Thud!
A dull metallic sound echoed through the snow as an arrow buried itself into Winterfell's massive wood-and-iron gate. It was the second such impact within the last ten minutes.
This time, it wasn't Robb Stark's severed ear pinned to the gate.
Instead, it was a bloody, palm-sized piece of flesh carved from his chest, complete with skin and fat.
Amid the raging blizzard, Balon Greyjoy stood with a bloodstained knife in hand.
At his feet lay Robb Stark, collapsed in the snow, letting out weak, pained groans. Bright crimson blood stained the endless white landscape, and the sight of Winterfell's young heir in such a miserable state stirred anger in everyone watching.
"Damn him! Damn Balon Greyjoy!"
"May the Others tear out his eyes, rip out his tongue, and turn him into a blue-eyed wight!"
Seeing Balon Greyjoy once again mutilate Robb Stark the moment the allotted time expired, Ser Rodrik Cassel could no longer contain himself.
Watching two chunks of Robb's flesh be carved away and fired onto Winterfell's gates drove him into a furious rage.
Standing atop the battlements, Rodrik cursed with every foul word a Northman could muster. In anger, he slammed his fist into the rough gray stone wall.
The impact split his knuckles open, blood immediately flowing down his hand.
Yet he seemed unable to feel the pain.
Nearby, another man screamed in terror.
It was Theon Greyjoy.
The moment Rodrik had learned Balon Greyjoy himself had invaded the North and captured Robb Stark, he had ignored all objections and immediately ordered Theon's arrest.
After all, this was precisely why Eddard Stark had kept Balon's son as a hostage all these years.
Like Robb, Theon had already lost one ear.
It had been taken in exactly the same place... and by exactly the same method.
Now, as he watched Balon casually slice another piece of flesh from Robb's chest, despair completely overwhelmed him.
He cursed.
He begged.
He wailed.
None of it mattered.
The blood flowing from his missing ear had frozen against his cheek, and even his trousers had frozen stiff after being soaked.
Yet the pain in his own body no longer mattered.
Rodrik Cassel, consumed by fury, snatched a dagger from a nearby guard and strode toward him.
"No... please, Ser Rodrik! This has nothing to do with me!"
"He isn't my father! Lord Eddard Stark is my father! Robb is my brother!"
"I'm innocent! Please... don't..."
Knowing exactly what awaited him, Theon collapsed into desperate pleading.
Tears, blood, and mucus froze together on his face.
He truly believed he was innocent.
But in Rodrik's eyes, he was not.
"The blood in your veins... your name... nothing about you here is innocent."
"So act like a man."
Without another word, Rodrik seized the nineteen-year-old.
Nine years earlier, Eddard Stark had brought Theon to Winterfell as both hostage and foster son.
He had grown up alongside the Stark children.
He had received the same education.
Rodrik himself had taught him swordsmanship and archery, and the boy had shown remarkable talent.
But regardless of everything...
He was still a Greyjoy.
Rodrik glanced down at Robb lying helplessly in the snow outside the walls.
His eyes burned with fury.
The howling wind swallowed Robb's voice, yet Rodrik imagined he could still hear the young lord's agonized screams.
"Balon Greyjoy!"
"I warned you once already."
"This time, I will repay double the pain you've inflicted upon Robb Stark... through your son."
Theon's desperate cries echoed across the battlements.
Rodrik raised the dagger...
...and drove it directly into Theon's eye socket.
With one brutal pull, he tore the eyeball free, strands of flesh and nerves stretching before finally snapping apart.
Even then, he did not stop.
He flicked the bloody eye onto the stone parapet before slashing across Theon's forehead.
The dagger dug beneath the scalp.
Gripping Theon's head, Rodrik slowly peeled the flesh back along the skull.
It was torture beyond imagination.
Cruel.
Savage.
Theon's screams pierced through the blizzard, carrying all the way to Balon Greyjoy and the Ironborn below.
Rodrik had done it deliberately.
He wanted Balon to hear every scream.
This was a game of chicken.
Whoever lost their nerve first... lost everything.
Rodrik understood that if he truly wished to save Robb Stark, this was his only option.
Winterfell still held the stronger position.
If he showed weakness now...
If he retreated...
Then Robb would die anyway, and Winterfell would soon follow.
The only path to victory was absolute resolve.
He had to become even more ruthless than his enemy.
Only then could he force Balon to fear him.
Rodrik also understood Balon's situation.
The Ironborn had no escape.
The unexpected blizzard had trapped them in the North for days, cutting off every route of retreat.
If they wished to survive, they had only one option...
Capture Winterfell.
To make matters worse for them, the Vale knights sent by the King had already entered the North and were rapidly approaching Winterfell.
Therefore, Rodrik had only one strategy.
Never yield.
Never retreat.
Hold the walls until the enemy broke first.
Either Balon Greyjoy would collapse under despair...
Or he would go mad from it.
Either outcome would end in his destruction.
Only by enduring longer than the Ironborn could Winterfell claim victory.
As acting lord of Winterfell, Rodrik knew this burden rested entirely upon his shoulders.
"Balon Greyjoy!"
"This is my second warning!"
"If you harm Robb Stark again..."
"I will personally cut off Theon Greyjoy's head."
By now, Theon had already lost consciousness from the unimaginable pain.
Rodrik ordered several archers forward.
Just as Balon had done, they wrapped the bloody remains in cloth, tied them to arrows, and fired them back toward the Ironborn.
An eye...
And strips of flesh.
A fitting gift from father to son.
---
Hearing her brother's screams gradually fade into silence, Asha Greyjoy could no longer remain calm.
Their true purpose had never been to conquer the North.
They had come to rescue Theon.
Raiding the North had merely been a convenient excuse to convince the Ironborn captains to follow them.
But now...
Everything had spiraled beyond anyone's expectations.
Both sides stood locked in a deadly stalemate.
And Rodrik Cassel had issued his final warning.
Balon's face remained grim.
He looked silently toward his unconscious son before turning to Asha.
"Asha."
"You are heir to the Iron Islands."
"You are a Greyjoy."
"You are Ironborn."
"Iron and salt run through your blood."
"Ever since your brothers died, I have raised you as my son."
"So from this moment onward..."
"Forget that you are a woman."
"The Drowned God made us to reap, raid, and conquer."
"To forge a new world through blood, fire, and iron."
"And carve our names into history."
Pain flickered across Balon's face.
But his decision had already been made.
If he wanted victory...
He had to accept sacrifice.
He understood Rodrik's determination because they were both trapped in exactly the same game.
Neither side could retreat.
The blizzard had sealed every road.
Like sailors caught in a violent storm, the only chance of survival was to sail directly into it.
Either they would be destroyed...
Or emerge victorious.
Asha slowly looked back toward her blood-covered brother upon the castle walls.
Months ago, everything had been different.
Their carefully planned scheme had seemed flawless.
The Seven Kingdoms had been descending into chaos.
War consumed the Westerlands and the Stormlands.
The struggle for the Iron Throne had only just begun.
The Ironborn had expected to profit from the disorder as they always had.
Instead...
The winds had suddenly changed.
Just like the weather that now trapped them outside Winterfell.
What had begun as an opportunistic raid had become a desperate struggle for survival.
Balon's words made everything clear.
Even if it meant sacrificing his only surviving son...
He would continue forward.
As captain of the Black Wind, Asha understood exactly what was expected of her.
Balon looked toward the gathered Ironborn captains.
Some stared back with doubt.
Others with greed.
Others with barely concealed hostility.
He knew any sign of weakness would invite betrayal.
Without hesitation...
He stepped on Robb Stark's arm.
Drawing his longsword...
He brought it down in a single clean stroke.
Robb's right forearm fell into the snow.
Blood burst from the severed limb, instantly melting the frozen ground beneath it.
Like Rodrik Cassel...
Balon had chosen absolute resolve.
There could be no hesitation.
No retreat.
Otherwise, his own men would kill him before the Northmen ever had the chance.
"Five minutes have passed."
"Send Robb Stark's arm to Winterfell."
His voice was colder than the frozen northern wind itself.
Pain and blood loss had nearly robbed Robb Stark of consciousness.
Yet the young heir of House Stark remained awake.
This time...
He didn't scream.
Instead, he forced himself to raise his head.
"Balon Greyjoy..."
"You may kill me..."
"But you will never make me surrender."
"And you will never make the North surrender."
"The North remembers."
Balon looked down at him with complete indifference.
He said nothing.
To him...
Robb Stark was already a dead man.
The only reason he still lived was because he remained useful.
He would become the battering ram that broke open Winterfell's gates.
Yet as Robb stared into Balon's cold eyes...
He understood.
A faint smile appeared on his blood-covered lips.
He rolled onto his back and looked up at the falling snow.
Then, gathering the last of his strength, he shouted toward Winterfell.
"Ser Rodrik!"
"In my father's name..."
"I command you to hold Winterfell!"
"Do not surrender because of me!"
"Even if it costs my life!"
"Protect the honor of House Stark!"
"And remember..."
"It was Roose Bolton!"
"He betrayed me!"
"He betrayed my father!"
"He betrayed the North!"
Since the moment Balon dragged him before Winterfell's walls, Robb had been waiting for this chance.
He didn't fear death.
But he could not allow House Stark's honor to be stained.
Nor could he become the weapon that opened Winterfell's gates.
Balon did not stop him.
In truth...
This had been his intention all along.
He knew Roose Bolton was inside Winterfell.
He also knew the Karstarks and the other northern lords were gathered there.
Most importantly...
He knew not everyone inside the castle agreed on how to proceed.
As long as disagreement existed...
As long as cracks remained...
He could pry them wider.
And in this deadly game of chicken...
He intended to be the last man standing.
________________________________________
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