Work Text:
Beyond the walls of Winterfell, the ironborn waited for nightfall. As the sun sank below the horizon, some checked their arms and armor, whilst others talked in low voices as they gnawed on what remained of their dinner.
Theon Greyjoy ignored his growling stomach. He had no need for stale bread or salted meat. Tonight he meant to sup on glory and wash it down with Arbor gold. Nothing could be sweeter, save perhaps the chance to see the look on that bitch Asha's face when she heard of his victory. Theon's plan would work, he knew it would, so long as the ironborn had the wits to follow his orders.
Then again... Theon frowned. The ironborn were not known for either discipline or cunning. At least his men were tough and battle-tested, save for his squire. Wex Pyke might be dumb, but the boy was cleverer at twelve than most men thrice his age. Not clever enough though. The mute boy won at dice far more than he ought, angering men who could snap him like a twig. As Wex stared thoughtfully at Winterfell, Theon could hear some of them making sport of the boy behind his back.
"Thinking to climb them walls?" Stygg asked. "Your arms are like twigs, you'd fall afore you got halfway up."
Urzen chuckled. "More like he's pissing hisself with fear."
"Boys are scared of the dark," teased Murch.
"You're afraid of the dark too, Murch," Harrag Sheepstealer pointed out.
"Shut up, all of you."
This was Theon's hour; he was in no mood to humor the chatter of witless fools. With steel in his voice he went over the plan yet again. The grappling hooks and their ropes were ready, as were the men he'd picked to carry them. Theon had chosen carefully, well aware that his victory rested upon the strength of their shoulders. His ironborn had an arduous night ahead of them. First they must scale the eighty foot outer wall. Then, without pausing to catch their breath, they must swim the wide moat, scale the hundred foot inner wall, kill any guards before they could raise the alarm, and finally open a postern gate.
"Once the postern gate is open, Winterfell will be at our mercy." Theon smiled thinly. "Ser Rodrik Cassel is gone, and the Starks are mere boys, barely out of swaddling clothes. Their guards will be leaderless, unprepared and overwhelmed."
Wex Pyke tilted his head, his brow furrowed. He crossed his wrists and flapped his hands like wings, then pointed at the turret which held the rookery.
Theon laughed. "What of the maester? Never fear. Maester Luwin will give us no trouble."
******
"Don't trouble yourself, Bran." Maester Luwin lay abed, his forehead slick with sweat, his face pink. "I am well, I simply overslept. Tell Ser Rodrik I will be with him presently."
Bran shifted uneasily in his wicker basket on Hodor's back. Maester Luwin had excused himself around midday, and no one had seen him since. When sunset approached, the Reeds had offered to visit the maester's turret, but Bran had insisted on coming himself.
"Ser Rodrik left," Bran reminded him. "Days ago, for Torrhen's Square."
"Hodor," said Hodor, nodding his shaggy head.
"Did he?" Maester Luwin fidgeted with the chain around his neck. "I must... I must..." he pushed aside the covers and sat up with a groan. Maester Luwin rose from the bed, staggered a few steps, then swayed alarmingly. The maester's eyes fluttered shut; Meera Reed barely managed to catch him as he fell.
"He has a fever," said Meera, letting the maester lean on her shoulder.
"A high one," said Jojen, his hand pressed to the maester's brow.
"Hodor," said Hodor, his voice worried.
Bran looked down from his basket. What was he supposed to do? Normally he would ask Maester Luwin, but the maester was insensible as Meera and Jojen heaved him back onto his bed. No, Bran was on his own, the prince of Winterfell in truth. Ruling fell to him until the maester was well again. His voice barely shook as he gave commands to Meera and Jojen, who followed them without question.
When they and the people he'd sent them to fetch came back, Bran gave more orders. Old Nan was to nurse the maester, having nursed many young Starks through illness before. Little Beth Cassel was to be her helper, having much younger eyes and steadier hands. Gage the cook was to make a hearty beef broth with garlic and onions for the maester; Poxy Tym was to lock Big Walder and Little Walder in their room.
"What have the Freys done to give offense?" Meera asked.
"Nothing," Bran said. "Come on," he told Hodor. "I want to go to the godswood." If he couldn't have Ser Rodrik or Maester Luwin to watch over Winterfell, he could at least have Summer. What harm could it do?
******
Stars gleamed overhead as the direwolf roamed the keep, his lean black brother by his side. Freedom was sweet after so long trapped amongst the trees. The night was cool and quiet—
The direwolf's ears pricked at the sound of lapping waves coming from the moat above. His black brother sniffed the air, then snarled. There was a man in the moat, a man who stank of salt and steel, a man whose scent they did not know. The wolves did know the man atop the turret, the one who faintly stank of ale, and it was to him they ran, howling the alarm.
******
Theon Greyjoy scowled as he led his men away from Winterfell. Damn those wolves, damn the guards who'd heeded them, and damn Gynir Rednose for getting tangled in his rope and drowning in the moat. Maester Luwin would know him for an ironborn the moment he examined the body, and when dawn came, half the Wintertown would come searching for the rest of them.
Let them search. Theon knew how to hide his tracks, just as he knew where a small band of men might hide for a few days. It did not matter that the attack had failed. Not when Wex had counted even fewer guards than Theon had hoped, far too few to garrison the vast length of Winterfell's walls. Once Theon thought of how to deal with the wolves, they would try again. After such a pitiful first attempt, no one would ever suspect that the ironborn would come back to try again.
******
"The ironborn will be back to try again."
Bran stared at Jojen, so frustrated that he wanted to scream. Maester Luwin was still feverish, so feverish that he couldn't explain how to send a raven to Torrhen's Square. In the end Bran had chosen two birds at random and prayed that the old gods would help them find their way to Ser Rodrik Cassel.
"Why would they try again?" Bran snapped. "Alebelly already caught them, thanks to Summer."
"And Shaggydog!" Rickon insisted. Ever since the maester took ill, he refused to let Bran out of his sight. Bran had given Osha the task of keeping an eye on Rickon, but even the wildling woman couldn't manage to keep the four-year-old quiet.
"They must have noticed there weren't enough guards." Osha shrugged. "A single gap, and they're in."
"And the ironborn will return before Ser Rodrik does," Jojen said.
Meera frowned. "More dreams?"
Jojen blinked his mossy green eyes. "No, sums. The ironborn are on our doorstep, and Torrhen's Square is long leagues away."
Bran wanted to cry and shake his fists. But he was a prince, and a prince had to put his people first.
"This is our keep," he said. "We have to defend it."
******
The raven descended upon Ser Rodrik Cassel from above, much to the displeasure of his startled horse. The old knight gripped the reins firmly, though he flinched when the impudent bird landed on his shoulder. Frowning, he took the letter from its leg.
The message was an untidy scrawl, dappled with ink blots and smudged at the edges. Ser Rodrik read the words thrice before he understood them. When he did, he dropped the letter, overwhelmed by his dismay.
"BRANDON!"
******
The night was dark, save for the light of the sickle moon. Stygg hefted his axe, watching with a sense of foreboding as the climbers made their ascent. What was Theon Greyjoy thinking? The Starks must have ruined him, just as Lord Balon feared. They ought to be riding back to the Stony Shore, not wasting their strength assailing a keep far too large for less than thirty men to hold. The Drowned God could not help them here, so far from the shores of the sea. Stygg tensed as he waited for the hue and cry that must surely come the moment someone noticed the intruders.
To his surprise, whatever Theon Greyjoy had done to distract the direwolves must have worked. No howls broke the silence as Urzen crested the outer wall, nor when he slipped down into the moat and vanished from sight. The guards were quiet too, though there were more of them than Stygg recalled. Most were clustered by the western side of the walls, near where Gynir Rednose had died. The others were scattered, with long gaps between the flickering torches that marked where they kept watch.
Theon Greyjoy had sent his three climbers up the middle of the widest gap, whilst the rest of the ironborn crept to the postern gate. No one saw them, save the ravens perched atop the bell tower. The sight of them made Stygg uneasy. A cackle or quork could spell ruin, yet when the birds kept quiet, his misgivings only grew.
Nor did they ease when a dripping Urzen opened the narrow postern gate. Something was amiss, Stygg felt it in his gut. He couldn't breathe; his helm was far too warm. Surely it wouldn't hurt to remove it, just for a moment...
There was a flutter of wings. A raven soared by, and something warm and wet splattered on his bald head.
*****
As the ironborn waved his axe at the sky in silent fury at the raven who had shit on him, Bran smothered a laugh. He shouldn't draw attention to himself, not unless he had to.
Bran had chosen his post with care. The balcony atop the maester's tower was the perfect vantage point, especially for a boy who had borrowed Maester Luwin's Myrish lens tube. Hodor and Jojen stood on either side of him, as quiet as the pair of crumbling direwolf statues which sat at each end of the balcony.
Ambushes were tricky things, Osha had told him. So much depended on time and place, on luring the enemy into the trap before it sprung. Meera agreed, much as she misliked the scheme which Bran had proposed. The past few days had passed in a flurry of activity as they prepared for the ironborn's return.
Unfortunately, there had not been enough time to take apart the trebuchet the maester had been fiddling with, and which took up half the balcony. But they had done a thousand other, much more important things. Bran could still smell the stink of pitch, and remember the clang of steel ringing from Mikken's forge as he bent sharp nails. Meera had spent all of yesterday in the godswood, returning only for dinner, along with several guards with weary arms and dirty tunics. Even Rickon had helped, his feet crunching on the layer of frost that covered the yard as he carried buckets of water from the well.
As Bran watched the ironborn approach the steps down to the yard, he wished he had remembered to ask Osha what Rickon was up to.
*****
Gelmarr scowled, his breath steaming in the dry air. It might be autumn, but Winterfell was fucking freezing. The ground was cold and hard beneath his boots; he did not even have the warmth of a torch. Theon Greyjoy had forbidden them, intent on catching the northmen by surprise. Gelmarr grudgingly approved, though he doubted whether the boy could deliver on his promises of plunder and glory.
When Theon Greyjoy faltered at the top of the steps down to the yard, Gelmarr pushed past him. Whatever had made Greyjoy lose his nerve, Gelmarr the Grim was no craven. He strode forward boldly, placing a foot on the shining black stone of the steps—
******
Squint winced as Gelmarr the Grim's feet flew out from under him. Gelmarr tumbled, his back hitting the stone steps with a sickening crunch. He rolled down, landing in the yard with a thud, his limbs sprawled, his body still.
Once they were sure no guards had heard the noise, the rest of the ironborn descended the steps very, very carefully. Even so, more than one man skidded on the black ice. Squint was shivering and his heart was racing when he reached the bottom, grateful for the feel of hardpacked dirt.
"You, Squint." Theon Greyjoy's voice was a low hiss. Once he had Squint's attention, Theon jerked his head and pointed. Right, Squint was supposed to scout the perimeter, to see if there were any guards besides those atop the walls.
Squint slipped away, mindful to keep his steps quiet. Not that he expected any trouble if he encountered a guard. A northman was no match for an ironborn. And the northmen atop the walls had no idea what they were doing, or so Urzen had told him. Unlike Greyjoy, Urzen knew Squint was called Squint for good reason. His ears were good, though, and he could recall directions without too much difficulty. Squint found the guard hall without issue. Once satisfied by its dark stillness, he moved on.
The air grew warmer as Squint approached the godswood. That made sense; Greyjoy had told them of the hot springs which heated the keep. No one should be in the godswood at this time of night, but it wouldn't hurt to check, just in case. Mayhaps some pretty young maid would be out for a moonlight swim in the pools, ready to be made a woman by the first man to find her.
