[54] A Promise Well Kept

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I led the Ironborn into Winterfell like trophies, their weapons confiscated, their heads bowed in defeat. Yara Greyjoy walked near the front of her people, shoulders tense, but her chin lifted defiantly. The snow fell lightly around us, gathering on the courtyard’s cobblestones and on their cloaks. A silence was present in the air, marred only by the sound of our footfalls and the Ironborn’s occasional grumbles.

Viserion was taking short leaps, flapping her wings to carry her into the air briefly before waiting for the Ironborns to catch up. When they did, she leaped again. Like that, we approached Winterfell.

Townsfold and Stark soldiers lined the courtyard, forming a corridor of wary stares and occasional murmurs. Some whispered my name—either with awe, resentment, or plain confusion. I breathed in, savoring the mixture of tension and fascination that clung to the air.

This was precisely what I wanted. A spectacle, proof of my power and influence, even on the Stark’s home turf. I was starting to like the stares.

A man in the crowd spat at one of Yara’s men, hurling curses about burned farms and stolen livestock. “Die, filthy bastards!” The Ironborn responded with a snarl, but a swift blow from a Stark soldier silenced him. The soldier glanced my way, uncertain if I’d approve. I gave him a small nod. Let them see that disrespect won’t be tolerated—by me or by these Northerners now acting under my will.

“Careful,” I drawled from atop Viserion, looking at Yara sideways. “Your men are getting rowdy. Would be a shame if they forced my hand.”

She scowled, but the edges of her mouth twitched, betraying her internal turmoil. “You’re parading them like dogs,” she hissed. “Don’t expect me to be grateful.”

I merely shrugged. “Them? You too. At least all of you are still breathing, so don’t complain just yet.”

“We surrendered. You won’t kill us,” she said, and I might have considered it if she was begging rather than claiming. I chuckled, making her growl at me. She wanted to snap back, I could see it in her eyes, but she held her tongue. She knew her men’s lives dangled by a thin thread—a thread I controlled.

As we approached the castle gate, Sansa and Bran appeared near the entrance, flanked by a handful of soldiers. Rickon peeked out from behind them, wide-eyed.

I met their eyes, careful to only spare a second on Sansa. The courtyard opened into a broad space, watchful northerners forming a loose semicircle. Snow crunched beneath Viserion’s feet as she landed again, and I jumped down, patting her scales. “Go rest somewhere,” I said, gesturing for the Stark soldiers to step forward.

“At your command,” one of them said.

“Bind them,” I said, voice resonating in the hush. “We’ll house them in the dungeons for now. If they resist, you may feel free to knock sense into them.”

A wave of men—some wearing Stark sigils, others brandishing axes and some common everyday weapon—stepped up. Grunts and curses filled the air as the prisoners were shoved to their knees, hands bound behind their backs. A few hissed in anger, one even spitting at the ground. The soldiers repaid them in kind with hilt-strikes and heavy fists.

Yara glared at me. “You enjoy this, don’t you?”

I offered a slow, idle smile. “Enjoy is a strong word, princess. I just find it useful.” My gaze swept the courtyard, meeting the eyes of more than a few Northerners. I let them see my composure, my claim to authority. Remember this day, I thought, the day a Targaryen showed mercy to you and cruelty to your enemies. Let’s see how true the phrase ‘The North Remembers’ is.

Bran, watching from his vantage point, wore a troubled look. He noticed me noticing him, and his lips parted as if to speak. But no words came. Instead, Sansa eased forward, nodding her thanks, trying to interact with me again. Her expression was half admiration but also a flicker of uncertainty. She recognized the power in my display, and I suspected she wasn’t entirely comfortable with it.

Yara, now tied, stepped closer to me, her voice low. “You think this makes you the King in the North? Parading men in the snow?”

I held her gaze. “Are you stupid? I don’t need to be king of the North. I’m King of the Realm. Dorne backs me, as does the Reach. The North has only recently joined me too. Don’t try to insult me, woman, it will not end well.”

We locked eyes. An exchange more heated than any physical skirmish passed between us. At that moment, I sensed a grudging respect brewing in her as she looked away, even if she’d never admit it. Good. Let her stew in it.

“Alright, everyone,” I turned away from her and faced the crowd. They’d been waiting for me to speak. “I’ve defeated and captured the Ironborn army. Now, as promised, we should move into the show event.”

When my words filled the open yard, the mood grew heavier and more claustrophobic. Tied well and under the watch of a pack of Stark soldiers and many more common northern people, Yara and her men stood stiffly.

