Chapter 20: The Wolf's Howl, The Flayed Skin's Fall
The air over Winterfell was a razor, honed убийствен (ubíystven - murderous) by the unnatural winter and the suffocating dread of Bolton rule. Roose Bolton, a spider in his icy web, watched the encroaching forces of Stannis Baratheon and the burgeoning Northern rebellion with a cold, calculating patience, yet even he, Torrhen sensed, felt the walls of his stolen castle closing in. Ramsay, his bastard, was a rabid dog on a fraying leash, his paranoia and cruelty escalating with each fresh snowfall, each whispered rumour of Stark loyalists gathering.
Torrhen Stark, the Winter Sage, in his ancient, shadowed heart of Winterfell, was the silent conductor of this symphony of impending doom. His agents, woven into the very fabric of the castle's remaining loyal servants, moved like ghosts, their reports painting a vivid picture of Bolton desperation. He had spent decades, centuries, preparing Winterfell for a different, colder war, but its ancient strengths, its secret ways, were now turned against its current, profane masters. His illusions became more potent, more terrifying. Bolton guards swore they saw the spectral figures of Eddard and Robb Stark walking the battlements, their eyes burning with cold fire. The great hall would sometimes fill with the faint, mournful sound of a wolf pack howling, a sound that chilled the blood and set Ramsay's hounds to a frenzy of answering, terrified barks. Key Bolton defenses, Torrhen ensured through subtle magical sabotage, were compromised – catapult grease found mysteriously diluted with water, stores of pitch for flaming arrows rendered unusable by an unseasonal dampness, critical gate mechanisms rusted almost solid.
He knew the final assault was imminent. Stannis's depleted but hardened army, having somehow survived the blizzard and dealt a savage blow to the Frey-Bolton vanguard, was now a tangible threat. More importantly, the whispers Torrhen had so carefully cultivated had become a roar: Jon Snow, resurrected, free of his Night's Watch vows, was marching south with a formidable host of Northmen and Wildlings, his Stark blood calling the true North to his banner. And Wyman Manderly, his great, false belly full of Frey pies and simmering vengeance, was poised to unleash his own knights, many of whom were already within Winterfell's walls, disguised as Bolton reinforcements. Even whispers of young Rickon Stark, alive and under Manderly's protection, had begun to circulate, a potent symbol of Stark continuity.
Torrhen's first priority before the storm broke was the innocent. Winterfell's smallfolk, who had suffered so much. He guided them, through dreams whispered to their elders and "chance discoveries" of forgotten routes by loyal servants, to the deepest, oldest cellars and sub-crypts, places he had warded centuries ago, stocked with meager but life-sustaining supplies of preserved food and water. They would be shielded from the worst of the coming battle.
The assault, when it came, was a multi-headed hydra of Northern fury. Jon Snow's forces, a motley but ferocious army of Stark loyalists, mountain clansmen, and battle-hardened Wildlings, crashed against Winterfell's northern gate, their war cries a savage hymn to the Old Gods. Simultaneously, from within the castle, Wyman Manderly's knights, throwing off their flayed man surcoats to reveal the merman of White Harbor beneath, erupted from their barracks, attacking key guard posts and gate mechanisms. Stannis Baratheon's disciplined remnants, seeing their chance, launched their own desperate, coordinated assault on a western wall section Torrhen had ensured was "structurally compromised."
Torrhen, from his sanctum, became the battle's unseen maestro. He poured his energy, filtered through the Philosopher's Stone, into the very air of Winterfell. As Jon's forces charged, a sudden, unnatural squall of blinding snow, appearing as if from nowhere, swirled directly into the eyes of the Bolton archers on the battlements, their arrows flying wide. Phantom Stark banners, shimmering with an eerie, ghostly light, appeared on unmanned sections of the walls, drawing Bolton reserves away from critical points, sowing confusion and despair.