The thought made Squint smile as he drew near the arched stone doorway that led into the godswood. He did not bother to watch his feet, too busy drinking in the sight of lush trees wreathed with steam, the heart tree gleaming bone-white beside a black pool.
Twigs snapped; the ground gave way beneath him. Squint fell with a grunt, too shocked to be afraid. The pit was narrow and deep, but surely he could climb out, just as soon as he caught his breath.
"Shaggy!"
The voice was high and thin, that of a child. Squint grinned. A maid would have been better, but a hostage was still a hostage. Some servant's brat, no doubt, or perhaps one of the Stark boys, if he was very lucky. Determined to seize his prize, Squint scrabbled at the sides of the pit, searching for a handhold. He had to grab the boy before he thought to scream—
Green eyes blazed in the darkness. A demon raced toward him, slaver dripping from its jaws, the red maw opening to reveal massive white fangs—
******
A shriek pierced the night, shrill and sharp, the sort of cry made by helpless prey.
Black Lorren drew his sword, a grin tugging at his lips. Whoever the woman was, he would have to thank Squint for rousing her. Black Lorren was made for battle, not skulking around like a petty thief. If the Drowned God was good, he would find at least one worthy foe, the kind whose defeat was worthy of a song.
Ravens quorked as Theon Greyjoy led the men past the maester's tower. Black Lorren nearly ran into him when Greyjoy stopped dead, glancing up at a balcony lit by flickering torches. Grey stone direwolves sat on their haunches at either end of the balcony, but there was no grey-robed maester standing between them. Instead there was a broken trebuchet, looming over a boy who sat in a tall chair. To his left stood a scrawny youth, and to his right...
Oh, the Drowned God was good. To the boy's right loomed a giant, seven feet tall at least. The giant wore no armor, only a cloak and tunic, both as brown as his shaggy hair and beard. Whatever weapon the giant bore, Black Lorren could not see it, but it did not matter. However long and bloody their battle, Black Lorren would be the victor. Already his blood ran hot, eager for the fight to begin.
Theon Greyjoy did not share his joy. "What's Luwin playing at?" he muttered. "Unless..." his face lit up, and he stepped forward, cupping his hands around his mouth.
"Good morrow, Bran!"
The boy twitched, but kept silent.
"Whatever happened to poor Maester Luwin?" Theon called. "I know you're up there, and that you're all alone."
"Come on, boy, open up," shouted Murch, unable to resist running his mouth. "It's your father's ward, and his loyal men."
"We're not going to hurt you," added Harreg Sheepstealer.
Theon glared at both Murch and Harreg. "Oh, no, no," Theon said, smooth as silk. "I've brought you some gifts from Robb, now be a good lad and tell your guards to yield."
Black Lorren snorted. He hoped the Stark boy wasn't as stupid as Theon thought he was. The boy was safe on his balcony, the ironborn were down below, and no doubt guards were already running toward the shouting. If the boy yielded, it would spoil the sport of fighting their way into the tower. Black Lorren stepped closer, intent on getting a better look at the giant who stood over his head. Any moment now, the boy would give the answer, one which Black Lorren could not wait to receive—
******
"Hodor," Bran whispered. He didn't dare speak any louder, lest his voice shake like it wanted to. "I want you to scare them." But how? Bran glanced around, then pointed. "Uh... can you push that, or is it too heavy?"
"Hodor," agreed Hodor, and shoved.
******
Theon grimaced as he wiped blood off his mouth. Black Lorren had always been squat, but now he was flat. The man never knew what hit him. Theon could have sworn the crumbling direwolf statue was laughing at him from where it sat atop what remained of Black Lorren.
Well, that was one way to refuse to surrender. Damn the boy; when had Bran become so stubborn? And what had happened to the maester? And where was Rickon? For that matter, where was Squint? He ought to have returned by now.
It seemed a new plan was in order. Thoughts racing, Theon pondered all that had transpired since entering the keep, in particular the sudden shriek and from whence it had came. Perhaps... Theon turned on his men, snapping orders in a low voice
Angry as he was, Theon had to resist the urge to smirk when he saw the smear of bird shit streaked across Stygg's sullen face. Let him be sullen. Urzen was sullen too, his teeth chattering with cold, his clothes still soaked from swimming across the moat. Theon did not care, so long as they obeyed.
