Winterfell, the Great Hall.
The fire in the hearth crackled, yet it could not dispel the cold fear that lingered in the air.
Seated in the high chair, Sansa received the Cerywn family, who had fled to Winterfell after their castle fell.
Before her stood the young heir of Cerwyn and his elder sister.
Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik stood on either side of the long table, their eyes fixed on the disheveled boy.
Clay Cerwyn was only fourteen. His face was pale with terror, his eyes unfocused, his entire body trembling uncontrollably, as if his soul were still trapped in a nightmare.
Maester Luwin stepped forward and pressed a cup of warmed wine into the boy's cold hands.
"Lord Clay, drink. Steady yourself. You are safe here."
Clay raised the cup with shaking fingers and gulped down a mouthful, only to cough violently.
Ser Rodrik shook his head, waiting for him to calm before asking sharply, "How did Cerwyn Castle fall? How many men did Crow's Eye bring?"
Clay's voice quivered.
"He… he had seven or eight hundred mute sailors. Silent as ghosts. And… and at least a thousand Ironborn. But that… that was not the worst of it…"
His breathing grew rapid.
Ser Rodrik, already calculating numbers, spoke grimly, "We have just over three hundred men in Winterfell who can bear arms.
With the hundred survivors you brought, that makes four hundred. If he has only a thousand, the walls may hold for some time."
Sansa felt a flicker of relief.
But Clay let out a broken sob.
"He took many of our people. Old men. Women. Children.
He forced them to carry timber, to build a massive siege engine. If anyone slowed… even for a moment…"
He stopped, shaking violently. His sister began to weep.
Ser Rodrik's voice tightened. "If they slowed?"
"They were cut down on the spot!" Clay cried. "Their heads… mounted on sharpened stakes… placed before the gates."
He gagged before continuing.
"And he laughed. He sat his horse and laughed as if watching a play. He does not care who dies. He only cares about fear."
Sansa covered her mouth, her face drained of color.
He feeds on fear.
Clay collapsed onto the bench, burying his face in his hands. "He is a devil. Cerwyn Castle is gone. My home… gone…"
Silence swallowed the hall.
The horror of his tale settled like frost upon every heart.
Then—
Boom! Boom! Boom!
The alarm bell thundered outside.
Clay's sister screamed, "They're here!"
The hall erupted.
Ser Rodrik moved first, astonishingly swift despite his age. "To the walls! All of you! Defend the gates!"
He rushed out.
Maester Luwin turned to Sansa.
"Take them to Bran. Whatever you hear, do not come out until I send for you."
Sansa forced herself to stand. Guarded by men-at-arms, she led the Cerwyn children toward the crypts.
At the doorway, she glanced back once at the hall and whispered silently:
'Galon… please come soon.'
When Ser Rodrik and Maester Luwin reached the battlements, their hearts nearly stopped.
Beyond the Hunter's Gate, across the snow-covered field, a black tide of Ironborn had advanced within bowshot.
They laughed openly, their cruel eyes fixed upon Winterfell.
Before them, driven like cattle, stood hundreds of Northmen captives in ragged clothing—an unwilling shield of flesh.
Their cries drifted upward on the wind.
At the center of the host, clad in smoke-black scale armor, Euron sat astride a brown horse, studying Winterfell.
He raised a hand and waved casually toward the walls, as if greeting acquaintances.
Beside him rode Aeron, head bowed, murmuring under his breath.
Euron did not attack at once.
Winterfell's walls were far stronger than those of Torrhen's Square or Cerwyn Castle.
With a gesture, he sent men northwest into the Wolfswood, driving captives ahead of them to cut timber for siege engines.
Moments later, a group of mounted Ironborn rode forward beneath the walls. They hammered sharpened stakes into the frozen earth.
Upon each stake was mounted the freshly severed head of a Northern captive.
A repetition of Cerwyn Castle's cruelty.
A deliberate strike at morale.
"Animals!" Ser Rodrik roared.
He seized a bow and loosed several arrows, but the mounted Ironborn dodged easily and retreated.
Ser Rodrik could only watch them ride away.
A crushing helplessness pressed upon him.
Too few defenders. Too long a wall. Their forces stretched thin. If no relief came, Euron would grind Winterfell down, piece by piece.
Worst of all, they were forced to watch—watch as siege works were built, watch as their people were tormented.
Fear began to spread among the defenders.
Ser Rodrik pulled Maester Luwin aside.
"We cannot hold long. We must have aid."
"I have sent every raven," Luwin replied quietly. "Now we can only hope Galon comes."
Both men turned their eyes toward the distant Wolfswood. The same thought rose unspoken between them.
Galon… where are you?
Far to the west, Galon rode hard through the snow.
Winterfell was still a day's ride away.
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