66 Chapter 65 - The Wolf's Lair
125 AC
The first day of the first moon
Addam Pov
The onset of the new year filled the air with a sense of anticipation that coursed through my veins, a thrilling prelude to the impending mission. Our arrival in Winterfell had taken place only a few short days ago, and we had swiftly claimed one of the vacant houses in Wintertown as our temporary base. The biting chill of the season was tempered by the warmth of the furs we had at our disposal, a thoughtful provision by the ever-wise Ser Torrhen Manderly.
Surveying the assembly of knights, my heart quickened with excitement. They huddled in close consultation, their eyes locked onto a meticulously detailed map of Winterfell, sprawled out on a sturdy wooden table. It was a tableau of strategy and determination.
"Our path into the heart of Winterfell hinges on one pivotal element—a distraction," asserted Ser Ulf, his handsome frame leaning over the map, hands tracing the terrain with an air of authority. He gestured emphatically to a desolate corner of the map, an outpost on the outskirts of Wintertown, where timeworn, decaying structures stood as silent witnesses to a bygone era. "Our means of entry will manifest in flames," he continued, his finger tracing a fiery line. "Once the conflagration takes root, Bennard Stark will have no recourse but to dispatch his vigilant guards. It is at this precise juncture, my esteemed fellow knights, that my young squire shall seize the moment."
The collective gaze of the assembly converged upon me, and I stood unwavering, my resolve unyielding in the face of their doubts and whispers. I refused to exhibit any semblance of weakness.
"Some among you may consider me naught but a boy," I addressed the assembly, my voice unwavering and filled with conviction. "But let it be known that I undertook the arduous task of learning the entirety of Winterfell's intricate layout during our arduous journey from White Harbor. Though my years may be few—only ten namedays have graced my existence—I promise you this: my valor equals that of each and every one of you. I pledge to make my knight, Ser Ulf, proud," I declared, meeting his gaze. Ser Ulf, a man undeniable strength, regarded me with a mixture of pride and unwavering belief in my abilities.
The air in the room seemed charged with potential as we prepared to embark on a journey that would test the mettle of knights and squire alike. Our mission, though fraught with danger, was infused with a sense of purpose and an unshakable determination to see it through to the end. Winterfell loomed before us, a daunting fortress of legend, yet we were undaunted, ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead.
From my vantage point in the shadows, I watched as the flames leapt into the night sky, their fiery tongues reaching out to embrace the cool air. The guards, startled by the sudden conflagration, raced out of Winterfell's imposing gates to battle the encroaching inferno. With each passing moment, the flames grew in intensity, consuming their attention, and soon there was no one standing in the way of my clandestine mission.
"Addam, be vigilant," Ser Ulf's voice echoed in my thoughts, a stark reminder of the perilous task that lay ahead.
I hurried forward, my footsteps echoing softly against the stone path beneath me. Soon, I found myself on a bridge connecting two formidable structures. I recognized the larger of the two as the Great Keep, which housed the chambers of House Stark.
Cautiously, I ascended the bridge and slipped into the Great Keep, a labyrinthine expanse of chambers and corridors. It appeared deserted, for most of the guards were outside, battling the relentless blaze.
My heart pounded in my chest as I systematically searched each room, anxiety gnawing at me. Lord Cregan's whereabouts remained elusive, and worry began to claw its way into my thoughts.
Then, in the dimly lit confines of yet another chamber, I felt a sudden, sharp tug on my hair, and the cold press of a knife against my neck sent a shiver down my spine.
"Don't make a move," a determined voice, belonging to a girl, commanded.
I winced in pain and attempted to break free, but her grip on my hair and the blade remained resolute.
"Who are you?" she demanded, her voice laced with suspicion.
Gulping, I struggled to reply, my words escaping in a strained whisper, "I've come to rescue Lord Cregan." The grip around my hair tightened, and I could feel the cold steel of the knife pressing closer, a stark reminder of the precarious situation I now found myself in.
"I and my companions orchestrated the fire as a distraction," I explained, feeling the tension in the room begin to ebb as she loosened her grip on my hair. Her threat lingered in the air, a chilling reminder of the consequences if I had been dishonest.
"If you're lying, I'll gut you," she warned, her voice still tinged with suspicion. Slowly, she released me, and I exhaled a trembling sigh of relief.
With newfound trust, she led the way through the dimly lit corridors of the Great Keep. Eventually, we stopped in front of a door, and as she pushed it open, I found myself face to face with none other than the Lord of Winterfell himself, Cregan Stark.
"Sara, what is the commotion outside?" he asked, his gaze flickering with concern.
I studied the Lord of Winterfell as he stood before me, his dark, raven-black hair tousled in disarray. His eyes, the color of stormy grey seas, held a certain depth that hinted at the burdens he carried. There was an undeniable ruggedness about him, though it fell short of the magnetic charisma that Ser Ulf, the White Knight, exuded.
"Ask him, brother," Sara replied, nodding in my direction. My heart raced as I realized who she was. Ser Ulf had mentioned Lord Cregan's bastard sister, Sara Snow, and now she stood before me, a presence as formidable as her brother.
"Brother," I murmured softly, and the word hung in the air, heavy with unspoken revelations.
"Boy, speak," Cregan demanded, his eyes locked onto mine.
"Lord Cregan, my name is Addam," I began, my voice steady and resolute. "I serve as the squire to Ser Ulf, renowned as the White Knight. We, along with twenty knights of House Manderly and other loyal companions, have ventured here to liberate you from the unjust imprisonment you've endured."
Cregan's expression, once shrouded in weariness, hardened as he contemplated my words. "There are more than two hundred guards," he sighed, his tone heavy with despair. "Your valor is commendable, but it may not be enough."
"I need you to compose a letter," I urged, my determination unshaken. "This letter will detail how your uncle has wrongfully confined you within the walls of your own castle. Once the letter is dispatched, a raven will carry it to Lord Manderly, and he will rally his banners and come to your aid."
As I made this proclamation, Sara's eyes widened with newfound hope, and Cregan's countenance shifted from desolation to a spark of optimism.
"Who would have thought that a summer knight from the south would come to rescue a Wolf?" Cregan mused, his voice tinged with irony.
"Ser Ulf is no mere Summer Knight," I argued vehemently, my belief in my mentor unwavering. "He is the true savior of the Maiden of the Vale. He defeated a thousand Mountain Clan warriors. He earned the distinction of being the youngest knight in the history of the Seven Kingdoms. Do not underestimate him."
Cregan burst into laughter, his deep, hearty chuckles filling the chamber. "I would very much like to meet this knight of yours," he declared as he moved to fetch a parchment, his hand poised to write, ready to pen the letter that held the promise of his salvation.
After what felt like an eternity, Cregan finally completed the letter and handed it to me, his eyes filled with a mixture of hope and trepidation.
"May the Old Gods be with you," he uttered, his voice a solemn blessing. As he opened the door, a chilling sight awaited us. In the distance, I spotted a man with a greying beard, flanked by three other menacing figures.
"Cregan!" the man shouted, his voice booming with anger.
"Was this your doing?" he continued, fury etched across his face.
"Uncle," Cregan retorted, his own anger simmering.
"Addam, run!" he instructed me, his voice filled with urgency. "Sara, show him the way. I'll hold them off for as long as I can."
As the clash of steel and shouts of battle erupted behind us, Sara and I sprinted away from the scene, each step echoing with desperation. I clutched the precious letter tightly in my hand, knowing that it held the key to Cregan's liberation.
"Stop right there, or I will shoot!" a voice echoed from behind us.
I spun around to see a man with a striking resemblance to Cregan, armed with a bow and arrow.
"Benjen," Sara bit out his name, her voice laced with anger and betrayal.
"Oh, Sara, is that how you treat your cousin?" he taunted, a cruel grin on his face.
