Chapter 519

Across countless miles of space, the fusion-born light of this system's central star stubbornly pierced through the thick northern clouds, heralding a new day for the North.

Under the dim and somber morning light, Winterfell’s ancient walls now bore the black banners of the Gift army alongside the red three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.

After spending the night clearing out the remaining defenders and securing every corner of the castle—even searching the Stark family crypts—Aegor finally departed the command post in Deepwinter Town. Surrounded by a protective detachment of reserve soldiers who had yet to see action, he walked toward the castle he had visited countless times before but entered in conquest for the very first time.

The smoldering ruins of the stables no longer emitted even the faintest wisp of smoke. The scattered horses, frightened and chaotic hours earlier, had been rounded up. Inside the now-ruined outer gates, the courtyard was a scene of desolation, littered with debris and captured soldiers. Under the watchful gaze of the Gift troops, the defeated defenders were forced into lines, awaiting their fate.

Most of them, still dazed, couldn’t fathom how they had lost. A few, however, recognized Aegor as he approached the gates, their expressions twisting with anger and contempt. Two particularly brazen captives cursed him as a "chameleon" and spat in his direction. Their defiance earned no cheers from their comrades—only a swift, punishing blow from a guard’s spear shaft, sending them sprawling to the frozen ground.

Aegor didn’t waste energy acknowledging their insults. He had far more pressing matters to address.

The dead needed to be cremated. The wounded required treatment. Prisoners had to be confined somewhere large enough to hold them all. The displaced townsfolk needed to return to Deepwinter Town. And, most urgently, the destroyed eastern and northern gates needed immediate repairs.

But even all these concerns paled in comparison to the one glaring issue: though the Gift army had taken Winterfell, they hadn’t fully secured it.

At the castle’s northern core stood the heart of Winterfell—the keep. This central structure, while surrounded, remained under Stark control.

It wasn’t because the Gift army lacked the ability to storm the keep, nor was it for lack of trying. Aegor himself had explicitly ordered that no direct attack be made on the keep.

He had good reason. Unlike common soldiers, the deaths of noble families carried far-reaching consequences. If even one Stark family member were killed during the assault, it wouldn’t just disrupt Aegor’s carefully laid plans for the North—it would also cement his name in Westeros as a dishonorable betrayer, ensuring his reputation would forever be tarnished among the noble elite.

Thus, the keep remained untouched—a massive, circular fortress that resembled an enormous urn, keeping its inhabitants trapped within. Every living Stark, save for one, was now contained inside.

The exception? Robb Stark himself.

The Lord of Winterfell, wounded in the fighting, had been captured alive.

"Lord Robb tried to lead a counterattack last night," one of Aegor’s officers explained as he reported the incident. "When we were advancing on the armory, he led a group of men to ambush us. Nearly caught us off guard, but we threw every grenade we had at them. He was at the front, leading the charge—got knocked out cold by the blast."

The officer grinned as he continued, "His men fought like mad to pull him out. That’s how we realized he was someone important. When we caught up and got a good look—well, the direwolf sigil on his armor made it clear enough."

It was sheer luck that Robb survived the explosion. Part of it was due to his own resilience, but much of the credit lay with the Gift army’s new incentive system.

Aegor had made it clear that he wanted to minimize casualties—on both sides. Yet, as commander, his responsibility was first and foremost to his own troops. He couldn’t simply demand mercy with vague orders like "go easy on them" or "don’t harm the Starks," which would only cause hesitation and confusion in battle.

Instead, he implemented a more pragmatic solution: a reward system.

Soldiers were rewarded not for kills but for capturing prisoners. Each live civilian or soldier captured earned a specific bounty to be divided among the army. And any soldier who captured a member of House Stark would receive an exceptional reward of 100 gold dragons—an astronomical sum by the standards of the Gift army.

In a land where Aegor had deliberately kept the cost of living low, this prize was akin to a modern lottery jackpot. Even if shared among a squad, the reward was more than enough to make soldiers think twice before delivering a killing blow.
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"Well done," Aegor praised the officer, nodding in approval. "Make sure the reward is distributed to your squad. This makes things much easier for me."

The officer beamed at the recognition. "Thank you, my lord. That’s not all—thanks to the fire inside the castle, Robb didn’t have time to retreat into the keep. And judging by what we’ve seen, the number of defenders left inside can’t be more than ten or so. Taking the keep would be easy. Whoever your spy was, my lord, they’ve done us a great service."

It was "she," not "he," Aegor thought. Of course, he wasn’t about to reveal that Myrcella was the "spy" who had started the fire. Her already precarious reputation as an illegitimate child would crumble entirely if anyone discovered she had "betrayed" her adoptive family. The label of "born wicked" would follow her forever, no matter how many times she changed her identity.

Ironically, when Aegor had asked Myrcella to set the fire, it wasn’t because he expected it to accomplish much. His main goal had been to give her a sense of purpose and loyalty to the Gift army. Yet, against all odds, the fire had achieved remarkable results. It had scattered Winterfell’s defenders, reduced resistance in the streets, and even lured Robb Stark himself out of the keep.

In Aegor’s original plan, Robb was supposed to retreat to the keep, forcing a prolonged siege. Now, that scenario seemed entirely unnecessary.

Perhaps Myrcella didn’t need a monetary reward after all. He would find another way to repay her.
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But there was one problem.

"If the keep is so lightly defended and Robb is in our hands, why haven’t they surrendered yet?" Aegor asked.

The officer hesitated. "Well, my lord... Robb is badly injured. The healers say it’s a miracle he’s alive at all. He won’t wake for at least a day or two. And no matter how many times we call for their surrender, the only response from inside the keep is a demand to see Robb. What should we do? Drag him over there unconscious?"

Aegor frowned. They wanted proof of Robb’s safety, but showing them an unconscious, half-dead lord would only worsen the situation.

He had celebrated too soon. The Gift army had Robb Stark, but his condition prevented Aegor from leveraging that advantage immediately. Meanwhile, the ravens released by Maester Luwin last night had undoubtedly reached their destinations. Reinforcements from Sevenfields could arrive by the next day, and while Aegor’s firepower could easily repel them, every bullet and ounce of gunpowder spent would be a waste now that Winterfell was already secured.

Time, it seemed, was not entirely on his side.

After a moment of contemplation, Aegor made his decision.

"Take Robb to the armory. Ensure he is well cared for," he ordered. "And notify the artillery teams—they’re bringing the big guns into the castle. We’ll proceed with the original plan."

The siege of the keep would begin. But it would end on Aegor’s terms.