I gestured for Yara, ignoring her huff of annoyance. A hush fell as I addressed her. “Yara Grejoy, the so-called ‘Iron-Princess’ attacked Winterfell, to support her brother and help him hold it.”

“I did not!” She shouted, “I-”

“Silence!” My hand went flying, and her right cheek went red, face whipping to the side. Her eyes were wide, full of shock and rage. Some Ironborn shouted in response, and two northern soldiers slammed the end of their spears into their heads. I smiled. “Now, tell me which four of your men are the worst. The real criminals. The rapers, the child-killers, the vile scum. We have a request from the local folk.”

She bristled, glaring at me. “I’m not betraying my men. If you think that I—”

I raised a brow. “Do you think they’d do the same for you? They burn, they rape, they pillage as they please. You truly believe they’re loyal to you? A woman?” I took a step closer, letting my voice drop. “Or perhaps you’d rather your entire group suffer the same fiery fate? Four is better than all, Princess.”

Her jaw clenched, but she said nothing. I saw her struggling, balancing her fierce Ironborn pride with the grim reality.

“Fuck,” she went silent and then nudged her chin to a man, “Darron,” she said, and the man stiffened. Then she spat three more names like curses. “Torrek, Harlon, and Voryn.” She turned her head back to me. “There. Satisfied?”

“Not yet,” I nodded at the soldiers, and they moved to grab the four of them. I kept my expression serious now. I half-turned toward the Stark children, where I spotted that old man from earlier, the one whose family had been ruined. “Bring your daughters here,” I told him, my tone carrying a note of finality. “I’ve found four bodies for them. Let them have their vengeance in the manner they see fit.”

Bran was not far away, being carried by Hodor. At first, he said nothing, but when our eyes met, he looked at the floor with a distant look. A faint cough brought Maester Luwin forward, and the old man fiddled nervously with his chain of office.

“My lord,” the maester said softly, turning to Bran, “we should consider mercy and justice both. These men… perhaps a swift trial, or—”

Bran lifted his gaze, a frown creasing his brow. “Maester Luwin, we must address the people’s needs. If… if I object, would it even matter?” He glanced toward me, then at Sansa, who quietly observed behind him.

I withheld a comment. Let them speak openly. Let them wrestle with the weight of their own lands, I thought. I’m simply fulfilling my promise. The tension in the open yard was dense, as though everyone was holding their breath, waiting for Bran’s call.

The young Stark’s eyes flicked to me briefly, a glimmer of uncertainty in them. Perhaps he wondered if giving me so much influence was wise. Yet how could he deny the results of my actions? The Ironborn had been repelled, Theon was locked away, and now this father and his daughters would get a twisted measure of justice.

Bran exhaled. “The decision has already been made earlier, I’m not going to go against it. Sometimes,” he began, his voice subdued, “harsh decisions are necessary. I… I don’t like it. But if it spares more people from the Ironborn’s cruelty, then so be it.”

A small flicker of satisfaction ignited within me. He’s learning, I noted. This was the North’s future. A boy forced to grow up too soon, weighed down by moral quandaries. The realm shaped us all in such ways. Hopefully, he wouldn’t have to become some tree spirit in this world.

Maester Luwin’s face flickered with discomfort. His chain rattled softly as he bowed his head, acquiescing. The old man’s eyes showed emotions of burden and resignation.

The father had already left at my order, he hadn’t waited for Bran’s permission to gather his daughters and prepare them for a meeting with their tormentors. The Starks braced themselves for the spectacle of vengeance.

*****

A hush settled over Winterfell’s courtyard, the first flakes of early snow drifting onto the onlookers as the four captured Ironborn were dragged forward.

Word of the impending execution had spread swiftly—merchants, farmers, and soldiers alike had gathered in a semicircle, torches blazing despite the afternoon light. The hiss and crackle of flames provided a low backdrop for the murmurs and harsh whispers rippling through the crowd.

Bran and Sansa stood off to one side, flanked by loyal Stark guards. Bran’s face was cast solemn, his brow furrowed; Sansa’s eyes darted between the prisoners and the men and women assembled. Her lips formed a tense line, betraying her growing discomfort. She caught sight of Yara, standing near the front, bound at the wrists.

The Ironborn princess’s chin remained lifted in defiance, but tension radiated from her clenched jaw. Her people, in the meantime, were glaring at her more than at me.

Ironborn would have preferred to die by dragon flames than be humiliated like this.

Viserys strode into the open space, cloak dragging across the packed snow. A set of stakes and rough-hewn timbers formed an impromptu platform at the center of the courtyard. The crowd parted automatically, some stepping back warily as though the Targaryen’s very presence demanded space.

