Chapter 521

A stationary target, forty meters away, with no enemy interference…

Under such ideal conditions, it was no surprise that the cannon’s first shot hit its mark. A mere 0.2 seconds after the projectile left the barrel, the sound of impact echoed back into the armory. As the smoke cleared, Aegor examined the hit and was slightly surprised: even with a reduced powder charge, the shell effortlessly pierced the wooden gate, punching through with a long crack splintering along the grain. Whether this was due to shoddy craftsmanship or the sheer destructive power of this modern weapon, Aegor couldn't be sure.

Hopefully, no one was standing behind the door, Aegor thought. Without dwelling on it, he nodded and gave the order: “Continue. Fire three more rounds.”

The crew reset the cannon, cleaned the barrel, and reloaded—there was no rush. Aegor wasn’t planning to storm the keep, so there was no need for rapid fire. In fact, the deliberate pace was intentional, giving those inside the keep ample time to absorb the terrifying reality of their situation—the utter vulnerability of old fortifications against such weapons. Within ten minutes, the crew had fired four shots in total, each one reverberating across the structures and walls of Winterfell, leaving the world seemingly reduced to the thunderous roar of cannon fire.

Shortly after the fourth shot, Aegor’s requested guest was brought to the armory's second floor.

Maester Luwin entered with a bruised cheek, a souvenir from the previous night when soldiers of the Gift had stormed his tower while he was releasing ravens. He was lucky to be alive—Aegor had placed a bounty of ten gold dragons for capturing him unharmed. Without that incentive, the rough-and-tumble soldiers might not have been so restrained.

“Lord Aegor!” Luwin hurried toward him, his tone urgent and sincere. “You’ve already taken Winterfell; there’s no need for further bloodshed. Please allow me to negotiate the castle’s surrender—I’m certain Lady Catelyn can be persuaded to yield the keep!”

“That’s exactly why I summoned you,” Aegor replied, his demeanor calm and amicable. He gestured to the pile of cannonballs and powder kegs behind him. “You’ve heard the sound; there’s no need for further demonstration. I can destroy the keep’s gate—or level the entire fortress—if I choose. I’ve ceased fire only because I wish to avoid harming anyone inside. Convey this to Lady Stark and urge her to make the wise decision.”

Luwin eagerly nodded, rushing out the door toward the keep as if afraid Aegor might change his mind if he delayed. Raising his hands to show he was unarmed, the maester approached the shattered gate and began negotiating through one of the cannon-made holes. The conversation lasted a while, with occasional muffled shouting audible from the other side.

Aegor waited patiently, neither hurrying Luwin nor straining to listen. He had made his point, and Luwin was the most rational choice as an envoy. If those inside still refused to surrender… well, Aegor would cross that bridge when he came to it.

Fortunately, the decision was made for him. About an hour after the fourth cannon blast, the gate—battered and scorched—creaked open just enough to allow a procession to emerge.

Leading the group were a handful of unarmed soldiers, demonstrating their surrender. Their numbers were fewer than Aegor had anticipated; the Gift soldiers’ precision strike on the armory the previous night had left little time for defenders to retreat to the keep. Behind them came a cluster of stewards and servants, complying with Aegor’s demand to evacuate the keep. Finally, the Stark family appeared, flanked by both groups.

At the forefront was young Rickon Stark. With Bran having joined the Night’s Watch and Robb incapacitated as a prisoner, the eight-year-old was the highest-ranking Stark male in the keep and had been thrust into the role of temporary head of the family.

Following him closely was Lady Catelyn Stark, her hand resting on Rickon’s shoulder as if guiding him forward. Though her son led the group, it was clear to everyone that she was the true authority for now.

Next was Roslin Frey, Robb’s wife, holding her infant daughter Lyanna in her arms—a namesake of Robb’s long-deceased aunt. The young woman clutched the child protectively, as though afraid Aegor might snatch her away.

Further back were the Stark daughters, Sansa and Arya, accompanied by Myrcella Baratheon, now effectively a hostage in Winterfell. Maester Luwin, his mission complete, joined the group midway, gripping Arya’s arm and murmuring anxiously. The maester knew better than anyone that Arya and Rickon were the most likely to cause trouble, and since Catelyn already had Rickon in hand, it fell to him to watch over Arya.

“Commander,” Rickon mumbled, pouting as he recited the words his mother had taught him. “On behalf of House Stark, I surrender Winterfell to you. It’s yours.”

Aegor smiled faintly and motioned for his soldiers to escort the surrendered servants and guards away from the armory. Another detachment moved past the Starks into the keep, beginning a thorough search for anyone still in hiding. Only then did Aegor step forward, his expression warm and unthreatening, as he looked over the Starks one by one.

Catelyn’s face was a mask of stoicism. Rickon glared petulantly. Roslin clung tightly to her child. Sansa stared at the ground, trembling slightly. Myrcella cast a quick, wary glance at Aegor before lowering her gaze. Even Arya, the firebrand he had most expected to lash out, turned her head away, silent and inscrutable.

All of them acted predictably—except Arya. Her uncharacteristic silence unnerved Aegor, but there was no time to dwell on it.

Breaking the tense silence, he spoke. “Ladies and gentlemen, I regret that our meeting had to occur under such violent circumstances. I ask your forgiveness. However, Roose Bolton has pledged loyalty to Queen Daenerys and is already marching here. As a friend of House Stark, I had to secure Winterfell before his arrival to ensure none of you would come to harm.”

This wasn’t entirely true—Aegor had no confirmed reports of Bolton’s movements. But he couldn’t admit to attacking Winterfell based on mere speculation. He despised the kind of melodramatic misunderstandings that drove people who should have been allies into senseless conflict. To avoid such a fate, he preferred to lay his cards on the table, even if some of them were bluffing.

“Where’s Shaggydog?” Rickon suddenly demanded, uninterested in Aegor’s explanation.

The question caught Aegor off guard. As far as he knew, Shaggydog had been killed the previous night when soldiers searching the godswood were attacked by “a giant dog.” It had taken more than ten men to bring the beast down, but how could he break this news to a child?

Your wolf is dead? Too blunt.

It died bravely, fighting to the end? Who knows if a child could appreciate such a sentiment?

If Rickon threw a tantrum, how would he handle it?

“Thank you for your kindness, Lord Aegor,” Catelyn interjected, rescuing him from the awkward moment. She had guessed the truth from his hesitation but knew that, for now, survival took precedence over mourning a direwolf. “We will cooperate fully with your requests. Please, spare the innocent townsfolk.”

“You honor me, my lady,” Aegor replied. “The North is a friend to the Gift, and you are not prisoners. You will remain in the keep as before, under my protection, until Lady Catelyn or Robb agrees with me on the next steps. Once we have a plan, I will leave, and life here can return to normal.”

“Where is Robb?” Catelyn asked, her voice breaking slightly as Aegor’s words hinted at her son’s condition.

“He’s in the next room. You can see him yourself,” Aegor said, gesturing for his men to escort the Stark children back to their chambers. “Ensure everyone has a room of their own, except for Lady Roslin and her child. Treat them well.”

He turned back to Catelyn, offering a hand. “Lady Stark, if you would follow me…”