Chapter 510

The besiegers sought to lure reinforcements into a trap, while the defenders of Winterfell aimed to buy time, hoping for a shift in the tide. Each side harbored their own schemes as the negotiations dragged on, day after day. To maintain the appearance of sincerity, both parties met daily, going through the motions—haggling over demands and concessions, drafting preliminary terms and agreements, and following every step of the diplomatic dance. Yet as days passed with no reinforcements arriving from any direction, Aegor finally realized something was amiss—not just from instinct, but from the intelligence brought back by scouts and wargs.

The first wave of reinforcements had, in fact, already arrived nearby. From the perspective provided by a skinchanger controlling a bird, it was clear: troops from House Tallhart of Torrhen’s Square and House Hornwood of Hornwood had joined forces with levies raised by House Cerwyn. The combined army of over two thousand men had set up camp just outside Cerwyn lands, less than a day’s march from Winterfell. Yet despite their numbers, this force showed no intention of moving to relieve the castle. Instead, they had pitched tents, erected barricades, and were holding position—mirroring the strategy of Aegor’s besieging army.

This was a problem Aegor hadn’t anticipated. Sitting in the former inn now serving as his command center, he stared at the map spread across the table, fingers drumming against the wood as he pondered his next move.

“The northern lords are fiercely loyal to the Starks,” Humphrey noted, watching his commander’s troubled expression. “It doesn’t make sense for them to come so close only to abandon Winterfell. This has to be Robb Stark’s doing. He must be commanding his bannermen through ravens, ordering them not to act rashly. Either he’s guessed your plan to ambush the reinforcements, or you’ve shown too much goodwill during negotiations, giving them no reason to feel pressured. Either way, we need to act quickly to break the stalemate.”

Aegor nodded but said nothing. The logic was clear enough.

When the target of an encirclement refuses to budge, there are only two viable responses: launch a full-scale assault to capture the point, or abandon the siege and seek out other opportunities. In this case, that meant either attacking Winterfell or lifting the siege and marching on Cerwyn’s encampment.

From a purely military perspective, the first option was the better choice. However, Winterfell was no soft target. Protected by a moat, two granite walls, and a thousand defenders, it was a fortress in every sense. Aegor’s newly introduced cannons—though deadly against soldiers—lacked the size, firepower, and durability to breach the castle’s defenses effectively. Even if he could force open the gates and storm the walls, the ensuing street-to-street combat would be a bloodbath, with heavy losses on both sides. Worse still, harming even one Stark family member during the chaos would cement Aegor’s reputation as a traitor and opportunist—a label he could ill afford.

The second option—marching to attack Cerwyn’s encampment—was more straightforward. A smaller castle like Cerwyn’s and a force of two thousand levies would be easy prey, especially without walls to shield them. But leaving Winterfell’s doorstep to fight miles away would send the wrong message. Even a decisive victory there wouldn’t deliver the kind of dramatic, morale-shattering impact he needed to solidify his campaign.

Robb Stark’s tactical brilliance had forced Aegor into a corner. The young wolf’s ability to coordinate his forces effectively had disrupted Aegor’s plans to such an extent that he now found himself paralyzed, his fingers tapping the table as he weighed his options.

Perhaps it was time to fire a warning shot—literally. A few cannon volleys might shake Winterfell’s defenders and force them to take him seriously. But Aegor had his doubts. The first generation of cannons, while effective against troops, weren’t particularly impressive in a siege. Their limited gunpowder supply also worried him. What if the display only strengthened the northerners’ resolve, spurring them to resist even more fiercely? Then he’d be trapped with no way forward.

As he wavered between bombarding Winterfell and marching on Cerwyn’s reinforcements, a soldier entered the room to deliver a report. “Commander, Ser Rodrik has come to negotiate again.”

“Let him wait!” Aegor snapped, waving the man off. Negotiations had always been a means to an end—a way to resolve the conflict without excessive bloodshed. But with Robb Stark’s strategy now blocking that path, diplomacy felt like little more than a futile exercise.

Before Aegor could return to his deliberations, a second messenger entered the room, his face tight with urgency.

“Commander, a young girl with her face covered says she has something of utmost importance to tell you. She insists it’s critical.”

Aegor raised an eyebrow, intrigued. The soldier had emphasized “young,” which meant the visitor was likely just a child. Could it be Arya Stark attempting to broker peace? But that made no sense—his guards would recognize Arya and wouldn’t describe her as simply “a young girl.”

Curiosity piqued, Aegor gestured for her to be admitted. Moments later, a small figure stepped through the door. Dressed in a heavy cloak and scarf that covered most of her face, the girl hesitated for a moment before speaking in a soft, familiar voice.

“Good afternoon, my lord!”

Myrcella? Aegor immediately recognized the gentle yet determined tone. The young princess had no business being outside Winterfell, let alone sneaking into the enemy camp. “Dismiss the others,” Aegor ordered, standing to meet her. “Miss... Maeve, how did you get here?”

Myrcella—disguised as Maeve Snow—was red-faced and out of breath, clearly having run a long distance. “I saw Ser Rodrik leading the negotiation party out of the gates and told the guards Lady Catelyn had sent me to deliver an urgent message. Once I was outside, I pretended to follow them but slipped away to find your sentries instead.”

Aegor frowned at the negligence of Winterfell’s gate guards but quickly realized his mistake. They didn’t know Maeve Snow’s true identity as Myrcella Baratheon. To them, she was merely an adopted ward of House Stark, a clever and trustworthy girl often tasked with minor errands. Her story about carrying a message for Lady Stark likely raised no suspicion.

But now that she was here, he couldn’t help but wonder: how did she plan to return? If the guards discovered her absence, there would be consequences.

“Well, that was clever,” he said at last, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “But what is this ‘very, very important matter’ that brought you here?”

“You need to leave! Now!” Myrcella exclaimed, her voice trembling with urgency. “Roose Bolton has taken dragon-killing scorpions to Last Hearth to strike at Daenerys’s dragons. Word came this morning—he’s already succeeded in his ambush and is now marching south toward Winterfell. You have no queen to serve, no retreat to the south, and the north will soon surround you. You must turn back, retreat to the Gift, and find a ship at Eastwatch to escape across the Narrow Sea. If you leave now, perhaps the Seven Kingdoms will remember you for fighting the White Walkers and won’t send h