******
When two ironborn slipped away from the rest, only Bran seemed to notice. He raised the Myrish lens, watching as the men retreated back the way they had come. Only for a moment, though, because the other ironborn were making for the maester's tower. Even though they had planned for this, Bran's skin prickled with fear as clouds shrouded the moon.
"Hodor, it's time. Go to Joseth," Bran urged. "Use the covered bridge, remember? The one to the armory, not the bell tower. And you have to be very, very quiet. No hodoring unless you're with me, understand?"
"Hodor," said Hodor, soft as a feather.
And with that he nodded his shaggy head and went lumbering off, shouldering past Hayhead and Poxy Tym where they stood guard by the door. They were real men-at-arms, not like the servants Bran had put in Stark livery and posted on the walls. All the other men-at-arms were needed elsewhere to spring the trap, save Alebelly and Skittrick. They were in the godswood, keeping an eye on Rickon.
Bran would have rather put Rickon to bed, but he didn't dare try. Four-year-olds could not be reasoned with. The last time someone locked Rickon in his room he had tried going out the window, and Osha had barely grabbed him in time. The godswood was Rickon's favorite place, and Osha and Meera had sworn to keep him safe. And there was Shaggydog, of course, once the black direwolf got bored of playing in his pit.
As for Summer... Bran took a deep breath, and reached.
******
When the howl echoed over the yard, Fishwhiskers cursed loud enough to wake the dead.
"W-w-wolf," stammered Tymor's youngest brother, stinking of piss.
"I don't give a damn if there are a hundred wolves," growled Endehar. "I could use a wolfskin cloak."
"Aye," said Red Rolfe.
"Not wolves." Gariss shuddered. "Direwolves."
"Fuck the wolves," Fishwhiskers spat. "And fuck the Starks, and fuck the whole bloody buggering north."
They had come too far to turn back, to spook and run at the mere sound of a mangy beast. Fishwhiskers did not mean to die like Gelmarr, broken by a patch of ice, nor vanish like Squint, nor be crushed like Black Lorren, nor flee like Stygg and Urzen. He was Maron Botley, and he would not be frightened by the tricks and traps of a pack of sniveling northmen. Whatever idiocy Theon Greyjoy meant to try, he had left Fishwhiskers in command. All he must do was take a maester's tower and a crippled boy, and Winterfell was his.
First, though, he had to find the way in. The moon was gone, hidden behind clouds, and there were neither torches nor guards to mark the door. The foolish boy must have put too many guards on the walls. It was Kenned the Whale who finally found the door, after they'd circled the tower thrice over.
Fishwhiskers spat at the sight of the thick, heavy wood. Slow as they were, the guards up on the walls would surely reach them by the time they could manage a makeshift battering ram. The guards would be slaughtered, of course, but still.
Then Gevin Harlaw tried the door on a whim, and it opened. Oh, foolish, foolish boy.
"Come on," Fishwhiskers roared. He charged, a chorus of shouts going up as his son and the rest of his men followed. No torches were lit, leaving the tower black as tar. The air smelt queer as he pounded up the winding steps, the scent of pine so strong he could almost taste it—
Suddenly, something squished. Fishwhiskers halted, his boots stuck fast. His son slammed into him from behind; others tried to elbow past him only to get stuck themselves. Again and again Fishwhiskers yanked, but his boots would not come free. His feet were another matter.
"It's only pitch," Fishwhiskers snarled. "Get moving!"
The ironborn obeyed, though not without plenty of bitching and cursing. Fishwhiskers would need to keep them in hand, lest they forget they needed a hostage and throttled the boy themselves. They stormed up the winding steps, their bare feet slapping against the stone—
Something clinked. There was a grunt, a curse, a scream. Pain lanced through the arch of Fishwhiskers' foot. Groping blindly, he felt three cold metal spines. The fourth was buried in his flesh. "Caltrops," he grunted, pulling it out. "Watch it!"
