Winterfell had been raised by Brandon the Builder, legends claiming giants themselves had helped lift its stones.
The castle was protected by two immense granite walls with a moat running between them.
The outer wall stood nearly eighty feet high, the inner wall even taller.
The gatehouse consisted of twin massive towers guarding the drawbridge that led toward the market square.
There were four gates in total: the main gate, the Hunter's Gate, and the North and South Gates.
Within the inner wall ran a narrow passage that stretched across much of the castle, allowing defenders to move swiftly from the South Gate to the North Gate in support.
It was, in every sense, a fortress armed to the teeth.
Under normal circumstances, if provisions were sufficient, eight or nine hundred soldiers would be enough to hold Winterfell indefinitely.
Short of dragons descending from the sky, even thirty or forty thousand men besieging it for months would struggle to break it.
History under House Stark had proven this time and again.
Euron Greyjoy understood this truth.
But he also understood how hollow Winterfell was at this moment.
After seizing Torrhen's Square by stratagem, Euron had burned and pillaged his way north, partly to satisfy his own cruel desires, partly to bait Winterfell into sending forces to meet him in the field.
None had come.
Even after Cerwyn Castle fell, no Stark host appeared.
That told him everything.
Winterfell was dangerously undermanned.
"The wolf pup stripped his own den bare to avenge his father," Euron muttered with a thin smile as he observed the sparse defenders along the battlements.
Dusk approached.
"Aeron," Euron ordered, "leave five hundred men here to oversee the sheep assembling siege engines. We attack at first light."
Aeron hesitated.
"We do not wait for Asha? If all goes well, she should join us within days."
Euron's single eye slid toward him.
Aeron flinched despite himself. Since drinking the shade-of-the-evening earlier, the visions still clung to his mind, deepening his dread.
"We cannot linger," Euron said calmly. "The wolf pup has taken most of Winterfell's strength south. Only the old, the weak, and scraps remain."
"If we strike now, the walls will fall quickly.
If we wait for Asha, we grant them days to prepare. They will have sent ravens. Reinforcements may be coming."
Mad though he was, Euron's mind remained razor sharp. He understood that speed was everything.
Aeron considered it and nodded slowly.
"Is Stark mad? To leave so few behind?"
Euron did not know the reason.
Had Galon stood beside him, he might have understood the chain of choices that led here: Robb taking more men south after leaving Glover's forces behind, draining Winterfell further.
But Euron did not need the explanation.
He saw opportunity.
"Have the captives build ladders and rams," he continued. "Tonight, we harry their sleep."
"If fortune favors us, we feast in Winterfell tomorrow."
His confidence stirred the men around him.
Aeron rode off with part of the host and their captives toward the Wolfswood to fell timber.
Euron led the rest, along with his silent crew from the Silence, to camp at Winter Town.
Upon the walls, Ser Rodrik exhaled in relief as the Ironborn withdrew for the moment.
"It seems he means to build engines first," he said to Maester Luwin. "We still have time."
"I will send more ravens," Luwin replied. "We must urge every bannerman."
Ser Rodrik nodded and turned to his duties.
From now on, each gate would have no fewer than fifty men.
The kennel hounds would be kept hungry; if the gates fell, the dogs would be loosed upon the enemy.
Even so, the shortage of men gnawed at him.
In the end, he found himself counting on the castle's hundred hounds as part of his defense.
Meanwhile, Maester Luwin went to the crypts to retrieve Sansa and the Cerwyn children.
He escorted them back to the keep. Bran, who had been sleeping, was carefully laid upon his bed.
Of late, Bran's constant drowsiness troubled Luwin. He slept through nights and drifted into slumber again by day. No remedy the maester tried could explain it.
Sansa feared her brother might one day simply never wake.
When the servants withdrew, Bran's eyes opened.
He smiled faintly at the sight of Sansa's forced composure.
"You do not look like Mother when you try to," he said.
Sansa gasped with relief.
"Bran, you're awake!"
She sat beside him and clasped his cold hand, pouring out her fears. "The Ironborn have surrounded Winterfell. No aid has come."
Bran listened, his eyes distant and strangely knowing.
"Do not worry, Sansa," he said softly. "We will be safe."
His voice took on an odd cadence, like something echoing from far away.
"All will come in time.
When the red comet burns across the sky, the child of the old gods will rise.
We will live to see it."
Sansa blinked, not fully understanding. Yet his certainty eased her heart.
"Did your crow tell you that in a dream?" she teased gently.
Bran nodded solemnly.
"Yes. And more."
He hesitated, recalling a blurred image from his visions. "I saw you become the most honored woman in the world."
Sansa burst into laughter.
"You sound like a little prophet."
She ruffled his hair, and Bran groaned.
"I am the Three-Eyed Crow guiding the chosen of the old gods. Show some respect."
"Yes, my little crow," she said playfully. "Would you like something to eat?"
"Buttered fish," Bran answered immediately.
Sansa rose to have the servants prepare it.
As darkness deepened, Euron ordered his men to circle Winterfell, shouting, clashing steel, and beating drums.
All through the night, they kept the castle awake.
Winterfell did not sleep.
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