.
Inside had been a heavyset woman and a young child.
The hounds tore them apart.
Later, they learned the dead were Walda Frey and her poor little son.
Wylis was not a man inclined to leave things half-done.
He quickly realized that if Winterfell's defenders remained alive, escape would be impossible. They would be hunted down before getting far.
So he made his choice.
"Daggers first. Cut the throats of every one of those vermin from the Twins. Then wipe out the flayed men left in the castle."
Taking a longsword from one of his men, Wylis gave the order himself.
…
And so the battle began.
The moment Wylis's men stormed into the feast hall with loaded crossbows, the Frey soldiers and the two hundred Bolton men left behind had already lost any chance of turning things around.
Just like the northern lords who had once been butchered in a hall by arrows and treachery, the Freys and Boltons now died the same way.
Cause and effect.
Debts repaid in blood.
Before long, squads of Manderly soldiers carrying the mermaid banner spread through Winterfell, hunting down every remaining Bolton man.
As for the hounds, Wylis had them all burned alive.
By the end of the night, the Bolton garrison had been all but wiped out.
Of course, it was possible one or two survivors slipped away.
And that was exactly what happened.
Only those stragglers ran headfirst into Jon's advancing army.
It wasn't entirely their fault.
After seeing how the armored Free Folk had become deadlier and far more likely to survive, Jon's patchwork army had started copying them.
They stripped armor off Ramsay's fallen men, hammered it into shape however they could, and when that failed, had giants bend the metal into something wearable.
Whether it fit or not, they wore it anyway.
The result was that Jon's ragged host now looked almost indistinguishable from Ramsay's defeated army.
So when the survivors came searching for their commander, they were brought straight before Jon instead.
"What?" Jon said, stunned. "You're telling me Wylis attacked Winterfell? And that the castle is already under his control?"
"Yes."
"It's probably true," Robb said. "Father always said House Manderly could be trusted. When their ancestors came here as exiles, it was the Starks who gave them shelter. They've never forgotten it."
He looked ahead toward the road.
"Either way, we'll know tomorrow. We'll reach Winterfell by then. And even if we have to storm it, the castle won't hold against the army we have now."
Since taking command in war, Robb had never fought a campaign like this.
This was the first time he had marched with such overwhelming strength, crushing everything in his path.
Two hundred giants.
Jimmy, unstoppable as a force of nature.
Elk cavalry.
Free Folk infantry.
And archers?
Every Free Folk warrior was born with a bow in hand. Archery was as natural to them as breathing.
The war horn sounded.
Two hundred giants in full plate stood shoulder to shoulder at the very front, tower shields in hand. Behind them stretched the Free Folk host in full battle array.
Jimmy, Robb, Jon, and Tormund stood at the head of the army. Robb nudged his horse forward a few steps and called up to the walls.
"Is that Wylis up there?"
"The King in the North? Weren't you butchered at the Twins?"
"As you can see, I was pulled out alive," Robb answered. "Wylis, does House Manderly still remember its oath?"
"Of course. House Manderly recognizes only Stark rule, and only House Stark."
…
After that, things became very simple.
The armies joined as one, and this time Horus took center stage. Expanding into his scaled giant eagle form, he swept over the battlements breathing fire, burning down the last defenders on the walls. Then the giants charged, trampling across the scorching stone and smashing open the gates.
The Dreadfort fell.
The soldiers inside surrendered almost at once. To be honest, even the men Horus burned alive had wanted to surrender. The moment they saw those two hundred giants, they had already lost the will to fight. Horus had simply moved too fast and never gave them the chance.
That had been Jimmy's intention from the start.
In his view, House Stark had lost too many bannermen at the Twins. Even if the blame did not fall directly on them, the truth remained that Stark blood had survived while many loyal men had died.
People did not resent scarcity as much as they resented imbalance.
If everyone died together, that was shared hatred and shared purpose.
But if you lived while their sons and brothers did not, resentment was unavoidable.
Add to that the fact that Roose Bolton had worn the title of Warden of the North for a time, and it was obvious that House Stark needed to reestablish its authority and remind the North exactly who ruled it.
So the Dreadfort had to fall.
And it had to fall hard and fast.
That was why Jimmy had arranged the campaign this way.
…
The sheer force of it all left the watching bannermen stunned and deeply uneasy.
Dyarik looked ready to piss himself.
Even Mors Umber had stopped shouting about how he would never live under the same sky as the Free Folk.
By now he understood perfectly well that Jimmy's elk cavalry and spear infantry were all Free Folk.
They did not look anything like the wildlings he remembered, but that changed nothing.
Hother Umber had still been cut down by Jimmy in a single stroke.
And in the face of that kind of absolute strength, Mors lost his nerve.
He even made sure not to meet Jimmy's eyes whenever he passed by.
The Dreadfort had been taken, but that led to a new question.
Who would rule it?
Robb had originally planned to grant it to Jimmy, but Jimmy only wanted the Wolfswood. It was the only land truly suited for the Free Folk.
He had already worked it all out. If the trees there were gradually replaced with oaks, walnut groves, and fruit trees, the land alone would be enough to let the Free Folk grow and prosper.
Tormund already had the Gift and the New Gift, more than enough land for his people to thrive. With the Free Folk in the Wolfswood alongside them, the two groups could support one another when needed.
So in the end, Robb had no real choice.
He granted the Dreadfort to the black brothers.
By now he understood that once this war was over, the men of the Night's Watch would be released from their vows and rewarded according to their service.
And to be fair, they truly had sheltered Stark blood in House Stark's darkest hour.
So the Dreadfort would go to them.
Of course, if they wanted those rewards, they would first have to survive the war against the White Walkers.
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