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Chapter 506
🕑 Added 2025-01-29 17:13:18 +0000 UTCLeaning against the railing on the second floor of the guest wing, Arya Stark gazed down at the chaos engulfing Winterfell.
She wished this was all just a terrible dream, but every time she woke up, she found herself still trapped in it.
The gates of the castle stood wide open as waves of refugees poured inside. Soldiers clad in mismatched armor rushed about, fortifying defenses, while the training grounds—normally reserved for the castle's garrison—had been transformed into a bustling camp. Men, women, and children were unloading their belongings and pitching tents under the direction of officers.
Winter had descended in full force, and over ten thousand Northerners from the nearby winter town, huddled there to endure the cold together, now sought shelter within the castle walls after hearing the news of the Gift's rebellion. But Winterfell could not accommodate so many people. After consulting with his commanders, Robb Stark had ordered the residents to be divided: those able to travel were sent toward Cerwyn and Torrhen’s Square, while the elderly, the infirm, and those who could contribute to the castle’s defenses—along with skilled workers—were allowed to take refuge within the fortress.
To make room for as many as possible, every inch of space in the castle was utilized. Even the Stark siblings had been asked to vacate their personal chambers and share rooms. Robb, as their elder brother, had insisted on it.
But Arya cared little about sharing a bed with Sansa, despite how irritating that was. What burned in her now was an inexpressible mix of anger and humiliation.
Weeks ago, in Crown’s Hill, she had heard rumors that Aegor Wester had bent the knee to the Mad King’s daughter. Enraged, she had sworn to herself never to speak to that liar again. Her fury had burned hot but faded quickly. Once safely back in Winterfell, with the quiet days stretching on, Arya had begun inventing excuses for him in her head. Maybe it’s all a ruse, she thought. Maybe he swore allegiance to the Mad Queen to trick her into using her dragons against the dead. Once the war is over, he’ll do exactly as he promised me: kick her aside and return to being the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch—the Seven Kingdoms’ faithful guardian and a loyal friend to the Starks.
In her vivid imagination, Arya had even rehearsed how she would reluctantly forgive him after his heartfelt apology. She’d make him swear to dissolve her marriage contract, allow her to become the first female member of the Night’s Watch, and—of course—take her on a journey to see the world.
But none of her imagined scenarios came true. Instead, what she got was the shocking news that Aegor had raised a Wildling army, declared open rebellion, and was marching straight for Winterfell.
Unlike Robb or the men like Ser Rodrik or Lord Cerwyn, who were focused on how to defend the castle, counter the threat of dragons, or crush the Night’s Watch uprising, Arya’s mind was consumed by a singular question: had everything Aegor done for her—his kindness, his protection, his companionship—been a lie? Was it all an act to bring him to this moment?
Am I so unlikable that the only reason people tolerate me is because I’m a Stark? Arya thought bitterly. And the moment someone more valuable comes along, I’m discarded like trash?
Her mind dredged up painful memories. In King’s Landing, her supposed friend Margaery Tyrell had poisoned her father. Now, another man she had trusted—perhaps the one she trusted most besides her family—was leading a rebellion against House Stark. Was she cursed? Was she born to bring disaster to those she loved?
As these thoughts churned, tears welled up in her eyes. Arya blinked rapidly, determined not to cry. I’m Arya Stark, one of the finest swordswomen in the Seven Kingdoms! She would not answer betrayal with tears. She would answer it with Needle.
Sniffling, she noticed Maester Luwin rushing across the courtyard below, heading toward the Great Hall. His urgency gave her pause. What’s happening now?
Though she wanted nothing more than to march out and stab Aegor herself, Arya knew he was still miles away, well beyond her reach. With nothing else to do, she bolted down the stairs, sprinting across the yard to catch up with the maester.
“Maester Luwin! Is there news from the north?” she called.
Arya hoped desperately that the maester would tell her the warnings had been a mistake, that Aegor was still at Castle Black doing his duty. But Luwin glanced back at her, shook his head, and replied, “Not from the north, Arya. From the east.”
“What is it?” she asked.
The maester shook his head again, his tone firm. “This is no time for children to be running about. Go back to your room and stay there. The castle is crowded and not entirely safe.”
“I just want to help!” Arya protested.
But Luwin ignored her, hurrying up the steps to the Great Hall. Two guards stopped him at the door, though they were polite, given his long years of service.
“Maester Luwin, the lords are discussing strategy and have ordered no interruptions,” one guard explained.
“I bear urgent news from the Dreadfort. It concerns the war,” Luwin replied.
The guards exchanged a look, then rapped on the door. “Lord Robb, Maester Luwin is here with important news from the Dreadfort!”
A muffled voice granted entry, and the guards opened the door. Arya darted in after Luwin before anyone could stop her.
“Arya, what are you doing here?” Robb demanded, frowning.
“I... I just want to listen. I promise I won’t interrupt,” Arya replied quickly.
Robb gave her a sharp look but waved her off, turning his attention back to Luwin. “Is it good news or bad?”
“Lord Bolton has sent word,” Luwin began. “His patrols have confirmed the Gift’s forces are on the move. Furthermore, he has verified that the Queen and her dragons remain at Last Hearth, and the Dreadfort’s dragon-hunting scorpions are nearly assembled. He requests your permission to launch an attack on Last Hearth once preparations are complete, with the goal of eliminating the Queen and her dragons in one strike.”
Everyone at the map table straightened in shock, their eyes fixed on Luwin.
Robb took the letter from the maester, reading it twice to be sure. The frustration on his face gave way to determination. “Bolton claims he’ll muster three thousand men and four or five scorpions to launch a surprise attack on Last Hearth and take out the Mad King’s daughter in one blow.”
“Is that even possible?” Ser Rodrik exclaimed. “The plans only arrived days ago! How could they have built them so quickly?”
“Perhaps the Dreadfort already had siege weapons and modified them,” Cerwyn speculated. “That would be faster than building from scratch. But why risk an attack on the Queen? Shouldn’t Bolton bring his forces here to defend Winterfell?”
Luwin nodded in agreement. “Shall I write to Lord Bolton, instructing him to join forces with Lord Karstark and march here instead?”
Robb shook his head after a long pause. “Bolton may be an outsider, but he’s reliable. If he says he’s ready, I believe him. And if his plan fails... we may have to do what Torrhen Stark once did.” He sighed deeply, meeting Arya’s gaze briefly before continuing. “If the Queen proves undefeatable, I’ll have no choice but to bend the knee and pledge the North’s allegiance to her.”
Arya clenched her fists at the thought but said nothing. She wasn’t sure what she wanted anymore: Aegor’s defeat or his survival. Both possibilities felt equally unbearable. With no clear answer, she stomped her foot in frustration and stormed out of the hall.
