[50] Reclaim Winterfell?

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The wind whistled against my face as Viserion’s wings carved through the air, her flaps a deep, steady rhythm that carried us. The sun angled low on the horizon, tinting the sky with a soft gold that cast our shadows far across the rolling landscape.

House Reed’s seat, the Neck, stretched out below. It was a patchwork of marshes, green wetlands, and narrow causeways threading through boggy water. I observed the land in a light of wonder. From this height, it looked peaceful, almost serene, an emerald painting speckled with streams of sparkling water.

Sansa sat snugly before me, my arms lightly circling her waist. “Sansa, take a look,” I nudged her, and she flinched. She’d been dazed.

“Y-yes,” she said, clearing her throat and looking around, “it’s pretty…” She wasn’t in her right mind, her heart full of worry, that much was obvious from her voice. That was why I hadn’t tried anything with her yet.

My chin moved to rest on her shoulder, the curve of her cheek close enough that I caught a faint whiff of lavender or whatever perfume lingered in her hair. Her breath hitched as I murmured, “Why’re you so worried? Your brothers will be fine.”

The tension in her posture melted ever so slightly, and she let out a small, muffled sound—half relief, half uncertainty. “I hope so,” she whispered.

The gust of wind and the rush of Viserion’s flight finally soothed over her, and her body relaxed. She leaned back into me slowly, her posture soothing against my chest. I tightened my hold, giving her what reassurance I could through the warmth of our shared closeness.

Far below, a broad river twisted through the Neck’s muddy banks, while above us, the sky opened wide as if welcoming our journey north. This journey would take longer than our earlier one, but we’d enjoy it. We soared onward, the damp wind carrying us onward to Winterfell and whatever awaited us there.

****

Maester Luwin stood in the corridor outside the Great Hall of Winterfell. He’d been serving House Stark for decades, but after a long time, he recalled that time when he’d come to Winterfell for the first time, seeing its thousand-year-old stones that looked dark and oppressive even during the day.

Today, he felt the same. This place felt foreign to him. He paused, knuckles hovering an inch from the oak door, before breathing out a sigh and rapping softly. A muffled sound from inside—furniture scraping, footsteps—then the door swung open to reveal a guard’s stern face. “Come in,” the man stepped aside, allowing the Maester to pass.

Maester Luwin walked inside. On the second floor, he found Theon Greyjoy slumped on the lord’s chair, making him pause. Theon had tried to fashion himself a makeshift ruler, but the posture looked more like a child playing King than anything. He kept glancing at the window, watching the wall gates. On the other side of that wall, although it wasn’t visible from here, two small forms were wrapped in cloth, a burnt stench clinging to the air. The sunlight highlighted the hollows under Theon’s eyes as he stared at it.

So he does feel guilt for what he did, I see. Maester Luwin noted and bowed his head, entering with cautious steps. “...My lord,” he murmured, voice collected but devoid of approval. “You called for me?”

Theon barely spared him a glance, drumming his fingers on the armrest. “You don’t sound pleased calling me that,” he muttered. “I’m no lord—just a Greyjoy bastard in a den of wolves. Right?” His tone was full of challenge.

One would think he knows his place, but he just wants me to admit it for him. Hah… I never realized how pathetic this boy is. Luwin controlled his emotions and cleared his throat gently. “You hold Winterfell now, doesn't matter if it's by force. You are, for now, its master. And as the Maester assigned to Winterfell, I’m at your command.”

Theon stared at him, and then his gaze shifted to the wall gates again, imagining the churned remains of the children. His knuckles tightened around the armrest. “They’re saying I went too far, Maester Luwin,” he said, barely containing his anger. “I called to ask… Do you agree with them?

A flicker of anger crossed Luwin’s face, despite his years of training, but he quickly hid it. “Those boys this morning… the ones you burned…” He lowered his voice, choosing each word with care. “They’re not Bran and Rickon, are they?”

“What?”

“No matter how poisoned your mind has been in desperation for power, I doubt you’d do that, Theon- my lord. They were practically your brothers. Tell me, was it truly them?” He asked, and in response, Theon went silent. “...Either way, the cruelty only begets resentment. It won’t earn you the fear you crave—only hatred. Why’re you surprised?”

Theon snorted, pushing himself upright in the chair. “I don’t expect them to love me!” he snapped. “I took Winterfell because it was there for the taking. If it means burning some brats to assert authority, so be it.” The way he spoke of the boys implied it wasn’t the Stark boys, but he glared at Luwin as if daring him to ask about that again. “I know what I did, but that’s my decision. I don’t care. Let Robb choke on that news for a while. My sister will arrive with her army soon, and we’ll hold Winterfell with everything, no matter if Robb comes to reclaim it himself.”

A short silence passed between them, and Luwin shook his head, sadness lining every crease in his brow. “Your father’s men might do worse when they come,” he said softly. “And the men here—your men—are unsettled, Theon. Many of them left the Iron Islands to plunder, not to keep a castle. They grow bored, and they take out their boredom on the townsfolk. The townsfolk you grew up with. Do you really want this?”

