Chapter 513

The cold wind howled through Winterfell as another day under siege came to an end.

The snowfall that had persisted for days had finally ceased, but the thick layer of snow covering the ground and the heavy clouds hanging overhead would not vanish so quickly. The snow absorbed sound, and the clouds blocked the moon and stars, plunging the world into a silence so deep it felt suffocating, and a darkness as thick as ink.

Yet, despite the compromised visibility and muffled sounds, the sentries atop the castle walls were not overly concerned.

Standing atop the near-hundred-foot-high outer walls of Winterfell, the sentries relied little on sound to keep watch. As for the absence of moonlight—well, that was hardly an issue either. The rebels besieging the castle hailed from the Gift and were former members of the Night’s Watch; their attire was nearly all jet-black. But the fields surrounding the castle were blanketed in snow. Even the faintest glimmers of moonlight filtering through the clouds were enough to illuminate the white expanse, making any movement from the besiegers stand out like ink dripping onto parchment. Any shift in the darkness would be instantly noticeable.
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“That bastard Aegor, still clueless about the doom bearing down on him. He’s probably curled up with some wildling whore, snoring away right now.” Joel flexed his near-frozen fingers, trying to stave off the numbing cold as he spoke to his drowsy companion. “Gaefron, the one who went out with the ‘negotiation team,’ told me that Ser Rodrik put in extra effort today to make Aegor believe the talks were going well. He even made a few minor concessions on key points, just to lull him into a false sense of security. And that fool Aegor actually thinks he’s getting the better deal—he was so pleased he even invited them to stay for drinks at his command tent!”

“I heard it’s not a wildling woman but a red priestess from Asshai who’s been keeping him company,” Yago grumbled, displeased at being woken from his dozing. “And shut up with the idle talk—focus on your watch. Until Lord Bolton’s army arrives, this siege is far from over.”

“Yeah, yeah, the threat isn’t over,” Joel muttered under his breath. So you tell me not to get distracted, but you’re the one dozing off? Hypocrite. He rolled his eyes but chose not to call out his companion’s hypocrisy. Instead, he changed the subject. “Speaking of which, how’s it going with your future father-in-law? When are you finally marrying Lysa? Come to think of it, I haven’t seen her or her father around the castle these past few days.”

“They were evacuated to Sevenfields,” Yago replied, shaking off his sleepiness. “That old man—he thinks his daughter is the prettiest girl in Snowmarch and acts like he’s above everyone else. One moment he’s talking about wedding plans, the next he’s still hoping for a better match. He picks at my flaws like I’m some lowborn serf trying to marry into nobility! Hmph, if we’d married sooner, she’d be safe in Winterfell right now instead of trudging through the snow for miles to get to Sevenfields.”

“I’ve told you before—he’s not dissatisfied with you, he’s just waiting for you to show the proper respect and acknowledge him as your father-in-law. If you weren’t so stubborn about sucking up to him, this would’ve been settled long ago.”

“I’m marrying his daughter, not him! Why should I have to grovel after being looked down on? I’ll teach that old man a lesson—he’s about to learn that not everyone has to bow to his whims!”

“Fine, fine, if you like making things difficult for yourself, be my guest,” Joel sighed theatrically, though inwardly, he was amused. This idiot is going to die single. “Hang in there, don’t back down. When this war is over, with a commendation for defending Winterfell, you’ll have the status to make him come begging you instead.”

“Hmph.” Yago scowled, missing the sarcasm entirely. “Just hope I don’t hear she’s been fooling around with some bastard in Sevenfields, or else—”
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Whatever threat Yago had in mind never made it past his lips.

Not because he hadn’t thought of how to finish the sentence, but because his attention—and Joel’s—was suddenly yanked away by an unexpected sight.

Everything outside the walls was normal. But inside the castle, in an utterly unforeseen direction, a flicker of eerie green fire suddenly erupted in the darkness. Liquid fuel ignited with a flare, flames licking hungrily at hay and wood, growing rapidly. Within seconds, the cool green hue gave way to the deep orange and red of an open blaze. The fire climbed three, four meters high, casting flickering shadows against the inner walls.

Then, a piercing scream ripped through the night.

“FIRE! FIRE!”

A fire in Winterfell was rare. The castle was mostly stone, and stone did not burn. But fate had chosen one of the few wooden structures within the walls—the stables.

The guards knew the castle well enough not to panic. The stables were located in the southwestern corner of the training yard, pressed against the granite inner wall. No other wooden structures were nearby, and there was a wide gap between the stables and any storerooms or living quarters. Even if the fire raged unchecked, it would consume nothing beyond the stables themselves.

Yes, under normal circumstances, it wouldn’t be a serious threat.

But tonight was anything but normal.

Winterfell, which usually housed a few hundred people at most, was now crammed with over three or four thousand souls—townsfolk and farmers who had fled the surrounding lands. They had filled every available space, setting up tents and bedding anywhere they could, including the training yard.

While the steward had wisely left an open gap between the stables and the refugee camp to prevent the fire from spreading, they had overlooked one crucial thing: the stables had living occupants.

As the flames burned through the walls, smoke and heat filled the enclosure, and the horses—trapped inside—panicked.

Frenzied by fear and the searing heat, the warhorses kicked down their stalls, smashed through the doors, and stampeded into the camp.

The once-orderly refugee encampment erupted into chaos. Tents were trampled, people were knocked to the ground, cries of terror filled the night as hooves struck bodies. The fire itself claimed no lives, but the panic it unleashed was far more dangerous.

Screams, shouts, the crackle of burning wood, the sickening sound of tents being torn apart—all these noises shattered the stillness of the night.

And this was only the beginning.
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The guards on the walls watched in stunned disbelief.

“What the fuck!? It’s just a stable fire—how did it turn into this!?” Joel gasped. Then, his face darkened as a terrible thought struck him. “Yago… did you hear anything before this? Could it have been a firebomb from the rebels? Are they using this as a distraction for an attack?”

“Impossible!” Yago snapped back, his mind sharp despite his earlier drowsiness. “Winterfell’s inner walls are a hundred feet high! If the rebels had the capability to lob a firebomb over them, it would’ve landed deeper inside the castle—not directly against the wall where the stables are! No, this was something else… maybe some fool knocked over an oil lamp while feeding the horses…”

“Forget where the fire started—should we be helping put it out?” Joel asked uncertainly.

“We can’t just abandon our posts. If the rebels do attack while we’re distracted…”

Their debate was short-lived. The officer in charge and a herald from the Great Keep appeared atop the wall, barking orders.

“Hold your positions! Stop gawking and get back to your duties! No more talk, and no one is to leave their post!”

“Lord Robb’s orders—all sentries are to remain at their stations. The fire will be handled separately. Your duty is to watch for an attack.”

The orders were clear. The fire, the panic, the stampede—it was all a distraction.

And as the guards turned their eyes back outward, steel flashing in the moonlight, the real catastrophe was about to begin.