Dark and brooding against the snowstorm, the ancient stronghold stood like a monolith carved from night. Smoke curled from its chimneys, promising warmth, food, shelter—survival. It looked more fortress than castle, with great grey stones half-lost in the driving snow.
Trumpets blew from the walls.
A Manderly guard breathed a sigh of relief so deep it ached in his chest.
He had made it.
The gates of Winterfell groaned open, ancient wood straining against the iron hinges as the snowstorm howled behind them. Inside, torchlight flickered across the stone courtyard, casting dancing shadows on the thick snow piled beneath the ramparts. A gust of wind swept the Manderly guard's cloak behind him as he dismounted at the edge of the outer yard, boots crunching against the packed frost.
Waiting to greet him stood Jon Snow, cloaks drawn tight, hair dusted white with snow. Between them, a brazier hissed and sputtered in the cold, its flame little more than a defiant whisper.
Jon stepped forward and embraced the Manderly guard without hesitation. "Well done," he said, voice low and rough with fatigue.
"Just barely," the Manderly guard replied, clapping Jon's shoulder. "Your Grace, here are the supplies from Lord Redwyne."
"Aye, he's a dependable man," Jon agreed.
The courtyard roared to life as carts were wheeled in under the watchful eyes of northern sentries. Bread, meat, cheese, beer, wine, dragonglass knives, blankets, and furs—everything needed to survive the long night. The expressions on the soldiers' faces changed; where once there was only stoicism, now there was cautious hope. The scent of smoked meats and fresh loaves spilled from the wagons, and more than one soldier wept quietly beside a cart.
A small group of children who had been helping clear snow stopped to stare, wide-eyed, as a bannerman from the Reach handed them a bundle of wool cloaks. "From Lord Redwyne," the man said, smiling gently.
Though the temperatures had been relentless and the roads treacherous, the supply trains had never faltered. They came like clockwork, moving through blizzard and shadow. And now, as the battle loomed, the fruits of that persistence arrived like a lifeline.
The soldiers knew it too. They gripped their spears tighter, not from fear, but from resolve. Whispers spread among the troops—not of doom, but of gratitude. Paxter Redwyne, a southern lord, had won the trust of the North not with words, but with wagons.
In the weeks since the Dragonpit summit, Paxter's name had traveled from hearth to hall, murmured with respect by those who had never seen his face. Some even spoke of him in the same breath as Jon Snow—an outsider who had proven himself.
Inside the Great Hall, the hearth blazed with a roaring fire. The heat was overwhelming after days of bitter cold, and the Manderly guard shed his heavy cloak as he stepped inside. The hall smelled of pine, roasted venison, and smoke. There, standing before the high table, were the remaining Stark children.
Sansa Stark, cloaked in deep blue velvet, watched him with the cool gaze of a seasoned ruler. Her red hair was pinned in a northern braid, her expression unreadable. Arya stood to her left, silent and still, wearing no dress but leather armor dusted with travel snow. Her grey eyes followed the exhausted Manderly guard.
Bran sat in his chair by the fire, wheels locked, hands folded in his lap. He did not speak as the Manderly guard entered. He simply looked at him, as though peering through him—past him.
A serving woman rushed forward, pressing a warm drink into the guard's trembling hands. He nodded in thanks, barely able to form the words.
"Lord Paxter sends regards, m'lady," he said at last, bowing low.
Sansa inclined her head. "And the North remembers."
Arya broke the silence. "Did you see them?"
The guard hesitated. "Not directly. But the air behind us felt… wrong. Too still. Too quiet."
Bran blinked slowly. "They're close."
At that moment, the doors behind them slammed open as another scout burst into the hall, breath steaming.
"They're moving. An hour out. Maybe less."
No one spoke. Only the fire crackled.
Outside, soldiers donned their helms and prepared the trenches. Archers checked their quivers. Maesters ran from room to room, carrying bandages and vials. The women in the kitchens stoked the ovens, preparing last meals they might never serve.
And then—the horns sounded.
They came low and long, echoing across the battlements like the cry of an ancient beast. The sound seemed to shake the very stones of Winterfell, waking even the deepest corners of the castle. Every man and woman in the courtyard froze for a heartbeat, breath catching in their throats. A stablehand dropped a bucket; it clattered loud against the cobblestones. A raven in the rookery took flight, startled into the snow-choked sky. Children clutched their blankets tighter. For a heartbeat, all was still.
And then they blew again. Louder—more urgent, the dead were here.