Yara observed it all. Clearly, they’re scared of him too. So what is he doing here? How is there a dragon? Why is a Targaryen helping the Starks?

All her thoughts came to a halt as her eyes moved to the four Ironborn forced to their knees, each one bound, bruised, and caked in dried blood from earlier skirmishes. Northern soldiers prodded them forward, ignoring the men’s curses and spitting.

Someone in the crowd whispered, “The Targaryen’s out for blood… I heard three burnt bodies were found near Winterfell, and now he’s going to kill four more. For… for us.”

“Aye. Served them right. But let’s see how far this goes.”

Yara was enraged at these fools who were cowards hiding behind a dragon. If not for that silver-haired bastard… She grumbled.

“I’m here, m’lord- no, Your Grace,” spoke a grieving farmer, his face still drawn tight with sorrow. He stepped out from the masses, accompanied by his two daughters. They clung to each other, trembling in the cold. Their eyes were puffy and haunted, as though they had already witnessed too many horrors. Viserys beckoned them forward with a sweep of his arm.

“You have your vengeance today. These four Ironborn—” He gestured at the prisoners— “represent the men who wronged you. Let Winterfell see that no crime against the North goes unpunished. No crime in my seven kingdoms goes unpunished.”

The girls hovered uncertainly, exchanging frightened glances. One soldier placed a small weapon into the eldest daughter’s shaking hand: a blunt axe with the Stark sigil carved into the handle. She hesitated, her knuckles whitening on the wooden shaft, tears streaming silently down her cheeks.

“This is… cruel,” Sansa said.

“You agreed to it. So did I.” Bran sighed.

Ah, fuck, Yara noted, Theon’s men just had to go raping, huh? Things might have been easier to handle if not for that. It was all her father’s fault, truth be told, to put the most rowdy Ironborn in Theon’s ship.

A wave of restless energy passed through the crowd. Even those hungry for retribution couldn’t help but feel a shiver of unease at the spectacle. Yara, forced to observe, ground her teeth in silent rage. The Ironborn, kneeling in the snow, spat curses at the onlookers, and then glared at her. Her men… they who’d travelled far with her, looked at her with hateful eyes for she’d betrayed them.

One of the Ironborn Prisoners snarled, “Cowards! All of you! We’d have fought you fairly if not for that damned dragon—”

His words cut off in a strangled cry as one of the daughters raised the axe. With a trembling gasp, she brought it down. Blood went flying. The blow was messy, lacking the practiced edge of a seasoned soldier. Blood spattered the snow, and she stumbled back, chest heaving.

A collective gasp rose from the crowd—some recoiled, others shouted encouragement. Viserys stepped forward, placing a steadying hand on the second daughter’s shoulder, guiding her with a gentle but firm push toward another captive. “It’s okay. Do it, take all your anger out,” he said. The second girl’s eyes were red with tears, but she set her jaw and took the handle of a soldier’s spear.

The subsequent moments blurred into a brutal show of retribution and screams. Each daughter struck out, raw grief fueling their strikes, the crowd’s cries crescendoing in a ragged unity of wrath and sorrow. Some watchers turned away, unable to bear the sight. Others pressed in, eager for every detail of Ironborn agony.

Bran stood motionless, forced to witness the savage finality of what he’d allowed. Sansa grasped the edge of her cloak, lips parted in shock, tears pooling in her eyes. Yet neither uttered a word to halt the brutality, forced by the knowledge that their people demanded blood for blood.

When the last of the four Ironborn prisoners collapsed in the scarlet-stained snow, the men cheered. The grieving father gathered his daughters in his arms, and they wept uncontrollably. Viserys let the cheers rise, letting every eye see the cost of defying committing crime in his realm—and the power he held on the tips of his fingers.

Amid this all, Yara Greyjoy clenched her fists behind her back, her smoldering stare locked on Viserys. The last savage blow had shattered any lingering illusions that this was a mere show. The reality of their defeat—of her men’s utter helplessness—settled like a bitter stone in her gut. I’ll make him pay for this… I definitely will.

“That is it, everyone,” Viserys said and turned slowly, cloak brushing the ground. He cast a lingering glance at Bran and Sansa, reading their reactions as he addressed the soldiers. “Burn the bodies and hang them in front of the gate. Lock the rest of them, except for the princess. Send her to my room a few hours later.”

“As you command!” A group of guards replied together.

Then, with an almost regal composure, he strode away from the crimson snow, leaving the courtyard in a mix of emotions from people.

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