"Fuck off," she snapped.
The approaching footsteps of Winterfell's guards grew louder, hemming us in with each passing moment. We were perilously close to being surrounded.
"Sara, I need you to take this letter to Ser Ulf," I implored, desperation and resolve in my eyes. Sara's own widened as she realized the gravity of the situation.
"No, we can both escape," she insisted, but I shook my head.
"You know the way better than I do," I reasoned, my voice resolute.
"Oi, the both of you, stop talking and get down on the ground!" one of the guards barked, his voice laced with authority.
In that tense moment, I made a split-second decision. "Now!" I shouted, and Sara took off running, while I hurled the dagger that the White Knight had entrusted to me. As the blade soared through the air, I sprinted toward Benjen Stark, my sole mission to prevent him from loosing the arrow and buy Sara as much time as possible.
In a harrowing instant, Benjen tried to evade the dagger, but my determination was unwavering. I closed the distance between us, lunging to stop him from shooting. The arrow was loosed, and time seemed to slow as it hurtled toward me. At the last possible moment, I jerked my head to the side, and the arrow grazed my temple, drawing a thin line of blood.
Despite the pain, I managed to land a solid punch on Benjen, but he retaliated fiercely, striking me repeatedly until my vision blurred and consciousness slipped away, leaving me in the unforgiving grasp of darkness.
----------------------------------------------------------
The dim light cast ghastly shadows in the dank chamber as my eyes slowly opened, and a searing ache pulsed through my skull. Chains clinked ominously, binding my wrists in cold, unforgiving iron.
Nearby, a battered figure came into focus, and I recognized the face of Lord Cregan Stark. He sat there, his demeanor worn and bruised, a silent testament to the torment he had endured.
"It seems you've decided to rejoin the living," he spoke, his voice hushed, almost resigned.
Concern filled my voice as I asked, "Are you alright, Lord Cregan?" But before he could reply, a voice sliced through the oppressive atmosphere, colder than the chains that bound me.
"He can die for all I care," snarled the man with the grey beard, his eyes devoid of mercy.
His attention shifted to me, his gaze piercing. "I'm curious, boy, how did a mere child like you infiltrate Winterfell? And how many of your companions are lurking in the shadows?"
My resolve flared, and I retorted defiantly, "I won't tell you a thing!" But my defiance earned me a vicious punch to the gut, a tidal wave of pain crashing through me.
I gasped for air, writhing in agony, as the man continued, his voice chillingly composed, "I prefer not to resort to violence unless absolutely necessary."
He went on, his words dripping with menace, "When you trespass into the Wolf's den, you don't leave with your life."
Cregan's voice, softer now, pierced the tension, pleading for my safety. "Please, don't harm him. He knows nothing."
But another figure strode forth, delivering a cruel kick to Cregan's gut. "Cousin, you really should learn to keep quiet," he sneered, a maniacal grin contorting his face.
Crouching before me, he leaned in, his eyes gleaming with sadistic pleasure. "Do you know how the Boltons extract secrets from spies? They use a special knife to carve the skin in a way that ensures the victim doesn't die. It's an art, really," he mused, his fingers cruelly pulling my hair.
His voice dropped lower, a venomous whisper, "Whoever you're counting on out there, they won't save you, boy." He struck me across the face, blood spurting from my nose, and a sickening smile twisted his lips.
A voice from the shadows reported, "Father, we haven't located Sara."
With an air of indifference, the man with the grey beard reassured his son, "Don't fret, Brandon. That wretched bastard won't achieve a thing. Who would believe the tales of a lowly bastard?"
He sneered at me once more, his eyes burning with madness. "Do you know what awaits you, boy?" he jeered, his voice dripping with malevolence. "I plan to take you to Wintertown, where I'll sever your head from your shoulders. Let's see what your companions will do to avenge you."
Laughter, hollow and deranged, reverberated through the room, chilling me to the core, as I braced myself for the horrors that lay ahead in this nightmarish ordeal.