Luwin wondered if the boy would get mad at being called by his name rather than title, as he’d been a day before, but Theon’s gaze only flickered across the wall gates. A flicker of something that might have been regret flashed before his eyes and then vanished.

He raked a hand through his disheveled hair. “They… they’ll learn their place. My sister is a woman and has no claim to the Salt Throne when the male heir is alive. I’ll win over my men soon enough, I just need some time. And you—” He fixed the Maester with a wavering glare. “Just remember who’s in charge, old man, you’re talking a lot of shit. Just in case, if you think to help those, I despise… I won’t be so forgiving.”

Those he despises? Does that mean he truly didn’t kill Bran and Rickon and fears I’m aiding them? Luwin noted, calculating, feeling relieved, and then sighed. “Of course, my Lord. I have always served Winterfell,” he replied evenly. “And while I breathe, I will do what I can to protect it.”

Theon just looked at him. A moment later, he opened his mouth, but before he could respond, a distant screech rang out through the stone corridors. It was an unnatural, resonant, and chilling sound that rattled the bones of every living being.

Maester Luwin’s eyes widened with alarm. “Gods be good, what the hell was that?!”

Theon jerked upright, his head snapping toward the high windows that lined the hall. But this time, rather than looking at the gates, he looked at the sky where the sound had come from. His heartbeat thundered as he realized how foreign and bestial the sound was.

“What… what kind of beast can make that kind of sound, Maester Luwin?” Theon turned to the wise man and asked, but he already knew. He’d heard the stories. They exchanged one glance and then rushed toward the nearest window.

Theon fumbled at the heavy shutters, throwing them open fully. The sunlight spilled into the hall, and they both leaned out, their breath catching in their throats.

Against the bright expanse of sky, a huge, winged silhouette sliced through the air. Golden scales glimmered under the midday sun, and it let out another piercing cry.

In that single moment, Theon felt his grip on Winterfell slip further.

****

I angled Viserion in a slow, spiraling descent above Winterfell’s outer walls. A gust of cold air whipped at my hair, and the familiar rush of being airborne kept my blood humming. Below, I saw broken battlements and scorched patches—clear signs that Theon’s Ironborn had made a mess of this place.

Sansa was pressed tight against me, her breaths short and quick as the ancient fortress unfurled in our view. “Are you alright?” I asked, speaking just loud enough for her to hear over the whoosh of wind.

She nodded, though I felt her body tremble. “It’s just… seeing home from above.” She swallowed. “I’ve never… well, I never imagined Winterfell like this—from a dragon’s back. It’s breathtaking and terrifying. But I’m also relieved to see my home. Let’s head down.”

I guided Viserion into another circle around the courtyard below, searching for the Ironborn. My sharp Valyrian eyes helped me see better. “I see a few men in those corners—hard to tell if they’re your people or not. Where should we touch down?”

Sansa straightened a bit, her gaze darting frantically across the courtyard. “There!” She pointed at a stone-walled section near the broken gatehouse, where a group of armed men milled about, wearing rough leather and mismatched steel. Their attire was nothing like the Northmen’s furs or Stark sigils.

A slow smile curled on my lips. “They’re no Northerners, that’s for sure.” I leaned forward, tightening my arm around her waist. “Alright, let’s pay them a visit.”

Viserion responded to a slight shift in my posture. She tucked her wings and descended, dropping into the courtyard with a powerful air backwash. The men below staggered, bracing themselves against the sudden gust and screech. Spears clattered on stone.

“What the fuck is that—!”

“Did I drink too much ale?”

I kept a firm hold on Sansa as Viserion’s back legs touched down. She shrieked fiercely and loudly, and the Ironborn scattered in alarm, half of them rolling on the ground. They were screaming at me, eyes full of terror, but I ignored them.

Still mounted atop the dragon, I squeezed Sansa’s waist in a reassuring gesture. “Now,” I said calmly, “tell me which ones you want dead.”

Sansa’s breath hitched. She hesitated momentarily, turning to look at my face. Then she pointed with trembling fingers at the men she recognized as foreigners. “Those few,” she whispered. “I—I don’t know them. They aren’t from my home.” And they were wearing Ironborn armor, but Sansa didn’t seem to notice that.

“Good enough for me.” I lifted my head and raised my voice. “Dracarys!”

Flames erupted from Viserion’s jaws. The roar of the dragon’s fire drowned out the Ironborn’s horrified cries. The next sight was something to see. Their pleas for mercy caught in the inferno, and the entire area heated up. The men were consumed within seconds—embers and ash swirling in the wind. The stench of charred flesh burned my nose, but I welcomed the flush of triumph.

“Pity they died too quickly. That should have been most of them, but some more should be around the area. Let me speak, Sansa,” I murmured, swinging my leg over the saddle to stand upright on Viserion’s back.

