Chapter 528

The dragon circled above, its dark wings casting long shadows over the snow-covered battlements. Below, Unsullied soldiers, clad in black armor and flowing black cloaks, marched in perfect unison through the gates of Winterfell.

At long last, the stalemate had ended.

For the past week, tension had gripped Winterfell and its surroundings.

The Starks, taken prisoner overnight by overwhelming force, were the first to suffer. But they were not alone in their misfortune—Robb Stark had summoned the northern banners to Seagard, and they had arrived at Winterfell’s doorstep only to find the direwolf banners replaced by the red dragon. Expecting a battle, they instead found Lady Catelyn Stark standing alone before them.

The aging Stark matron, trudging through the deep snow, brought them shocking news: House Stark had bent the knee to Daenerys Targaryen. The war was over, and the gathered lords were to disband their armies and await further orders.

A woman alone, facing thousands of warriors—surely, she had been threatened. Surely, she spoke under duress.

But when the northern lords questioned the survivors in Winter Town, they heard a different story. Aegor and his soldiers had taken Winterfell in a single night, using weapons and tactics no one had ever seen before. Five thousand northern men had marched to break the siege, but after learning of Aegor’s might, they hesitated. Rather than launch a reckless assault, they made camp around the city, waiting for reinforcements to tip the scales.

All they needed was one Stark to escape—one heir to keep the bloodline alive. If they could not free Robb, his siblings, or his daughter, then they would march to the Wall and drag Bran Stark back to Winterfell if they had to.

Reinforcements did not take long to arrive.

The Bolton army, two thousand strong, was the next to reach Winterfell. Though their numbers were only half of the northern forces already assembled, they were better armed, better trained, and far more disciplined. Their arrival should have given the northmen confidence—until Lady Barbrey Dustin, widow of the former Lord of Barrowton, recalled Catelyn Stark’s warning.

She demanded that Roose Bolton present proof of his victory over Daenerys Targaryen.

It was a reasonable request. If Bolton had truly slain the Mad King’s daughter, then her body, or at least something of hers, should be displayed as proof. A severed head, a dragon’s scale, anything.

Yet Bolton produced nothing.

When it became clear that deception was no longer possible, he gave up the charade entirely. His soldiers unfurled new banners—red dragon on black.

What should have been a triumphant moment of unity for the North instead became an armed standoff.
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While the two armies stared each other down in the frozen wasteland outside, Aegor found little comfort inside Winterfell.

Beating Arya into submission had been a surprising success, but contrary to what some romanticized stories might suggest, one night of violence was not enough to erase the deep divide between himself and House Stark.

Roose Bolton had requested entry into Winterfell as an ally, yet Aegor had denied him under the pretense of the castle being full. The truth was simpler—he didn’t trust Roose within his walls. But politically, the situation was murkier.

Bolton had already sworn fealty to Daenerys. He was the Queen’s recognized supporter, while Aegor had forcefully occupied the North’s stronghold without permission.

If the northern army clashed with the Boltons, what was Aegor supposed to do? Step in and help the man he distrusted? Stand back and let them fight? And if the Boltons suffered losses, would he be blamed for not allowing them into the castle?

It was a delicate situation, and it was exhausting.

Aegor had gained much from his relationship with House Stark, but he had also turned their grudging respect into unyielding resentment.

To Daenerys and her council, he seemed too lenient, hesitant to crush his enemies as he should. But to the Starks, he was a liar and a traitor—someone who dared to play both villain and savior in the same breath.

His meetings with Robb since the young lord’s recovery had been nothing short of unbearable. No outright hostility, no outbursts, no insults—just polite, forced civility that masked the distrust beneath.

Even when Aegor presented Robb with undeniable proof of Bolton’s betrayal, even when he took him to the battlements to see the red dragon banners flying above the Dreadfort men, it was not enough to convince him fully.

Aegor was under no illusions—if he let his guard down, if he relaxed even slightly, the Starks would waste no time attempting to escape, or worse, plotting to kill him.

And in the end, he had only himself to blame.

There was no use complaining about it. He had chosen this path, and he would walk it to the end. Until he won, until he carved his name into history, there was no room for doubt.

At the very least, the Queen’s arrival would give him a momentary reprieve.
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Daenerys had flown north, but she did not ride her dragon into battle.

With Viserion dead and Rhaegal only just recovered, she had chosen not to strain Drogon by using him as a war steed.

But even without a queen upon his back, the dragon’s mere presence sent the northern army into retreat. The moment Drogon and Rhaegal emerged from the clouds, the besieging forces abandoned their positions and marched back toward Seagard.

With the battlefield cleared, Daenerys led her forces through Winterfell’s gates. Her white cloak stood in stark contrast to the dark banners around her as she rode into the courtyard, her royal retinue trailing behind.

The Unsullied had already secured key positions, watching the gathered “Winterfell guards” with disciplined vigilance. At the heart of the courtyard, Aegor and his officers stood beside the Stark family, waiting for the Queen’s arrival.

Missandei’s voice rang through the air, reciting Daenerys’ long list of titles. Arya glared daggers at the dragon queen, bristling at her radiant beauty. Robb’s attention, however, was elsewhere—his eyes locked onto Roose Bolton, the man who had turned against him.

Bolton, for his part, was unreadable. His expression betrayed nothing as he regarded Aegor, the man who had forced his hand.

And Aegor? He watched Varys and Littlefinger. They were the ones he needed to read.

For a moment, silence hung over the courtyard, thick and suffocating. Then, slowly, Robb Stark stepped forward.

He hesitated only once, then—like King Torrhen three centuries before him—knelt.

“I offer you Winterfell and House Stark’s loyalty,” he said, his voice strained but clear. “The North’s swords, axes, and spears are yours. As long as Your Grace rules with justice, we will follow you.”

His words echoed in the frozen air, unanswered.

Daenerys stepped forward, gazing down at the kneeling Stark heir. Satisfaction flickered across her face—but also hesitation.

In her mind, she had prepared for three possible scenarios:

One, that Aegor had fully convinced the Starks to support her.

Two, that they had been imprisoned, awaiting punishment.

Three, that Winterfell remained in enemy hands.

Instead, she found something in between.

The castle had clearly been taken—there was no mistaking the remnants of battle. But the Starks were not prisoners. They were free. They were kneeling, but not by choice.

Daenerys had accepted reluctant oaths before. But the Starks had been her family’s greatest enemies.

The silence stretched.

Robb’s injured body trembled from the cold, his knee wet with melting snow. The tension grew unbearable—until Aegor finally stepped in.

“Your Grace, the cold is bitter. Perhaps we should move inside and discuss matters further.”

His voice cut through her thoughts.

Daenerys turned her gaze to him. She understood what he was doing.

He wanted her to accept.

After a pause, she sighed.

“Rise, Lord Stark,” she said at last. “By the old gods and the new, I swear—so long as you remain loyal, you will have justice.”