When Ramsay Bolton, his face a mask of snarling fury, attempted to lead a counter-charge of his kennel men and a few terrified Bolton levies through the main courtyard, Torrhen intervened more directly. He caused the ancient flagstones, slick with ice, to become unnaturally treacherous beneath their feet. Men stumbled, formations broke, and Ramsay's momentum was blunted before it could truly begin. He subtly amplified the roars of Jon's giant, Wun Wun, as the colossal being smashed through the gate, turning the sound into something truly primeval, a sound that broke the courage of even hardened Bolton soldiers.
Protecting the key Stark players was paramount. He felt Jon Snow, fighting like a man possessed, Ghost a white whirlwind of death at his side. When a Bolton knight, dismounted but desperate, lunged at Jon's exposed flank, Torrhen caused a nearby stack of firewood, loosened by the battle's vibrations, to "accidentally" topple, its heavy logs crashing down to trip the attacker, giving Jon the precious second he needed to turn and defend himself. He sensed Rickon, kept safe with Manderly's most trusted guard within the inner chaos, and subtly wove a shield of misdirection around them, ensuring they were overlooked in the fiercest fighting.
The fall of Ramsay Bolton was a moment Torrhen savored with a cold, grim satisfaction that was entirely Silas's. He had ensured Ramsay's usual escape routes, the secret boltholes he had established, were "unexpectedly" blocked or guarded by newly "defected" Manderly men. He watched, through his scrying mirror, as Ramsay, his usual sadistic bravado shattered into raw terror, was cornered, not by a noble lord, but by his own starving, terrified hounds, which Torrhen had subtly agitated over weeks with high-pitched, inaudible sounds and the persistent, illusory scent of blood and fear. The beasts, driven mad by hunger and their master's own panicked aura, turned. Torrhen did not need to see the gruesome end; the psychic imprint of Ramsay's agony and terror was enough. A rabid dog put down by its own teeth.
Roose Bolton, the Leech Lord, proved a more elusive, more dangerous quarry. He did not panic. He assessed, calculated, and when he saw the tide irrevocably turn, he attempted a discreet withdrawal through a little-known passage leading from his solar towards the old crypts – a passage Torrhen himself had used centuries ago. But Torrhen was waiting, not in person, but with a perfectly laid trap. As Roose entered the passage, a section of the floor, its supports subtly weakened by Torrhen's magic over days, gave way with a groan of ancient stone. Roose didn't fall far, but he fell hard, his leg snapping with an audible crack, trapping him in the cold, dusty darkness. Torrhen then merely amplified the sounds of the battle above, the victorious roars of Stark loyalists, and sent a single, clear image into Roose's mind: the flayed man banner being torn down, trampled into the bloody snow. He left Roose there, broken and alone in the dark, for the vengeful Northern lords to find. His end would be less dramatic than Ramsay's, but perhaps more fitting for a man who lived by cold calculation – to be undone by an unforeseen variable in the ancient, unforgiving stone of Winterfell itself.
The battle raged for hours, but with Ramsay dead, Roose incapacitated, and Manderly's men creating chaos from within, the Bolton resistance crumbled. The Stark direwolf, hastily sewn but fiercely displayed, was raised over Winterfell's main gate, its howl, carried by the wind, a promise of restoration.
Winterfell was reclaimed, but it was a scarred, bloodied victory. The courtyards were slick with gore, the ancient stones chipped and burned, the air thick with the stench of death and the cries of the wounded. Jon Snow, his face grimed with soot and blood, stood with Wyman Manderly and the other loyalist lords as the last pockets of Bolton resistance were extinguished. Stannis Baratheon, his army too depleted to contest Jon's moral authority and the sheer force of Northern sentiment, offered a grudging, pragmatic alliance, his gaze already turning back towards the Wall and the true enemy.
