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CaveLeather
The sentinel trees in the wolfswood stood like bleached skeletons, pale trunks stripped bare, their branches clawing at the gray sky whenever the wind hit them.
Ironborn thousands had camped among them. The reavers huddled in their tents, cursing the North's freezing ground while they pressed together for warmth.
"Once we're inside Winterfell, I'm fucking twenty women straight!"
"Heard Ned left two daughters behind."
"Hey, why stop there? His widow's still breathing. Catelyn ain't that old."
"And Robb's queen wife—bet she's never been ridden by anyone but the Kingslayer."
Sawane Botley made his way toward Victarion's tent for the second time that night.
The moment he got close he heard it—loud, rhythmic moans and wet slapping sounds that made his face burn and his cock twitch.
A woman's voice. Clear as day.
He froze. Victarion had a woman in there. On campaign. Against every rule they lived by.
As second-in-command, Sawane had every right to kick the door in and demand answers. But he knew better than to interrupt a man balls-deep in pussy. That kind of timing only ended in fists or steel.
So he waited outside, boots planted in the snow, trying not to listen.
Gods, that bitch could scream.
He adjusted his cock through his breeches. The sounds were filthy—high, desperate, soaked in pleasure. Nothing like the usual salt wives who started crying and ended up limp as dead fish. This one sounded like she was enjoying every inch.
Sawane pictured her riding Victarion, tits bouncing, mouth open, eyes rolled back. His own breath came faster. He had to shove a fist against his mouth to keep from groaning.
He waited. And waited.
Finally the cries died down. Sawane let out a shaky breath, lungs full of cold air, trying to kill the fire in his gut.
He was just about to cough and announce himself when the wet, filthy rhythm started up again inside the tent.
"Seven hells," he snarled under his breath. Battle tomorrow and Victarion was still draining himself dry?
Enough. He was going in.
He started forward—then a hand landed on his shoulder.
He spun, heart slamming.
Euron stood there, smiling like a man who already knew every secret in the world.
"Lord Botley."
The smile didn't reach his eye.
"You here for Victarion too?"
"Not exactly." Euron's voice was smooth. "He put me in charge of tomorrow's attack on Winterfell. Thought I'd come talk it over with you."
"Put you in charge?" Sawane glanced at the tent. The moans were still going. Made sense. Victarion was lost in that woman's cunt.
Euron stepped closer. Sawane stepped back without thinking.
"Tomorrow, hand the army to someone you trust. Come with me to Winterfell. I'll have us inside the castle by the morning after next."
Sawane stared. "The morning after next? You're out of your fucking mind. We don't even have time to build ladders."
"I swear it on the Drowned God. If we don't take Winterfell by then, I'll never speak on strategy again. I'll follow my brother's orders like a good little reaver."
Sawane still didn't believe him. But the promise was enough. He nodded once and turned to go.
Halfway across the camp he looked back. "You coming?"
Euron sighed like a disappointed brother. "I wanted to give him that woman to patch things up between us. But he's gotten attached. I should stay and talk some sense into him. We are brothers, after all."
Sawane nodded. That sounded reasonable. He disappeared into the dark without another thought.
Euron watched him leave, then sent his mind through the tent flap.
Inside, the mute girl rode Victarion's hard stomach, both of them lost in the rhythm. Victarion's body was still powerful—broad chest, thick arms—but he'd lost weight lately. Looked weaker. Didn't seem to notice.
His eyes were shut, letting her do all the work.
The girl opened her eyes.
They weren't hers anymore.
They were Euron's.
A blue flame burned steady in the oil lamp beside the bed.
"Sit down," she ordered, voice low and commanding. "Sit down. Good boy."
Victarion obeyed without thinking.
"Stand up. Stand up. Good boy."
At Winterfell, Bran stood in the yard by the kennels, training a litter of six-month-old pups.
Summer sat like a king beside him, watching. The direwolf's presence alone kept the puppies in line. Bran's treats did the rest.
He'd fallen in love with training animals since coming home. Willas had shown him it was possible to live with a broken body. And lately Bran had discovered something even better—on certain nights his mind could slip right into Summer's strong, whole form. In those moments he almost forgot he couldn't walk.
Next he wanted to train ravens.
Myrcella stood beside him, passing treats. She'd accepted she was just a bastard now. Her parents were still alive. The Starks weren't cruel to her, and Sansa didn't blame her for Joffrey. Jon had promised that once she was grown she could visit them. That hope kept her going.
A while later Arya came running over, sword practice done, face flushed.
"Come on," she grabbed Myrcella's hand. "Let's play."
During their roughhousing Myrcella realized something surprising—she didn't miss needlework at all. She liked the sword. Liked the way it felt in her hand. And she was good at it.
Farther up on the walls, Catelyn walked with Maester Luwin, checking stores, ledgers, repairs, and the guards' gear.
Whenever she had a spare minute she visited her grandchildren. Seeing them safe and growing gave her the only real comfort she'd felt since Ned died.
The only thing that still twisted her gut was Robb, fighting wildlings near the Wall.
"Maester, can we raise more men to send him?" she asked.
Luwin shook his head gently. "My lady, we have fewer than a thousand men left in Winterfell. Only five hundred on active duty. Send any more away and we won't even be able to chase off bandits."
Catelyn sighed. "I know it's selfish, but if Jon were here fighting beside Robb the way he used to… I'd sleep easier."
Luwin chuckled. "Unless the Night King himself marches south, those two brothers can handle anything this world throws at them."
"You're right." She smiled.
A young man came sprinting toward them, out of breath.
Catelyn recognized him—Rodrik's nephew, Cait. Too young. Too green. Rodrik had taken the real guard north with Robb and left this boy in charge.
"My lady—forgive me—the old soldiers and the new recruits are fighting. They're brawling in the yard."
"Fighting?" Catelyn's eyes narrowed. "Why are you running to me instead of handling it? Lock the ringleaders in the cells and beat the rest with the rod. Your uncle left you the guard. Act like it."
Cait flushed scarlet, sparse mustache trembling. "I'm sorry, my lady, I—"
"Enough." Catelyn cut him off. "Maester, come with me."
"Yes, my lady."
Luwin gave Cait a hard look and fell into step beside her.
He was thinking the same thing she was.
Winterfell couldn't afford to lose another man.
Not with the soldiers they had left—green, undisciplined, and barely worth the steel in their hands.