Chapter 520

The creaking of axles broke the stillness as a caravan of horse-drawn carts rolled through Winterfell's shattered gates. Large and small, the carts left pale tracks in the frosted ground, their cargo hidden beneath thick, snow-resistant tarps. The items were guarded with the reverence one might show a sacred relic, their escorts vigilant as they surrounded the vehicles. Even the Gift army soldiers, who had stormed and taken Winterfell the night before, instinctively stepped aside, offering salutes as an air of gravity spread through the crowd.

The procession passed the recently cleared eastern gate, rolled across the courtyard where a mix of civilians, prisoners, and soldiers milled about, and finally came to a halt beneath the armory.

The guards pulled back the tarps, revealing an array of seemingly mundane but strangely imposing items: rods, barrels, crates, and other unrecognizable equipment. The soldiers busied themselves unloading the carts, carefully carrying the supplies into the armory. Among the objects, one piece stood out—an enormous, dark green metallic cylinder, gleaming faintly in the pale light. Its hollow, blackened muzzle and sheer weight required five or six men to lift it using slings and rods. The mere sight of it, along with the physical strain on the porters, exuded an indescribable sense of foreboding and power.

“Is that a battering ram?” one of the Stark prisoners murmured as the scene unfolded.

“Doesn’t seem likely,” another replied skeptically. “The main gate isn’t thick enough to need something like that. You could use a tree trunk for the same job. But this thing—it looks like bronze.”

“Maybe it’s some kind of magic tool,” someone else suggested nervously. “Those explosions last night at the east and north gates—what if that’s how they broke through? Maybe it’s that sorceress from Asshai.”

The mention of sorcery sent a shiver through the group. For many of the prisoners, last night’s events were still a blur—fragments of explosions, flames, and chaos. If this device had anything to do with what they witnessed, the implications were chilling.

“You think they’ll use that to attack the keep?” one battered prisoner, still nursing bruises from the fight, exclaimed in horror. “The main door to the keep isn’t even half as strong as the outer gates! If they use something like that, it’ll tear through everything! No one inside would survive!”

The prisoner’s alarm spread quickly. The Gift army’s previous restraint—sparing civilians, treating prisoners humanely, and even offering warm meals that morning—had initially lulled the captives into a false sense of security. Many had hoped the longstanding friendship between the Night’s Watch and the North might shield them from further harm. But now, with this monstrous weapon in play, fear surged back, threatening to turn the crowd into a restless, mutinous mob.

The commotion was quickly noticed by one of the Gift officers.
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Rion, a member of Aegor’s personal guard and a mid-ranking officer during wartime, stepped forward. His sharp gaze swept over the crowd as he barked, “What’s all this noise about?”

One of the guards replied, “Sir, this one here started yelling about saving the Starks, saying the commander shouldn’t be reckless.”

Rion’s eyes settled on the defiant prisoner, who pushed forward despite his injuries. “You’re in charge, aren’t you?” the man said boldly. “Let me see your commander. There has to be another way to resolve this!”

Rion studied the prisoner briefly, piecing together the situation. With a calm yet commanding gesture, he raised his arms and addressed the entire group.

“Listen up! I know many of you are worried about the safety of your friends and the Stark family inside the keep. But I can assure you, our commander has made it clear: no one else will die in Winterfell today. Not one more soul.”

His voice carried across the courtyard, steady and firm. “Yes, we’ve found ourselves on opposite sides today, forced into this fight by circumstances beyond our control. But the Night’s Watch—whether as brothers on the Wall or now as the Gift army—has always been true to its word. Trust that, if nothing else.”

The murmuring subsided slightly, though tension still hung in the air. Rion pressed on. “You’ve stood here long enough. Soon, you’ll be moved to warmer quarters—either the main hall or back to Deepwinter Town. If all goes well, by nightfall, we will no longer be enemies.”

With that, he turned to the defiant prisoner. “As for you, if you have something urgent to say to the commander, you’ll come with me. Guards, bring him.”

The guards escorted the man, his head held high, away from the group. The restless energy among the prisoners began to dissipate, leaving behind only a faint sense of unease.
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Meanwhile, inside the armory, Aegor supervised the cannon assembly with quiet intensity. This would be the weapon’s first live test in battle, and it had to succeed.

Winterfell’s keep was built like a fortress within a fortress, its granite walls designed to repel direct assaults. The sole entrance was a raised, fortified bridge connecting the keep to the armory. Without complete control of the armory, no enemy could hope to breach the keep.

Aegor had hoped to avoid violence, seeking a negotiated surrender instead. But with Robb Stark unconscious and his own reputation as a “chameleon” undermining trust, the defenders refused to open the gates. Time was running out. Reinforcements from Sevenfields could arrive within the day, and Aegor’s tenuous hold on Winterfell would be tested anew.

Reluctantly, he had resolved to proceed with his fallback plan: intimidation through firepower.
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The Gift army had brought five cannons on this campaign, hastily produced in the experimental foundries of the Gift. These “Gift-class” cannons were crude, front-loading smoothbores with a caliber between four and five pounds—not particularly powerful by modern standards, but sufficient for breaching wooden gates. Of the five, only one had been assembled inside the armory and aimed at the keep’s entrance.

The cannon was positioned with care, its barrel pointed directly at the keep’s door just forty meters away. The gunners loaded the weapon meticulously, filling the chamber with powdered black powder before packing in a fist-sized iron ball.

“All set, Commander,” the lead gunner reported.

Aegor gave a curt nod. “Fire.”

The gunner lit the fuse, and with a sharp crack, the cannon roared to life. Flame and smoke erupted from the muzzle as the iron ball shot forward, tearing through the morning air.

Its target: the ancient wooden gates of Winterfell’s keep.