How can we possibly resist Roose Bolton? He controls more than half the North now. Maester Luwin stared out at the Dreadfort soldiers, his mind racing with anxiety and his eyes bleak with despair.
"Maester Luwin, can we ask Lord Jason East for help?"
A soft voice broke the silence. Ser Rodrik and Maester Luwin turned quickly and bowed. "Lord Bran."
Bran Stark stood there, his young face set with a serious expression, protected by two household guards. He had ignored his sister Sansa's pleas to stay inside. He knew that with Robb gone, he was his brother's heir, and he had to stand up and face this crisis. It was his duty as the acting Lord of Winterfell.
Before he marched south, Robb had named Bran the Lord of Winterfell in his absence. Now, with Robb and their mother both dead, Bran was the last Stark lord in the castle.
He peered over the battlements at the sea of enemy soldiers below. His face paled slightly. He tried to look strong, but he was only twelve years old. As he watched the enemy prepare their siege, he wondered if the castle's three hundred men could possibly hold the walls.
Bran was terrified, but he knew Sansa and Rickon were even more afraid. For their sake, he had to be brave. Still, in his heart, he had no idea if they could survive.
In this moment of crisis, his mind went back to the man who had saved them from Theon Greyjoy just a month ago: Lord Jason East. The Starks and House East had a close relationship. Bran hoped that Lord Jason would come to their aid again and help them defeat the Bolton rebels.
So, as soon as he reached the walls, he eagerly asked, "Will Lord Jason send his army to help us?"
Ser Rodrik considered the question, his tone hesitant. "Lord Jason and House Stark are certainly close, my lord. But how could we get a message to him? And even if we did, would he dare to face the Bolton army? I... I am sorry, my lord. I do not know." The old knight shook his head, his expression pessimistic.
"I've heard that Lord Jason has recruited thousands of soldiers from the riverlands refugees in Starfire City," Maester Luwin added, though his voice lacked conviction. "If he stood with us, we might be able to challenge the Boltons."
"But," he continued softly, "Lord Jason is not a vassal of House Stark. He has no sworn obligation to send his troops to help you. He is a foreigner in the North. He may not wish to involve himself in our war."
Hearing this, Bran's face fell, becoming even paler. He understood their reasoning. No one in Westeros would risk so much for friendship alone. Alliances were built on shared interests or marriage ties. The bond between House Stark and House East was based on friendship and a business deal for the wolfswood. In the eyes of Ser Rodrik and Maester Luwin, that was not nearly enough to convince Lord Jason to fight a war against Roose Bolton, who now commanded the might of the North.
Bran looked up at them, a desperate hope in his eyes. "What about our other bannermen? Bear Island, Torrhen's Square, the Rills, White Harbor, Karhold, Last Hearth... will they send men to help us?"
Maester Luwin fell silent. Ser Rodrik's expression grew grim.
"My lord," the old knight said through gritted teeth, "except for Lord Wyman Manderly of White Harbor, all the other lords died at The Twins. The Freys violated the sacred laws of guest right and murdered them. Walder Frey and his kin will be cursed by the gods for it."
Luwin's heart was even heavier. Even if their messengers reached the other castles, there would be few soldiers to answer the call. The northern lords had taken their best fighting men south with Robb. Most of those soldiers were now dead or had been forced to surrender to the Boltons. Roose Bolton held all the cards. Even if the remaining northern houses united, they couldn't possibly muster an army strong enough to challenge him.
Their only real hope was Lord Jason East. If he chose to support Winterfell, they might have a chance. But if he chose to sit on the sidelines, or if other houses like the Karstarks—who had lost their lord, his heir, and so many others—chose neutrality out of resentment, then House Stark was truly doomed.
On the first day, Ramsay Bolton simply surrounded Winterfell and sent a messenger to demand their surrender. Ser Rodrik shouted his refusal from the walls.
The next morning, after a night of rest, the Dreadfort soldiers ate a hurried breakfast. On Ramsay's order, they began their assault.
"Kill them!"
The two sides clashed at the walls. Though the Stark soldiers were few, they used Winterfell's high battlements to their advantage, stubbornly resisting the Bolton attack.
From his command post, Ramsay watched his men fall, his face a blank mask. He emotionlessly ordered them to keep attacking. He wanted to capture the castle before his father arrived and prove his own worth.
As the battle raged and Winterfell's defenses began to crumble, the First and Second Northern Corps, led by Jason, quietly formed a ring around Ramsay's unsuspecting army.
Ramsay, completely unaware, saw the Stark defenders faltering. His pale face flushed with excited bloodlust. "Go on, you idiots! Keep climbing! They're finished! Winterfell is ours! Press the attack!"
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