I raised my voice for the Northern folk who peered out from doors and behind ruined walls. “People of Winterfell! I am Viserys Targaryen, the rightful heir of the Iron Throne. I know you must be confused, but fear not, I come as your ally. I’ve come to free you from these Ironborn cunts as you just saw. Spread out now, search every corridor and cranny for any Ironborn still skulking about. Bring them here alive, preferably. I have… plans for them. For Winterfell!”

A wave of confusion rippled through the ragged onlookers. Most had never seen a dragon in their lifetimes, and the ‘Targaryen’ name meant enemy. Shock gripped them.

But then Sansa steadied herself, shakily standing atop Viserion. I held her to stop her from falling, and she spoke out in a shaky but resolute voice. “Everyone, he’s not lying. You know me, I am Sansa Stark,” she called, forcing her chin up. “Daughter of Eddard Stark! Listen to Viserys—he’s here to help us, to save Winterfell. My brother, the King in the North, sent him here!”

That rallied them. They truly trusted a Stark with their lives. A murmur of awe passed through the crowd, turning into a ragged cheer. Men and women scrambled off, armed with whatever they could find, determined to flush out any remaining Ironborn.

My gaze followed them to the gates until I heard a sound coming from the opposite direction. The castle. A lone figure strode out from the castle door—Theon Greyjoy.

He wore no helmet, unprepared for battle, and I spotted fresh burns on his hands. Speaking of, I noticed two churned bodies hanging from the gate earlier. Sansa hadn’t, and I didn’t bother to notify her about it. Looks like he already killed two innocent boys.

“Theon Greyjoy,” I called out loud, and Sansa’s head snapped to look at him. The puny Ironborn filth looked at me in shock and stumbled on seeing the blackened remains of his men, half crouching as if the sight physically wounded him.

Pale fury etched across his features. “You—bastard Targaryen!” he spat, voice tinged with trembling anger or fear. He bit his lip when he saw the dragon I rode, but then he met my eyes again. “I- I don’t care who you are, but who gave you the right to—”

I felt Sansa tremble in rage at the sound of his voice. She pointed a finger, her eyes alight with hatred. “He betrayed my family. Kill him too, Viserion!”

Nah, that won’t do. Viserion of course didn’t listen. She was my dragon, not this Stark’s. I leaned in, “Hey,” I held her chin and turned it toward me. She looked surprised, but I brushed a light kiss on her nose. “Calm down, he’s no danger to us. He’s more valuable alive,” I murmured. That said, he did deserve punishment.

Without further warning, I let go of Sansa and hopped down from Viserion’s back, rising high, boots hitting the courtyard in a puff of dust. Theon was surprised seeing how high I’d jumped, and tried to step back, raising a sword to but I didn’t give him the chance.

I closed the distance between us, seized him by the collar, and slammed my fist into his face. “Argh!” Theon shouted, but it was cut off half-way through as his eyes rolled back, and he collapsed on the spot, unconscious. A few curious bystanders gawked, uncertain whether to cheer or flee.

“Welcome to a new day, Theon Greyjoy,” I said, although he couldn’y hear. “You’ll get what you deserve soon enough.”

Behind him, Maester Luwin stood at the castle entrance, eyes huge with disbelief as they fixed on my dragon. He barely spared a glance at me or Sansa. The Maester was in awe seeing a living dragon, a creature from the pages of history.

Before I could say more, a rush of movement caught my eye. Two small forms darted forward from behind a collapsed section of the yard. I almost moved toward Sansa to protect her, but I recognized them as Bran and Rickon Stark, accompanied by a lanky, wild-looking woman – Osha, if I recall – and a hulking man carrying Bran in his arms.

Ah. They must have been hiding in the crypt, from what I remember, The boys’ eyes were wide, scanning the courtyard. Then they saw Sansa perched on the dragon as they froze.

“Sansa! I knew that was your voice!” Bran called, voice cracking with relief. The younger one, Rickon, wasted no time and ran for his sister.

Sansa leaped off the saddle, stumbling a bit but ignoring any sense of decorum as she raced to meet them. She enveloped both in a hug, tears shining in her eyes. I smiled.

A rescue mission? That didn’t take long. Most of the delay was because of the flight. And in a single, brutal encounter, we razed the Ironborn’s threat to cinders, found the Stark boys safe, and seized a living prisoner in Theon Greyjoy. The courtyard quieted except for Sansa’s choked sobs of joy.

Above us, Viserion lifted her head and roared to the sky, sealing the fact that Winterfell, at least for now, belonged to the dragon—and the wolves—once again.

Winterfell was reclaimed.

[Image Here]

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Author Note: Chapter 50! And we already took Winterfell. It’s been fun to write this so far, and I think I’ll be having fun till the very end. Many thanks to @Glassy, and as always, homeboy @Shortmotor, for proofreading all these chapters so far.

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