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Game of Thrones: Archer's Ordinary Life
Game of Thrones: Dragon Knight of Harrenhal
Game of Thrones: Archer's Ordinary Life
Game of Thrones: BLOODTHIRSTY BASTARD
Game of Thrones: House of Black Dragon
Night had fallen over Winterfell like a thick black shell. The castle tucked every limb and tail in tight, hunkered down on the endless plains, trying to hold on to whatever warmth it could against the biting wind.
A dozen leagues south of the walls, on a low rise, Euron Greyjoy and Sawane Botley marched a line of prisoners they'd dragged up from the Stony Shore. Every captive had a burlap sack over his head and shivered in the freezing gusts. They still wore their clothes, but their boots had been stripped away. Bare feet on snow and ice felt like walking across steel needles.
They'd already marched the whole way from the coast. Their soles were a mess of frostbite and cracks, swollen, blue-black, and ugly as sin. Only the wildlings of the Frostfangs were supposed to walk barefoot in this kind of cold.
If you looked closer at their chests, you'd see dried blood crusted down their shirts. Euron had cut out their tongues too.
Sawane counted heads—close to thirty—then frowned. One of the shapes looked familiar. He started forward to check, but Euron's voice stopped him cold.
"Lord Botley, when I begin the spell against Winterfell, watch my signals closely. The blood must be offered at exactly the right moment, or the magic fails." Euron's tone was calm, almost bored.
"Understood." Sawane kept his voice flat, but inside he was thinking, Let's see if you're actually worth half the shit you talk.
He glanced around. Half the men nearby were Euron's mute thralls—blank-faced, expressionless, the only difference between them and the wooden stakes was that these ones could still walk.
Euron stepped alone to the highest point of the rise. He pulled off his eyepatch. One black eye, one red, fixed on the distant castle. His lips moved in a rapid whisper that sounded like Valyrian—something Sawane had only heard from sailors out of the Free Cities.
The words sped up. Euron clenched his empty fist, then mimed stabbing a dagger into his own chest. The mute thralls instantly drove blades into the prisoners' hearts.
The tongueless men gave wet, strangled screams that the wind snatched away before they could carry.
The gusts were so fierce Sawane never even smelled the blood.
Suddenly the wind roared louder. Breathing became a struggle.
He really can do magic. The thought hit Sawane like a hammer. His opinion of Euron shifted in a heartbeat.
Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms now knew Casterly Rock had changed hands—and that Ned Stark's bastard could work magic too. The idea of the Iron Islands going to war against a sorcerer had left Sawane uneasy. But if they had their own wizard…
Euron's voice was gone now, swallowed by the storm. All Sawane saw was the man screaming at the sky, arms whipping like branches in a gale.
Then Euron looked straight down at him.
Sawane knew his turn had come. He drew his short sword and walked to the prisoner who had seemed familiar. The shape nagged at the back of his mind.
"Offer his blood!" Euron's shout cracked like thunder in Sawane's ear.
No more hesitation. Sawane drove the blade home.
The wet thunk felt exactly like every other killing he'd done.
As the prisoner's blood spilled, the wind exploded. Snow and ice howled like vengeful ghosts, white fury slamming straight into the black castle. In seconds the storm swallowed Winterfell whole.
Sawane realized the gale around them had died. All the wind and snow was now pouring onto the castle, as if the gods themselves had aimed every flake and flake at those ancient walls.
He looked up at Euron again. The man stood above him, radiating power so thick it made Sawane want to drop to his knees and worship.
Catelyn woke screaming from the nightmare.
She had dreamed the Northern army trapped beneath Riverrun. She and Robb went to beg old Walder Frey for passage—and Walder turned into Tywin Lannister.
One word from Tywin and every man around them became the Kingslayer.
Catelyn begged for her son's life. Tywin said nothing. A blade opened Robb's throat. They killed his wolf too, then sewed the direwolf's head onto Robb's shoulders. Her own throat was cut, but her soul refused to leave.