By the time the battered, bleeding ironborn staggered into the second floor of the rookery, Fishwhiskers had changed his mind. Hostages be damned; he would throttle the Stark boy himself. Weak greenlanders would have broken and fled, but the ironborn were made of sterner stuff, especially when the battle fever took hold. Fishwhiskers could feel it in his blood, the hot rush keeping him upright even as his foot ached with every step. Nothing would stop him now—
Then the direwolf came hurtling out of the dark. Guards in mail followed at his heels, their torches bright enough to blind—
And the ironborn broke and fled.
******
Wex Pyke wished he'd had the sense to flee. Stygg and Urzen clearly intended to the moment their backs were turned. Theon Greyjoy knew Winterfell as well as Wex knew his own hands, but no thirty men ever born could hold so large a keep. But Wex was a squire now. Better to die trying to take Winterfell than to be hunted like a deer across the long leagues between here and the sea.
Besides, he was curious to see what a heart tree looked like. Wex had never seen a weirwood before. They sounded awfully scary, with their bony bark and bloody leaves and the faces that watched from their trunks. They couldn't be as scary as Winterfell though. The castle was too big, a great stone beast that hungered to devour any unwary prey that wandered into its jaws.
When they drew near the godswood, Theon raised a hand. Wex halted, as did Drennan, who had come with them. Something was snarling in the dark, but... why was the sound coming from underground?
Wex held his breath as they crept through the entrance to the godswood, careful to avoid the pit which blocked most of it. He did not want to meet the direwolf who was scrabbling to get out, his claws tearing at the earth as he flung himself upward again and again to no avail.
Then they were past the direwolf, and Wex could breathe again. Mist rose in soft clouds from the hot pools, clinging to the pale limbs of the heart tree. The moon was back out. Beneath its light, the weirwood's bark almost seemed to glow, the crimson leaves bright as rubies. Wex stared at the tree, paying no mind to the saplings closer at hand, nor to the queer way they bent—
And then something seized him by the ankle, and the world flipped upside down. Wex dangled, arms flailing, trying desperately not to smack into the sapling's trunk. The others were in trouble too. A pair of guards drew their halberds and ran toward Theon; Drennan cursed as he fought a woman with a spear.
Another spear pointed at Wex's throat. Wex swallowed; his head swam. Did the spear have three prongs, or just one? He couldn't tell, just as he couldn't tell if his captor was a mannish girl or a pretty boy. But dizzy as he was, he could tell that the guards were about to catch Theon, unless something drew their eye. He would have shouted if he could, but—
"Bad ironborn!" A child emerged from between the trees, a stick clutched in his little fist. That boded well for Theon, but not for Wex.
"Rickon, go back where you were," Wex's captor scolded. Definitely a girl. Somewhere overhead, a raven quorked.
"NO," the boy said, so haughty and loud that the guards turned to look. "I'm a prince like Bran, so I'm in charge." He gave his stick a threatening brandish, and stalked toward Wex. He hung as helpless as a fish upon the shore, unable to do anything but squirm as the first blow fell.
******
Bran blinked, confused. Being in Summer was one thing, but he wasn't sure how he had gotten inside a raven. At least Rickon seemed to be enjoying himself as he whacked the ironborn with his stick.
Back in his own skin atop the maester's balcony, Bran looked down. Hiding their men-at-arms in the covered bridge between the rookery and the bell tower had worked just like he hoped. Between the massive direwolf and the cramped quarters, the ironborn were too panicked to realize they were being chased by only a few guards, not even a third their numbers.
Nor would they have the chance to notice. As the ironborn staggered out of the tower and back into the yard, the ravens took flight, cackling madly as they dived. The ironborn shouted and swore as they tried to swat the ravens away, hitting each other more than the birds who harried them towards the stables.
