Chapter 515

To avoid arousing suspicion and alerting the sentries, the bulk of the Gift's army had remained in Winter Town, motionless throughout the night. This cautious approach ensured that the infiltration and approach of the demolition teams went unnoticed. However, it also created another problem—if the main assault force only set out after the demolition teams had completed their task, they would struggle to reach the breached gates in time, losing the crucial window to storm the castle.

To resolve this dilemma, Aegor had issued a clear order to the entire army: the first explosion would be the signal for the full assault.

Winterfell’s defenses consisted of two layers—the outer walls and the inner keep. While the second round of explosives was necessary to fully breach the defenses, the critical moment lay in the gap between the two detonations. If the main force advanced too late, they would lose momentum. If they advanced too early, they risked colliding headfirst with the still-intact inner wall.

There was no perfect strategy. Aegor had planned carefully to avoid such an outcome, but if things went awry, then his army would simply have to rely on their discipline, superior organization, and sheer numbers to take the castle by force.
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As soon as the trumpets of war followed the first detonation, the slumbering Winter Town suddenly ignited with life.

Countless lights flared to life as two long-prepared assault forces immediately lit their torches and, in perfect formation, poured out of their encampments. The troops had been organized into long, winding columns—one heading for the eastern gate, the other for the northern gate. From above, they would have looked like two serpents of fire slithering across the snowy plains, closing in on their target.

Murphy’s Law did not take effect that night. Though minor setbacks arose during the demolition of the inner gates—delays and slight desynchronization between explosions—the panicked and disoriented defenders failed to exploit these gaps.

In a matter of moments, all four gates—inner and outer—had been breached by relentless bombardment. And before the defenders could even gather themselves, Aegor’s main force had already reached the shattered gates.

Winterfell’s soldiers had barely begun to respond. Their gates were open, their walls were burning, and their enemies were already inside.

Meanwhile, the Lord of Winterfell was nowhere near the battlefield.
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Robb Stark had been tense for days, ever since the Night’s Watch had rebelled and marched south. Even with Roose Bolton’s supposed victory all but ensuring their triumph, he had refused to lower his guard.

As a young lord who had inherited his position during wartime, Robb understood that survival required more than just luck and courage—it demanded vigilance, discipline, and ruthlessness.

His early victories in the War of the Five Kings had nearly blinded him with confidence. But his failures against the ironborn—and the death of Grey Wind—had shattered that illusion. His beloved direwolf had died teaching him a brutal lesson in the meaning of “Winter is Coming.”

The phrase wasn’t just a family motto. It wasn’t just a poetic expression of hardship. It was a warning, a doctrine—never let your guard down. Never believe you are safe.

So when he received word that the stables were on fire, Robb immediately sensed something was wrong.

He had no idea how the enemy could have started a fire inside Winterfell, but even if it was an accident, there was no way Aegor would pass up such an opportunity to strike.

Determined to eliminate any possible threat before it escalated, Robb donned his armor, kissed his drowsy wife’s forehead, and stepped out into the night.
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“Has Ser Rodrik been woken?” Robb asked as he strode down the stairs, his voice sharp with authority.

“He has already gone,” one of his guards responded.

“Good.” Ser Rodrik was always reliable. Robb nodded, satisfied. “Find men with quick feet—send them to the walls. Tell the sentries they are not to leave their posts for the fire. They are to increase vigilance and watch for enemy movement.”

“Yes, my lord!”

“That is not enough. Send a rider to the barracks—double the number of sentries tonight. If the rebels so much as stir outside, I want the alarm bells rung immediately.”

“As you command, my lord.”

Robb’s instincts screamed at him that something was off. The fire should not have spread so quickly.

He had barely taken a few steps out of the keep when a small, cloaked figure rushed toward him from the cold.

The girl barely avoided colliding with him, halting just in time.

“L-Lord Robb… good evening.” Myrcella’s voice was small, uncertain.

Robb frowned. “Evening? There is nothing good about this evening.” His gaze sharpened. “What are you doing outside, Maeve?”

The girl hesitated, her breath fogging in the frigid air. “It was… stuffy inside. I fell asleep, but then I woke up and couldn’t sleep again. I didn’t want to disturb Sansa or Arya, so I came out for some air… and then I saw the fire in the training yard.”

“I am aware.” Robb exhaled sharply, about to scold her—but then hesitated.

He was not speaking to his sister, but to a girl who had no blood ties to him. Sansa and Arya would have accepted a sharp reprimand as normal. But Myrcella? If he spoke too harshly, it might cause resentment.

Not worth the trouble.

He waved her off. “Go back inside, lock the doors, and don’t wander.”

“Yes, my lord.” Myrcella nodded hastily, ducking past him and disappearing into the keep.

Robb never once suspected that she had been the one to set the fire.

The thought never even crossed his mind.
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By the time Robb arrived at the training yard, he knew things were worse than he had imagined.

Not only did the flames illuminate half the walls, but horses—battle-trained destriers—were stampeding through the castle, running free in the chaos.

Refugees, half-dressed and terrified, were racing in every direction. Even as Robb and his men barked orders, some people were already fleeing toward the Great Keep.

Good thing I ordered the doors locked.

But why had the fire spread so quickly? Something was wrong.

His unease deepened. He turned to his men. “Wake Lord Sevenfields—tell him to send a hundred men to block the streets and control the refugees. Take another two hundred to the fire—get the situation under control.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Robb’s unease only grew. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was deeply, horribly wrong.

His suspicions were confirmed seconds later.

The explosion came just as he began to relax.

A thunderous BOOM split the night.

The ground trembled. The sky lit up with fire and smoke.

Winterfell was under attack.