That soul flew back to Winterfell and found her two younger sons hanged and burned. Her daughters—Sansa and Arya—were being dragged away by howling smallfolk, clothes torn, blood running down their thighs.
"Mother, why did you take Tyrion?" The wolf-headed Robb snarled.
"Catelyn, why did you take Tyrion?" Ned's headless corpse demanded.
"Mother, I didn't want to go to King's Landing," her violated daughters wept.
"No! No—no—!"
Catelyn bolted upright, drenched in cold sweat.
Her hand reached automatically for the other side of the bed. Empty. Always empty.
She had accepted Ned was gone, but every time she felt that cold space beside her, her chest still ached like fresh wounds.
Thank the gods for Jon, she thought. Without him, everything in that dream could have come true.
She tried to rise—and shuddered. The room was freezing. Her breath puffed white. She glanced at the hearth. Nothing but cold ash.
Gods, the children!
She forced herself to dress fast, ignoring the bite of the cold.
Just as she reached for the door, Maester Luwin's voice came from outside.
"My lady! My lady!"
"Maester Luwin." She yanked the door open. A savage gust nearly knocked her off her feet. Luwin's beard had gone pure white—until she realized it was coated in fresh frost.
"My lady, this storm is wrong. I've served Winterfell thirty years. Blizzards come from the north, never—"
The wind tore his words to pieces. Catelyn dragged him inside and slammed the door.
Luwin shivered violently. "My lady, this storm is unnatural. Snow should blow south from the North. This one is driving north from the south! It makes no sense!"
"Never mind that—I have to check on the children!"
"I already have. They're dressed and safe in the hot-spring vaults with Lady Jeyne."
"Thank the gods," Catelyn breathed. Luwin always made her feel steadier.
"My lady, one more thing. The guards on the walls will be suffering badly tonight. Come morning we'll have dozens of frostbite cases. Our numbers were already thin—this will make it worse."
"I'll have the kitchens send hot broth at once."
"Already ordered," Luwin said gently. "I'm going to prepare more salve for the burns. Take care of yourself, my lady."
"I will. Thank you, Maester. We're lucky to have you."
The moment she finished speaking, the window exploded open. Icy wind roared in, scattering clothes and papers everywhere.
Catelyn and Luwin clung to each other and fought their way toward the hot-spring vaults, calling every maid and servant to join them. Tonight, that was the only shelter they had.
Luwin stared up at the swirling white death above and thought, The ravenry is doomed. After this nightmare passed they would need fresh birds immediately—or Winterfell would be cut off from the world.
By morning, just as he feared, every one of the hundred ravens in the rookery lay frozen solid.
Luwin picked one up. The little body was stiff as wood.
They were only tools, yes—but they had been living creatures he had raised himself. Losing them all in a single night hurt more than he expected.
If the ravens had suffered, the men had suffered worse. Almost every remaining guard was frostbitten. Some couldn't even grip their weapons. A few of the weaker ones had simply frozen to death in their watch posts.
Winterfell's fighting strength had been cut in half overnight.
To get the men back on their feet, Luwin, his assistants, and the giant stableboy Hodor carried cauldrons of hot broth and salve to the barracks.
They arrived to find soldiers with fingers already turning corpse-white. The usually gentle maester finally lost his temper.
"Why were no gloves issued?!" he roared.
The answer came back: Ser Cassel had been busy breaking up a brawl and forgotten.
Those white fingers would blacken and rot within hours. To save the men's lives, the digits would have to be cut off.
For spearmen it was bad enough. For the carefully trained archers it was a death sentence for their usefulness.
While Luwin worked on the wounded, fresh disaster struck.
A rider burst in, voice raw: "An army—gods know where they came from—appeared a few leagues south! They'll be at the walls in a quarter hour!"
The barracks full of half-frozen, half-crippled men could never hold.
Winterfell was lost.
The only thing left to do was get Catelyn and the children out—north, toward Robb's main host—before the enemy arrived.