The next morning arrived early.
The dawn sunlight failed to bring even a hint of warmth. Instead, it illuminated the dark mass of the Ironborn army outside Winterfell with cruel clarity.
Euron's night-long harassment had worked.
The Northern defenders atop the walls were hollow-eyed, their hands trembling with exhaustion and tension as they gripped their weapons.
Ser Rodrik had not slept a wink either.
He leaned on his sword, forcing himself to patrol the defensive line and using a raspy voice to bolster his men's spirits.
However, his own aged face was etched with deep weariness.
Euron, arriving on horseback before the Hunter's Gate, gave them no chance to breathe.
He did not target the main gate, choosing instead to launch an assault on the relatively weaker side entrance.
"Bring up the ladders! Begin the attack!"
With a low blast from a sea-horn, the first wave began.
The Ironborn drove Northern captives forward to carry dozens of crude ladders, hastily constructed overnight, toward the outer walls of Winterfell.
"Archers, ready..."
Ser Rodrik commanded the bowmen to draw. He waited until the ladders entered range before abruptly waving his hand.
"Loose!"
Whish!
A dense thicket of arrows hissed downward.
In an instant, a portion of the Northern captives were struck, falling to the ground with their fates unknown.
Ser Rodrik could not afford pity. He continued to command the archers to fire.
However, taking advantage of the gap while the archers notched new arrows, the Ironborn managed to set several ladders against the outer walls.
Immediately, a group of howling Ironborn began to scramble upward.
"They're coming up! Hold the line!"
Ser Rodrik's roar was like a spark cast into dry tinder, instantly igniting the battle atop the walls.
The defenders forced themselves into action, straining to push the ladders away from the battlements or dropping heavy stones down the rungs.
Amid screams of agony, the climbing Ironborn fell heavily to the ground below.
But more Ironborn climbed on, fearless of death. Particularly the mute crewmen from the Silence.
They moved with ghostly speed, bracing their shields and rushing upward regardless of casualties.
Soon, the first breach appeared.
A few Ironborn leaped onto the battlements with feral shouts, immediately becoming locked in a chaotic melee with the defenders.
"For Greyjoy!"
"For Stark!"
The combat turned white-hot in an instant.
Though those first few Ironborn were quickly cut down, more followed them over the wall.
Both sides engaged in a desperate struggle for every inch of the battlements. The wall became a bloody corridor of death.
The dull thud of blades hacking into bone, the wails of the dying, the roars of soldiers, and the piercing clash of steel blended into a cruel, cold symphony.
Blood splashed against the ancient stone walls, quickly congealing into dark red icy crusts in the freezing air.
Ser Rodrik was old but formidable, standing like an anchor in the most dangerous sectors.
Every time he swung his sword, an Ironborn fell.
His calm presence under pressure greatly encouraged the garrison. Whenever a soldier fell, another stepped forward from the rear to fill the gap.
Though the Ironborn offensive came in waves like the sea, Ser Rodrik and his men held them firmly at bay.
Time passed slowly through the carnage.
From dawn until noon, the defenders relied solely on their will to protect their home and the advantage of the walls to endure.
Their strength was draining rapidly, and their casualties continued to mount. Every repulsed attack was merely a brief interval bought for the next, more violent assault.
Euron did not personally lead the charge. He watched the war of attrition from a distance, his face devoid of expression.
Only the movement of his eyes showed he was calculating something.
He glanced at the sky and murmured, "Close enough. It's time for the appetizer."
He turned to Aeron, who was supervising the battle.
"Have them blow the horn. Pull the men back. Let the captives push the ram to break the gatehouse."
Aeron immediately went to carry out the order.
Soon, with a long blast of the horn, the Ironborn assault suddenly stalled.
They stopped their suicidal climbing and retreated one by one, dragging the ladders back with them.
"They're retreating? They're finally retreating?"
A young soldier slid down against a battlement, nearly collapsing from exhaustion.
But Ser Rodrik's heart sank.
On the other side of the Hunter's Gate, a battering ram reinforced with thick tree trunks and iron from the Winter Town smithy was being slowly pushed forward by captives.
"Quickly, prepare the boiling oil!" Ser Rodrik screamed.
As the captives pushed the ram beneath the gate, Ser Rodrik could clearly see the despair on their faces. He ignored it and shouted his orders.
"Archers! Target the men pushing the ram!"
"Boiling oil. Pour!"
Scalding oil cascaded down, drenching the front of the ram and the crowd around it.
Shrill, agonizing screams echoed across the battlefield, and the stench of burnt flesh filled the air.
Ser Rodrik paid it no mind. He took a torch from a nearby soldier and hurled it downward.
The flames ignited instantly, turning the head of the ram into a massive torch and consuming the Ironborn and captives around it.
The defenders felt no joy, only a brutal numbness. Many of those they had just burned were Northmen.
However, in that brief moment while the fire raged and attention was drawn to the flames, the Ironborn at the rear of the ram, those untouched by the blaze, launched a final, frantic surge.
Boom!
The heavy head of the ram, carrying flames and tremendous force, slammed violently into the Hunter's Gate.
Ser Rodrik felt the ground tremble beneath his boots.
Again and again the Ironborn drove the burning ram forward like mad giants.
Finally, with a thunderous crack and the splintering of wood, the heavy outer doors of the Hunter's Gate were smashed open, leaving a twisted gap large enough for several men to pass through.
Fire still burned. Thick smoke poured into the city through the breach.
Outside, the Ironborn howled in savage triumph.
Though the inner portcullis remained closed and the fire temporarily blocked entry, the damage had been done.
Winterfell's sturdy shell had been cracked.
Ser Rodrik stared at the smoking breach, his face dark with concern.
The morale gained from repelling the ladders vanished instantly, replaced by deeper exhaustion and the crushing pressure of an enemy who had tasted hope.
What unsettled him even more was that Crow's Eye did not press the advantage.
The Ironborn slowly withdrew toward the Wolfswood, seemingly intent on constructing more rams to break the inner gate.
The afternoon sun turned cold, shining upon the corpses scattered across the walls and field alike, as though pressing a brief pause upon this brutal siege.
Everyone knew.
The most dangerous moment would come with the fall of night.
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