In the immediate aftermath, Torrhen, still hidden, began his work of healing and restoration. He subtly guided Maester Wolkan (Luwin's successor, a younger, more pliable man) and the other healers, enhancing their skills, ensuring that "surprisingly effective" poultices were concocted, that fevers broke with "unexpected" speed. He drew upon the Philosopher's Stone, channeling its life-giving energies into the very air of Winterfell, a subtle miasma of vitality that fought off infection and hastened recovery. He guided work parties to "discover" caches of remarkably well-preserved ancient timber and "unusually strong" unquarried stone nearby, accelerating the rebuilding process.
When the castle was finally secured, when the dead were being counted and the living tended to, Torrhen made his move. He allowed himself to be "found" by Jon Snow and Lord Manderly in the deepest, most ancient part of the Godswood, near the heart tree, appearing as the impossibly ancient Winter Sage, frail but with eyes that burned with an undimmed, otherworldly light.
"Lord Snow," he whispered, his voice like the cracking of old ice, though it carried to every corner of the hushed clearing. "Lord Manderly. The wolves have returned to their lair. The flayed skin is cast down. Winterfell breathes again."
Jon Snow, who had heard the legends of the Winter Sage all his life, looked upon the ancient figure with a mixture of awe and reverence. "Sage Torrhen," he said, his voice rough with exhaustion and emotion. "The North owes you a debt it can never repay. Your prophecies, your guidance, they kept hope alive."
"Hope is a hardy Northern weed, my Lord," Torrhen replied. "It needs but a sliver of light to grow. But this victory, however welcome, however just, is but a prelude. A harsh winter has fallen upon us, and it is but the herald of a far greater, far colder storm."
He looked directly at Jon, his ancient eyes seeming to pierce through to the Targaryen fire that now burned alongside the Stark ice within him. "You have returned from the shadow of death, Jon Snow. You carry a heavy burden, a great destiny. The North is yours to lead, to unite. For the Long Night is dawning, and the true enemy, the Great Other and his legions of the dead, stirs beyond the Wall. All that has happened before – the games of thrones, the wars of kings, the fall of houses – it is but dust in the face of what is to come."
He revealed more then, not the truth of his own unnatural existence, nor of the Philosopher's Stone, but he drew upon his "ancient texts," his "accumulated wisdom of Stark kings," to paint a terrifyingly clear picture of the Others, of their wight armies, of the prophecies of Azor Ahai and the Last Hero. He spoke of the need for dragonglass, for fire, for Valyrian steel if it could be found, and for the forgotten magic of the First Men. He urged Jon to solidify his alliance with the Free Folk, to treat with Stannis (if he still lived and was willing), to send ravens to Daenerys Targaryen in the East, whose dragons, Torrhen knew, were the world's last, best hope for fire against ice.
Production of Solstice Steel was immediately, and openly, ramped up, its secrets now "rediscovered" and shared with every capable smith in the North under Jon's authority. The Wall became the singular focus of Northern efforts, men and resources pouring towards it. Torrhen guided Jon in forging a council of war, uniting Stark loyalists, Wildling chieftains, and even the remnants of Stannis's men under a single banner: the Direwolf of Stark, now a symbol not just of Northern independence, but of the living against the dead.
Winterfell, scarred but reclaimed, became the heart of this new, desperate alliance. Torrhen, the eternal Winter Sage, stood beside Jon Snow, the resurrected Lord of Winterfell, the King Who Was Promised in the eyes of some, the White Wolf to others. The political games were over. The feuds of men were, for now, silenced by a greater fear. The true war, the one Torrhen had spent centuries preparing for, had begun.
As the first, supernaturally cold flakes of a blizzard that promised to be the true herald of the Long Night began to fall, Torrhen looked out from Winterfell's highest tower, Jon Snow at his side. The wind carried not just snow, but the faint, chilling echo of a horn, unlike any blown by mortal man, from the distant, frozen North. The Great Other was advancing. Torrhen felt a grim sense of purpose, a terrifying clarity. His long, lonely vigil was reaching its terrible, magnificent culmination. The North was Stark once more. And under his ancient guidance, and Jon Snow's leadership, it would face the dawn, however bloody, however costly. The Winter Sage had played his long game, and now, the final move was upon them.