"Boom~"
The mont Luke finished speaking, Sansa Stark's mind went completely blank, as if struck by lightning.
What had she just heard?
Her brother Robb Stark and her mother Catelyn Tully… were dead?
The Northern army had been defeated and was fleeing north?
She couldn't believe it.
She snatched the letter from Luke's hand. Her hands trembled so badly she could barely hold the light sheet of paper. She looked down, and the words jumped into her eyes one by one, then blurred together:
House Frey of the Twins had betrayed them. At the wedding, they murdered Robb Stark and many Northern nobles… Lady Catelyn was also unfortunately killed…
Tears poured out like a spring.
She cried until she beca a tearful ss, but made no sound at all.
She had only just lost her father not long ago. Her sister Arya's fate was still unknown. Now, her brother and mother were also dead.
Her grief had reached its limit. This girl could no longer cry out loud. She bit down hard on her own fist, her teeth sinking into the flesh, but she felt no pain.
Luke pulled her into his arms.
He felt great heartache for this girl, but didn't know what to say.
In a way, the tragedy of the "Red Wedding" was partly his fault: he had not intervened and had allowed it to happen.
But Robb Stark was also to bla for not submitting to House Jaqenion!
He gently patted her back and said nothing.
Sansa cried herself unconscious in his arms.
What she didn't know was that at this mont, the North and Winterfell were facing yet another catastrophe.
The Iron Islands.
The night tide surged from between the rocks of the Iron Islands, lifting a hundred longships onto the crests of the waves.
Balon Greyjoy stood on the swaying bridge of Pyke, watching the sails rise one after another, like a flock of black seabirds spreading their wings.
His daughter Asha stood beside him, the throwing axe at her waist glinting coldly in the moonlight.
"The North is now nothing but an empty shell," Balon's voice was as rough as salt grains. "Robb took all the wolf pups south with him. Only a flock of sheep remain at ho."
Asha did not reply. She simply watched the sails disappear into the night, then turned and walked down the swaying bridge. Her warship, Black Wind, was waiting below.
This was the first ti she was leading a fleet on her own. A thousand ironborn followed her, with the target being Deepwood Motte on the west coast of the North.
Theon Greyjoy stood at the edge of the dock, watching his sister's fleet and the massive Black Wind with extre envy. Then he turned his head and stared blankly at his own ship… Sea Bitch.
He had only a pitiful two hundred n under him.
He was sent to raid a few villages along the Stony Shore, like a child being sent to collect seashells.
Three days later.
Asha's longship sailed into the waters south of Bear Island.
The morning mist had not yet dispersed when the towers of Deepwood Motte beca faintly visible.
This castle belonged to House Glover, but its lord was currently with Robb fighting at the Trident. Only the old, weak, won, children, and a few dozen guards remained in the castle.
Asha drew her throwing axe and pointed it toward the reef on the shore.
"Ironborn," her voice rang clearly in the sea wind, "show them what it ans to pay the iron price."
Stony Shore.
Theon stood at the prow, watching the grey reefs draw closer, his chest feeling as heavy as a stone.
He had not seen the coastline of the Iron Islands for ten years, nor heard the sound of waves crashing against rocks for ten years. Now that he had finally returned, he felt like a stranger.
"After we land, take your n and raid a few villages," Dagr said to him, the scar on his mouth opening and closing as he spoke. "Create chaos so they think it's just ordinary raiding."
Theon nodded.
But what he was thinking about was not raiding.
He was thinking about Winterfell.
That castle where he had lived for ten years, those people he had once fought alongside. If he really captured Winterfell, would his father still say he "dresses like a Southerner and talks like a Southerner"?
He went ashore and disappeared into the night of the North with his n.
No one knew where he was going.
When the news of Torrhen's Square reached Winterfell, Ser Rodrik was having dinner.
A ssenger burst into the hall, sweating profusely: "Ironborn! Ironborn have landed on the Stony Shore! They are marching toward Torrhen's Square!"
Ser Rodrik put down the bread in his hand and stood up. He was the castellan of Winterfell, Ser Rodrik Cassel, with white hair, but his back was straight as a rod.
He looked toward Bran Stark beside him… the boy sitting in the wheelchair, eldest son of Lord Ned, only ten years old this year.
"I must lead troops to relieve Torrhen's Square," he said. "The ironborn have many n. I need to take most of the garrison."
Bran nodded.
He tried hard to look like a true Stark, but his fingers gripped the arms of the wheelchair tightly, his knuckles turning white.
Ser Rodrik left with six hundred n. Together with three hundred from House Cerwyn, nearly a thousand n disappeared down the southern road.
Winterfell's walls still stood tall.
But behind the walls, only a few dozen servants and a handful of old, weak, and disabled soldiers remained.
That night, Bran had a dream.
He dread of a three-eyed crow circling above his head. He dread that in the crypts beneath Winterfell, the stone statues of all the past kings turned their heads, all looking in the sa direction.
When he woke up, the sky had not yet brightened.
But the castle gates had already been opened from the inside.
Theon stood before the main keep of Winterfell, looking at the place he had once considered ho.
Behind him were thirty ironborn, their knives still dripping with blood. The few night guards now lay beneath the walls, never to wake again.
The gates closed behind him.
He stepped into the hall.
The torches were still burning, and the fire in the hearth was still lit. On the dining table lay half a loaf of unfinished bread, a wine cup overturned beside it, the red wine dripping down the table onto the stone floor.
He suddenly rembered his childhood, sitting at this table with Robb, listening to Lady Catelyn tell old legends. He rembered Lord Ned's hands — the hands that had taught him to hold a sword, the hands that had never truly treated him as an outsider.
But now, Eddard was dead.
He continued walking forward.
At the end of the hall, Bran's empty wheelchair stood there.
The boy was gone. He had been carried away through a secret passage. With him had fled the fat boy Rickon, the wildling girl Osha, and two wolves.
Theon stopped.
He had won.
He had captured Winterfell. He was a true ironborn now.
But as he stood in the center of the empty hall, listening to the wind howling outside the windows, he suddenly didn't know who he was.
To prove himself, Theon decided to occupy Winterfell. He casually found two children's corpses, burned them, and claid they were "Bran Stark" and "Rickon Stark," declaring that House Stark's bloodline had been extinguished!
He plunged Winterfell into despair!
To make his rule more secure, he also publicly executed Maester Luwin, then delivered a passionate speech to the ironborn who had followed him…
At the sa ti as Theon captured Winterfell, Victarion's fleet had already sailed south along the east coast of the North.
He commanded the most elite warships of the Iron Islands, each loaded with fully ard ironborn. Their target was Moat Cailin, the ancient fortress guarding the Neck — the vital passage to the south.
When his longships appeared on the sea outside Moat Cailin, the faces of the defenders all turned pale.
Moat Cailin had only twenty n left. Twenty n guarding a stretch of ruined towers several miles long. Legend said twenty archers could hold it. Now there really were twenty archers.
But they only had twenty n.
When Victarion's ships landed, the archers only managed to loose two volleys. Then the ironborn charged into the fortress. Blades flashed, and twenty heads rolled onto the damp earth.
Victarion stood atop the highest tower, looking south. The road leading to Winterfell wound away into the distance, empty.
"Raise the banners," he said. "Let the Northerners know their ho is no longer theirs to return to."
Three pieces of news rang out across the North at the sa ti:
One ca from the Stony Shore: Theon Greyjoy had captured Winterfell.
One ca from the Neck: Moat Cailin had fallen, and the north-south passage was cut off.
One ca from the south: The King in the North, Robb Stark, was dead.
The wind rose.
The snow in the North began to fall heavier.
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