CHAPTER 132
Three days later, Garon's army appeared beneath the walls of Torrhen's Square like warriors sent by the old gods themselves.
Garon pulled on his reins and slowly surveyed the fortress before him.
The sight was grim.
Large sections of the curtain walls had collapsed, and black scorch marks covered much of the stonework. Upon the battlements, several weathered corpses still hung from ropes, swaying gently in the icy wind like some grotesque display meant to mock the living.
The gates remained firmly shut.
Outside the walls, Garon's army formed ranks across the snow-covered ground. The presence of a thousand battle-hardened Northmen only made the ruined castle appear even more bleak and lifeless.
A few moments later, the gates creaked open.
Several riders emerged.
At their head was Ser Lambert Tallhart.
The knight's face was gaunt, his eyes bloodshot and exhausted. Shame seemed etched into every line of his face.
Behind him rode three lesser lords and landed knights.
Their clothing was fine enough, but their pale faces and shifting eyes betrayed their fear.
These were clearly the men Lambert had spoken of in his letter.
"Lord Garon!"
Ser Lambert dismounted immediately.
Dropping to one knee in the snow, he lowered his head.
His voice was hoarse and burdened with guilt.
"I have failed. I have shamed House Tallhart and failed the expectations of Winterfell. I..."
Garon did not dismount.
Seated firmly atop his horse, he looked down at Lambert.
His gaze then moved past the kneeling knight and settled directly upon the three nobles behind him.
"Rise, Ser Lambert."
His voice was cold.
"I received your letter."
He paused briefly.
Then he asked a question that caused Lambert's body to stiffen.
"Among those hanging from the walls, how many were your kin?"
Pain immediately appeared on Lambert's face.
"My wife."
"My eldest son."
"My nephew."
"My niece."
His voice nearly broke.
Garon's eyes narrowed.
Then his gaze swept toward the men behind him.
His voice suddenly rose like a thunderclap.
"Then tell me!"
"Which one of you watched your liege lord's family hang from those walls and still lacked the courage to leave the safety of your castle?"
The roar echoed across the snowy plains.
The three nobles visibly trembled.
The army standing behind Garon seemed like an avalanche waiting to fall upon them.
One of the men, a tall landed knight perhaps thirty years of age, swallowed nervously and forced himself to speak.
"Lord Glover, it wasn't that we lacked courage."
"The Ironborn were extremely dangerous."
"Our losses were already severe."
"We needed time to recover our strength."
He hesitated.
"And besides, who could know whether those Ironborn bands were a trap?"
The others hurriedly nodded.
"Exactly."
"Ser Lambert's son died because of one of Euron Greyjoy's tricks."
"We were only trying to preserve what remained."
"Yes, yes."
"My own lands have been burned."
"I only have a dozen men left."
"If nobody else was willing to ride out, why should I throw away the last of my household guard?"
Their voices grew increasingly desperate.
They clearly believed their excuses sounded reasonable.
Garon listened quietly.
Then he spoke a single word.
"Silence."
The temperature around them seemed to drop.
The nobles immediately fell silent.
Garon looked at Lambert for a long moment.
The letter had not fully explained the situation.
Now he understood.
Fear certainly played a role.
Yet greed and self-interest played an equal part.
These men had not merely feared the Ironborn.
They had feared losing more soldiers.
They had feared weakening their own houses.
They had feared sacrifice.
Still, regardless of their reasons, their behavior had given Garon exactly the opportunity he needed.
"House Tallhart remained at its post."
His voice was calm, but every word struck like a hammer.
"Your lord and his family paid for their duty with blood."
"They upheld the honor of the North."
His gaze shifted toward the three nobles.
"And you?"
His expression hardened.
"You feared an ambush."
"You feared losing soldiers."
"You feared sacrifice."
"You feared serving without reward."
His eyes swept over them like a blade.
"You are afraid."
He pointed toward the army behind him.
"Do you think they are not afraid?"
The nobles remained silent.
Garon continued.
"Lord Rickard Karstark lost every one of his sons fighting for the North and King Robb."
"Yet House Karstark still answered Winterfell's call."
"In the Battle of Ox Horn Mountain, House Bolton suffered terrible losses, yet they still stood and fought."
"My own men rode from Deepwood Motte to Winterfell, from Winterfell to Ox Horn Mountain, and from there across half the North."
"They have fought without rest."
"They have buried brothers, fathers, and sons."
His voice became heavier.
"Do you think they feel no fear?"
"They do."
"But they fear something more."
"The fall of the North."
"The destruction of their homes."
"The enslavement of their families."
Each sentence struck the assembled nobles harder than the last.
None dared raise their heads.
"The North faces a crisis unseen in generations."
Garon's voice rang across the courtyard.
"The South is engulfed in war."
"The Ironborn have invaded our shores."
"If every lord thinks only of himself, then we may as well throw open Moat Cailin and invite our enemies inside."
Silence followed.
A suffocating silence.
Then Garon's gaze returned to Lambert.
"Ser Lambert Tallhart."
The knight immediately straightened.
"My lord."
Garon nodded.
"By the authority vested in me by Winterfell and as commander of the Northern host, I hereby appoint you Acting Lord of Torrhen's Square until Lord Helman Tallhart's return."
Lambert's eyes widened slightly.
"You are to immediately account for every able-bodied fighting man within these lands."
"Any concealment of strength will be considered oathbreaking."
A trace of excitement finally appeared on Lambert's face.
He bowed deeply.
"It shall be done."
Garon then turned toward the nobles.
His eyes were cold.
"House Tallhart offered you the chance to preserve your dignity."
"You refused."
He paused.
"Therefore, I will help you find it."
The nobles immediately felt a chill run down their spines.
Garon raised a hand.
"Seize them."
A squad of soldiers moved instantly.
The three men attempted to struggle.
It was pointless.
They were quickly dragged to their knees.
"My lord, mercy!"
"We have served House Tallhart for generations!"
"Lord Tallhart, save us!"
"Please!"
Garon gestured.
The soldiers stuffed cloth into their mouths.
Their pleas immediately became muffled cries.
Then Garon looked toward Lambert.
"What do you think should be done with them?"
Lambert stared at the captured nobles.
For a long moment, conflict appeared on his face.
Finally, he lowered his head.
"I await your judgment, my lord."
A faint smile appeared on Garon's lips.
He was satisfied with that answer.
"Their cowardice stained the honor of the North."
"Their actions betrayed every Northern warrior who bled fighting the Ironborn."
He pointed toward the prisoners.
"Their blood will remind others of their duty."
Then he looked toward Jon Snow.
"Jon."
"Carry out military justice."
"Gather everyone in Torrhen's Square."
"I want every man, woman, and child to witness the consequences of abandoning their comrades."
The soldiers immediately dragged the struggling nobles toward the walls.
At the same time, the castle's defenders were assembled and forced to watch.
Before long, three more corpses hung from the battlements.
They swayed gently beside the older bodies.
Snow and wind twisted their cloaks as they turned slowly above the crowd.
Standing upon the walls, Garon looked down at the assembled soldiers and smallfolk.
He pointed toward the hanging bodies.
"The North remembers!"
His voice rolled across the castle like thunder.
"The shame of Torrhen's Square can only be washed away with blood."
"Either the enemy's blood."
"Or your own."
"There is no third choice."
He drew his sword.
"Now."
"Give me your answer."
For several heartbeats, silence prevailed.
Then the crowd erupted.
"Revenge!"
"We want revenge!"
"Death to the Ironborn!"
"Revenge!"
The roar grew louder and louder.
Only after several rounds of cheering did Garon raise both hands.
Gradually, silence returned.
"At dawn tomorrow."
His voice carried across the fortress.
"We march for the Stony Shore."
"We will hunt down every remaining Ironborn."
The crowd exploded once more.
"Sweep away the Ironborn!"
"Sweep away the Ironborn!"
"Sweep away the Ironborn!"
Listening to the thunderous cheers, Garon finally allowed himself a small smile.
The spirit of Torrhen's Square had been rekindled.
And while Garon was restoring Northern resolve in the far North, far to the south, King's Landing was also preparing for a war that would decide the fate of the realm.
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