This time when Summer howled, the thunder of hooves answered. The horses stampeded into the yard, driving the ironborn back toward the postern gate through which they'd come. Frantic as they were and dark as it was, they didn't realize it was shut until it was too late. The ironborn smacked straight into it, knocking themselves out cold.
Bran let fly a whoop, almost giddy with relief. They'd won, they'd won—
Then Shaggydog howled with fear and rage, and the bottom dropped out of Bran's stomach.
******
Theon huffed, careful to keep a tight hold on his hard-won prisoner. Though unhurt, Rickon hung limp, his eyes unseeing. At least he was quiet as Theon carried the boy up to the fourth floor of the bell tower, across the covered bridge and into the rookery.
They were climbing the winding steps to the balcony when Rickon roused. A dagger to the throat proved necessary to put an end to his thrashing and biting; Theon was in no mood to try and reason with the boy. Why had Bran insisted on making things so difficult? So much for gratitude; it was as if the boy had forgotten it was Theon who had saved him from wildlings that day in the wolfswood.
Bran looked just as scared when Theon reached the balcony. His eyes were wide and white as eggs when two guards turned his chair around, bumping into the broken trebuchet which took up much of the balcony.
"Enough," Theon panted, out of breath and out of patience. "Yield, or else."
"Or else what?" Bran's voice shook. "You don't have any men."
What? Come to think of it, Fishwhiskers and his ironborn ought to have gotten to Bran by now. What had happened to them? And who was the skinny boy by Bran's side who stared so strangely?
"I don't need them," Theon snapped, tightening his grip on Rickon.
"Don't hurt Rickon," Bran pleaded. "You can't, you wouldn't."
"Wouldn't I?"
******
"I surrender," Bran said. He had never felt so small, so miserable. All that work, and he had failed.
"Thank you, Bran." Theon smiled, still holding onto poor Rickon. "Don't worry, I intend to be merciful. You and Rickon will be treated far more gently than you treated my men. I must admit, you made a valiant effort. A lesser foe would have given up."
"But not you," Jojen said, much to Bran's surprise. A moment later, a flash of movement caught his eye as a silent shadow crept through the open door at Theon's back.
"Not me," Theon agreed. "Who are you, by the by?"
"Jojen, of House Reed." He smiled. "And that's—"
"HODOR!"
The stableboy lunged, grabbing Theon by the scruff of the neck. Theon yelped, letting go of Rickon as he struggled to free himself from Hodor.
"Hodor, here!"
Bran pointed at the trebuchet. Theon babbled for mercy as Hodor dumped him in the canvas sling, holding him down so he couldn't wiggle free. Never mind that the trebuchet was broken. Theon didn't know that, and he deserved a fright. Bran leaned over, wrapping his arms around the lever and pulling with all his weight.
As it turned out, the trebuchet was not broken.
******
Outside Wintertown, a rat sniffed at the air, his whiskers twitching. There was a new smell in his favorite dung pile.
******
Ser Rodrik Cassel rode through the night, his host at his back. How could he have left Winterfell with so few men to defend her? Had the gods cursed him with a fit of madness? At least Bran had thought to send a raven; boys of eight were not known for being capable. Ser Rodrik could only pray that he was not too late, that Maester Luwin had already recovered by the time the raven reached Torrhen's Square.
******
When Luwin's fever broke, the noonday sun was shining through the windows. Frail as she was, Old Nan was still strong enough to help him from his bed and into a cool bath. By the time he finished washing the sweat away, he almost felt himself again.
"How long was I ill?" he asked as Old Nan brought him a bedrobe and slippers.
"Almost a week," the old woman tsked as he dressed.
"A week?" Luwin asked, horrified.
"Never fear," Old Nan soothed. "Young Bran did well. The ironborn were hardly any trouble at all."
"Ironborn?" Luwin rubbed at his ears. "What do you mean, ironborn?"
Old Nan smiled toothlessly and gestured toward the rest of his rooms. With rising dread, Luwin stepped out of his bedchamber.
"BRAN! What did you do to my tower!?"