CHAPTER 101
The next morning, the pale sun brought no warmth to Winterfell. Instead, it cast a clearer light over the dark mass of Ironborn gathered outside the walls.
Euron's relentless harassment throughout the night had achieved its purpose. The Northmen standing watch along the battlements all had sunken eyes. Even the hands gripping their weapons trembled slightly from exhaustion and strain.
Ser Rodrik Cassel had not slept either.
Leaning heavily on his sword, he forced himself to continue inspecting the defenses. His voice was hoarse from shouting orders and encouragement throughout the night, and deep lines of fatigue were etched across his weathered face.
Yet Euron Greyjoy showed them no mercy.
Riding before the Hunter's Gate, the Crow's Eye chose not to assault Winterfell's main gate. Instead, he focused his attack on the side gate where the defenders were stretched thinner.
"Bring up the siege ladders. Begin the attack."
At the sound of a deep horn, the first assault began.
Dozens of crude siege ladders, hastily constructed during the night, were carried forward by Northern captives under the threat of Ironborn weapons. Driven like cattle, they stumbled toward Winterfell's outer wall.
"Archers, prepare..."
Ser Rodrik's command rang across the battlements.
The archers drew their bows and nocked arrows.
As soon as the ladders entered range, Rodrik slashed his hand downward.
"Fire!"
Whoosh!
A dense volley of arrows rained down from the walls.
Several Northern captives were struck immediately and collapsed into the snow below. Whether they lived or died, no one could tell.
Rodrik hardened his heart and continued issuing commands.
The Ironborn, however, seized every moment. During the brief pause while the defenders nocked fresh arrows, several ladders were already slammed against Winterfell's walls.
Immediately, howling Ironborn began swarming upward.
"They're coming up! Hold them!"
Rodrik's roar ignited the defenders like a spark cast into dry tinder.
The Northmen rushed forward, shoving ladders away from the battlements and hurling stones down onto the climbers.
Screams echoed through the air as Ironborn tumbled from the heights.
Yet more continued climbing.
Especially deadly were the mute crewmen of the Silence. Silent as shadows, they moved with frightening speed, raising shields against the arrows and scaling the walls without any regard for casualties.
Soon, the first breakthrough appeared.
Several Ironborn vaulted onto the battlements and immediately threw themselves into close combat.
"For Greyjoy!"
"For Stark!"
The struggle erupted into a savage melee.
Although those first attackers were quickly cut down, more Ironborn followed close behind, scrambling over the wall.
The battle became a brutal contest for every foot of stone.
The battlements transformed into a corridor of death.
Steel struck bone.
Men screamed as they died.
Soldiers roared battle cries.
Weapons crashed together in a deafening storm.
Blood splashed across the ancient stones and quickly froze into dark crimson patches in the cold northern air.
Despite his age, Ser Rodrik stood firm at the most dangerous section of the wall.
Every swing of his sword brought down another attacker.
His steadfast courage inspired the defenders around him.
Whenever one Northman fell, another immediately stepped forward to fill the gap.
Wave after wave of Ironborn assaults crashed against Winterfell's defenses, only to be thrown back by Rodrik and his men.
Time crawled forward amid blood and violence.
From morning until noon, the defenders survived through sheer determination and the advantage provided by the walls.
Their strength was fading rapidly.
Casualties continued to rise.
Each successful defense earned only a brief moment of respite before the next attack came crashing forward.
Throughout it all, Euron never personally joined the fighting.
He watched from afar atop his horse, his expression calm and unreadable.
Only the movement of his single visible eye hinted that calculations were constantly unfolding behind that gaze.
Eventually, Euron looked toward the sky.
After judging the time, he murmured softly,
"It's about time. The pre-dinner snack should make its appearance."
Turning toward Aeron Damphair, who was overseeing the assault, he issued a new command.
"Sound the horn. Pull the men back. Have the captives push forward the battering ram and break open the gatehouse."
Aeron immediately obeyed.
Soon, a long horn blast echoed across the battlefield.
The Ironborn assault abruptly halted.
The climbers withdrew from the ladders one after another, and the siege ladders themselves were dragged away from the walls.
"They're retreating? Finally retreating?"
A young Northman slumped against the battlements and nearly collapsed from exhaustion.
But Ser Rodrik's heart only sank.
Before the Hunter's Gate, a massive battering ram slowly emerged.
Its frame had been built from enormous tree trunks reinforced with iron salvaged from Winter Town's smithies.
Northern captives strained beneath whips and threats as they pushed it toward the gate.
"Quickly! Prepare the boiling oil!"
Rodrik's hoarse voice thundered across the wall.
As the ram reached the base of the gatehouse, he could clearly see the despair on the faces of the captives being forced forward.
He hardened himself and gave the order.
"Archers! Aim for the men pushing the ram!"
"Boiling oil! Pour!"
Scalding oil cascaded from the murder holes above.
The front of the battering ram and the people around it were drenched instantly.
Agonized screams erupted across the battlefield.
The stench of burning flesh spread through the cold air.
Rodrik showed no hesitation.
Taking a torch from a nearby soldier, he hurled it downward.
Boom!
Flames erupted immediately.
The head of the battering ram became a giant torch, and the surrounding Ironborn and captives were engulfed in fire.
No joy appeared on the faces of the defenders.
Only numbness.
Many of the people burning below were Northmen.
Yet even then, the attack did not stop.
While the defenders focused on the flames, Ironborn stationed behind the ram and untouched by the fire launched a final desperate charge.
BOOM!
The flaming battering ram slammed into the Hunter's Gate with terrifying force.
The impact shook the walls beneath Rodrik's feet.
Like madmen, the Ironborn continued driving the burning ram forward.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Finally, accompanied by a deafening crack, the thick outer doors of the Hunter's Gate burst apart.
A massive twisted breach appeared, large enough for several men to pass through side by side.
Flames still burned within the shattered gateway.
Smoke billowed into Winterfell.
From beyond the walls came the triumphant roars of the Ironborn.
Although the inner gate remained sealed and the flames temporarily prevented an immediate breakthrough, the damage had already been done.
A breach had appeared.
Winterfell's formidable outer defenses had finally been cracked.
Ser Rodrik stared at the smoking ruin of the gate, his expression darker than a storm cloud.
The morale gained from repelling the ladder assaults vanished instantly.
In its place came renewed exhaustion and the crushing pressure of an enemy that had finally tasted success.
What troubled Rodrik even more was Euron's next move.
For reasons unknown, the Crow's Eye did not press the attack.
Instead, the Ironborn gradually withdrew toward the Wolfswood, apparently intending to construct additional battering rams and prepare for another assault.
The cold afternoon sunlight illuminated the countless corpses scattered across the walls and the snow-covered ground below.
For the moment, the siege had paused.
But everyone knew the truth.
When darkness fell, the most dangerous stage of the battle would begin.