Across a span of billions of feet, the fusion light from the central celestial body of this galaxy stubbornly pierced through the clouds, bringing dawn to the land of the North.

In the dim morning light, the ancient castle walls, standing for thousands of years, were now draped with black cloth bearing the sigil of The Gift and the red dragon banner of House Targaryen.

After spending most of the night clearing out remaining resistance and securing full control of the castle—including sending men to search the crypts of House Stark—Aegor, accompanied by a squad of reserve soldiers who ultimately hadn’t been needed, left the command post in Winter Town and made his way toward the castle. Though he had visited Winterfell countless times before, this was the first time he entered it in a time of war.

The ruins of the stables, long since burned to the ground, no longer gave off even the faintest wisp of smoke. The frightened and scattered horses had been rounded up. On the wide, yet chaotic, open ground inside the gate, a large number of captured defenders were gathered in rows, surrounded by unsheathed blades as they awaited their fate. Most still looked confused, unable to understand how they had lost so quickly. A few, however, recognized the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch walking through the gate, casting angry and contemptuous looks his way. Two particularly bold captives shouted curses, calling him a “chameleon,” and spat toward him. Unfortunately for them, their bravery earned no cheers or praise, only a heavy blow from a guard who struck the backs of their knees with a spear shaft, forcing them to the ground.

Aegor had neither the patience nor the interest to engage with these ignorant foot soldiers. More pressing matters awaited him.

The dead needed to be cremated. The wounded required treatment. A suitable place had to be found to hold the prisoners, and civilians needed to be escorted back to Winter Town. The blasted-open east and north gates also had to be repaired as soon as possible. But above all these things loomed a greater concern: although the Gift Army had seized the castle, they had yet to fully take Winterfell.

Located just north of the castle’s center, the main keep—its core structure—was still under the control of its former masters.

It wasn’t that the Gift soldiers lacked the strength or will to storm the keep. On the contrary, Aegor had given clear orders against assaulting it. Rather than risking a bloody confrontation, he preferred to take the building peacefully, ensuring the safety of those inside.

This was a time when only nobles were considered people. The deaths of common soldiers in a siege would be forgotten by the noble class in the blink of an eye. But if even a single member of House Stark were to die, not only would all the plans Aegor had carefully laid out for the North be forced into an emergency revision, but a reputation for repaying kindness with betrayal would dog him for the rest of his life throughout the high circles of Westeros.

And now, the tall, round structure before him was less like a fortress and more like a giant urn, containing every living Stark left in the world—except for the Greenseer.

No, not quite every Stark.

The supreme leader of the North, and the rightful lord of the castle Aegor had just seized, Robb Stark, had actually been captured alive and wounded in last night’s battle.

“Lord Robb led a squad of soldiers in a charge while we were attacking the armory last night,” the officer who made the capture reported. “They nearly caught us off guard, but we quickly threw all the explosive rounds we had. That unlucky man at the front got knocked out cold by the blast.”

“Afterward, the men behind him kept trying to fight their way through to retrieve him. That’s how we realized we’d probably caught someone important. We chased after him and once we had him, we saw it—there was a direwolf sigil on his armor!”

Robb’s survival after being knocked unconscious by an explosion was due not only to his personal resilience, but also to a rule change Aegor had implemented for the battle.

For many reasons, Aegor hoped to keep casualties among the defenders to a minimum—be they members of House Stark or the soldiers loyal to them. But emotional leniency aside, logic reminded him that he was the commander of the Gift Army. His primary responsibility was to protect his own soldiers, not the enemy’s. He couldn’t simply issue vague orders like “go easy” or “do not harm the Starks,” which would only confuse and hinder his men.

After careful consideration, he chose an indirect approach to reduce bloodshed.

He decreed that rewards for the battle would not be based on the number of enemies killed, but on the number of prisoners captured. Each captured defender or civilian would earn a bounty, to be distributed evenly among the army. But the reward for capturing a member of House Stark alive would be one hundred golden dragons, to be divided among the capturing squad alone.

One hundred golden dragons might not be an exorbitant amount to Westerosi nobles, but here in The Gift—where prices and standards of living had been carefully regulated—it was as enticing as a modern-day multi-million coin lottery. Even when split among a few dozen men, it was enough to make most of them hesitate at the moment they might otherwise deliver a fatal blow, subtly guiding the outcome of the battle.

“Very good,” Aegor said, nodding with approval. “The reward will be recorded for everyone in your squad. You’ve saved me a great deal of trouble.”

“And that’s not all. From the prisoners, we also learned Robb had been directing the firefighting on the training ground when we breached the city. That’s why he didn’t make it back into the main keep in time. Also, because of the fire, I’d wager there are fewer than a dozen guards left inside the keep. Two dozen at most. Taking it will be as easy as flipping a hand. That inside man of yours truly performed a great service, my Lord. He should be rewarded too.”

It’s her, not him, Aegor thought. Naturally, he wasn’t foolish enough to reveal that Myrcella was the “inside man.” Her background was already difficult enough. If people found out she had also “betrayed” her adoptive family, the phrase “bastards are born treacherous” would spread once more, and even a change of identity might not save her from the stigma.

It was ironic to think that his original instruction for the little princess to start that fire was mostly meant to keep her psychologically stable, not because he expected it to provide any tactical advantage. He had even regretted the order the moment it left his mouth and had wanted to take it back. Yet, this seemingly minor move had paid off beyond all expectations: not only had it drawn defenders out and scattered them, allowing the attackers to engage them piecemeal and reduce resistance, it had also lured out the biggest catch of all—Robb Stark.

In his original plan, Aegor had assumed Robb would retreat into the keep after the city fell and hold out, forcing him to implement a secondary siege plan. But now, it seemed that wouldn’t be necessary.

Myrcella probably didn’t need the gold. Later, when time permitted, he would grant her another of her wishes as a reward.

Pulling his mind back to the present, Aegor’s brow furrowed.

“Wait. If the main keep is lightly defended, and we have Robb Stark in our hands, then the negotiations for surrender should be going smoothly. Why is there still no word?”

“Uh… Lord Robb is still alive, but he’s badly injured. The healers say it’s a miracle he survived. They don’t expect him to wake for at least a day or two. No matter how many times we call out to the keep, we get only one answer: they want proof that Robb is alive. They want to see him in person. My Lord, should we carry him there unconscious, or…?”

They want to confirm he’s alive. But what use is it to show them a half-dead man?

After a moment of deliberation, Aegor realized he had been too optimistic.

His soldiers’ capture of Robb did mean he could now avoid any further bloodshed, and simply wait for Robb to wake up to negotiate terms of surrender with the rest of the Starks. However, he also knew from earlier reports that Maester Luwin had already released all of Winterfell’s ravens during the night. And it was obvious where they were headed.

The Northern lords, already gathered at Cerwyn, could arrive within a day. While Aegor’s forces, with their black powder weaponry, could easily defeat them, such a battle would be meaningless now that Winterfell was taken. The powder used would be wasted, and the lives lost—whether his own men or Northern warriors—would serve no purpose. Not to mention, Roose Bolton and Daenerys Targaryen were also en route, with their arrival time uncertain.

Time appeared to be on his side, but in truth, it was not.

After a moment of silence, Aegor gritted his teeth. “Move Robb Stark to the armory and make sure he is well taken care of. Summon the artillery unit. Bring the equipment. We proceed with the original plan.”

(To be continued.)

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep