Chapter 514

This absurd world…

To save House Stark, he had to take their castle.

The very thought was so laughable that even Aegor himself found it ridiculous. Yet, absurd as it was, it was also undeniably real and urgent. If Roose Bolton and Daenerys arrived while Robb, out of pride and stubbornness, refused to surrender, it would doom not only the castle but also put Aegor in an impossible position. But at the same time, he knew full well that trying to explain this to Robb would accomplish nothing—it would sound like a clumsy deception at best. Worse, it would expose Myrcella’s warning, making the Starks even more wary.

After much deliberation, Aegor made a hard decision: since the truth would never be believed, it was best kept to himself. He would take the safest approach—strike fast, strike hard, and seize Winterfell in a single night, putting control in his hands rather than leaving it to the Starks, Bolton, or even the Queen.

Earlier that day, he had placed in Myrcella’s hands a small but powerful tool—a box of new matches, developed by Maester Qyburn and manufactured in the Gift. Chemical resources were scarce, so these matches were still produced in only limited quantities, reserved for military use. Along with them, he had given her a small vial of wildfire.

Her task? To craft a temporary lie, slip back into Winterfell unnoticed with Ser Rodrik, and—at midnight—set a fire in a location that would cause chaos but not mass casualties. A distraction to disrupt the castle’s order, force the guards to scatter, and create the perfect opening for his assault.

Aegor had faith in Myrcella. Between his knowledge of canon and their interactions, she seemed intelligent, brave, and reliable. But he also knew that intuition alone was never a reliable way to make decisions.

Yes, he believed Myrcella to be mature and trustworthy, but who was to say the Starks didn’t think the same? What if she, upon returning to the castle, second-guessed everything and confessed everything to them? What if Ser Rodrik casually mentioned, "Was it you, Lady Stark, who sent Maeve out with a message for me?" and inadvertently exposed her lie? Or what if, when the moment came, she simply lost her nerve and did nothing at all?

Too many uncertainties. Aegor had never intended to rely on her.

Telling Myrcella his suspicions about Bolton and his plan to take Winterfell was not because he needed her help—it was his way of explaining why he had to act and acknowledging the risk she had taken in warning him. But at the end of the day, he was a rule-breaking usurper and an ambitious man. He would never leave his fate in the hands of someone else.

He had other plans. Many of them.

What he told Myrcella was this: If she successfully set the fire, he would launch his attack, and she should immediately retreat to her chambers, barring the door, staying with Sansa and Arya no matter what happened. If, for any reason, nothing happened that night, he would delay his assault until morning and issue an ultimatum before attacking.

What he didn’t tell her was this: No matter what happened, no matter the circumstances, he would attack that very night.

If she failed—whether out of fear, doubt, or hesitation—it would make no difference. The night raid would simply shift from a stealth attack to a full-scale assault. And if she betrayed him to Robb? Then Robb would receive information that Aegor intended to attack at dawn—giving him the false sense of having the upper hand.

Even in the worst-case scenario, if Robb planned to turn the tables, deliberately setting a fire in the castle to lure Aegor into a trap, he still had nothing to fear.

Because Aegor had been careful. He had only told Myrcella that the attack would begin after the fire was set, but he had said nothing about where he would strike, what weapons he would use, or how.

His confidence wasn’t built on the cover of night or the element of surprise—it was built on weapons that this world had never seen before. No matter how well the castle’s defenses were prepared, gunpowder would render them meaningless.
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Gunpowder could tear open Winterfell’s gates.

But the first-generation cannons, with their crude accuracy and limited power, weren’t suited for night operations. If used now, they would require dozens, perhaps even hundreds of shots before breaking through—thundering blasts that would wake the dead before they breached the walls. Even if they succeeded, the delay would give the defenders ample time to adapt to this "new weapon," leading to a prolonged and bloody battle.

That was unacceptable.

Aegor needed something brutal. Something instant. Something that would end the battle before the defenders even realized what was happening.

Underground sappers could have been an option—digging tunnels to plant explosives beneath the walls. But the frozen earth made that a near-impossible task. He didn’t have that kind of time.

Instead, he turned to a much simpler strategy.

"Winter Camouflage" sounded grand, but in reality, it was nothing more than a practical solution: white cloaks, sewn from the palest fabrics he could obtain, worn over the black uniforms of his soldiers. A crude but effective way to blend into the snowy landscape.

As the fire in the stables sparked chaos inside the castle, two squads of specially trained "demolition teams" had already begun their approach. Cloaked in white, hidden in the darkness and snowfall, they crept toward the base of Winterfell’s granite walls. Using the very "blind spots" created by the sentries’ own torches, they went unnoticed.

Each team carried their deadly cargo: powder-filled satchels, packed tightly into the gaps beneath Winterfell’s eastern and northern gates.

It wasn’t a decision made lightly, nor one without careful planning. Winterfell had four gates. Why choose the eastern and northern ones?

Because to take a castle, there were two primary objectives:Crush the defenders.Eliminate or capture the castle’s lords.

From Myrcella, Aegor had learned that Robb had separated the defenders from the civilians, housing his soldiers near the armory. Cross-referencing this with his own knowledge of Winterfell’s layout, he had confirmed that both the barracks and the Stark living quarters were concentrated in the northeastern part of the castle.

This meant one thing—the enemy’s forces were clustered in the northeast.

Had he attacked from the western or southern gates, his troops would have had to fight through refugee camps, filled with civilians. It would have been an unnecessary bloodbath. But from the east and north, his soldiers could storm directly into the barracks and the Great Keep, cutting through the heart of Winterfell’s defenses.
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He didn’t know how sturdy Winterfell’s gates were, but he wasn’t taking chances.

The explosives were overcharged—far beyond what was necessary.

Powder, carefully milled and wrapped in waterproof casing, was packed beneath the gates. The fuses were lit. The saboteurs retreated.

And then—the night was shattered.

A thunderous explosion tore through the gates.

The walls of Winterfell stood strong, enduring as they had for millennia.

The gates did not.

The once-imposing wooden doors, thick and ironbound, were obliterated in an instant. The shockwave sent splinters and debris flying like shrapnel, while smoke and dust engulfed the walls.

When the air cleared, the destruction was undeniable—not only were the gates blown open, but even the gatehouses had partially collapsed.

The saboteurs, even expecting it, had miscalculated the sheer force of their weapons. They were left reeling, ears ringing, but their mission was complete.

For the Winterfell guards, it was worse.

These men had never seen such destruction before. Many had been thrown to the ground, stunned, disoriented—so shocked they forgot to sound the alarm.

By the time they recovered, it was too late.

The second wave of charges—thrown across the narrow moat—obliterated the inner gates and the drawbridge.

Winterfell, the castle that had stood unbroken for a thousand years, had been breached.

And now, Aegor had only one thing left to do.

March in and take it.