Thud!
A dull metallic sound of iron striking wood rang out.
This was already the second such sound within ten minutes to echo against the heavy wood-and-iron gate of Winterfell.
This time, what was pierced by the arrow and nailed to the gate of Winterfell was not another of Robb Stark's ears, but a piece of flesh from his chest.
A blood-soaked slab of meat, palm-sized, cut cleanly away together with skin and fat.
Amid the wind and snow, Balon Greyjoy held a blood-stained knife in his hand.
At his feet lay Robb Stark, collapsed upon the ground, letting out weak, low moans.
The bright red blood stood out starkly against the endless white. The miserable state of the heir of Winterfell, the young lord of House Stark, stirred the heart.
"Damn him! Damn Balon Greyjoy!"
"Let the White Walkers gouge out his eyes! Cut out his tongue! Turn him into one of their blue-eyed wraiths!"
Seeing that as soon as the time was up Balon once again harmed Robb without the slightest hesitation, Rodrik Cassel could no longer restrain himself.
Watching helplessly as Balon sliced two pieces of flesh from Robb in succession and had them shot onto the gate with arrows, Rodrik stood atop the walls with his eyes wide as if they would split, bloodshot with fury.
He shouted curses at the top of his lungs, the foulest imprecations of the North spilling from his mouth.
In his rage, he even smashed his fist against the dark grey stone bricks of Winterfell.
There was no surprise in what followed—flesh meeting rough stone caused the skin of his knuckles to split open at once, blood bursting forth.
Yet it was as if he felt no pain.
Beside him, another was wailing in agony—Theon Greyjoy.
From the moment he learned that Balon had personally launched a surprise assault upon the North and captured the young lord Robb Stark, he had immediately led men, ignoring the objections of a small minority, and resolutely seized Theon.
After all, the purpose for which this ward of House Stark had been brought to the North was precisely this.
Like Robb, Theon had also lost one ear—on the same side, by the same method.
And as the appointed time arrived once more, watching with his own eyes as his father—whom he scarcely remembered—pulled open Robb's clothing at the chest and, without hesitation, carved off another piece of flesh, Theon had already fallen into despair.
He cursed, he begged, he howled in anguish—yet all was in vain.
The blood that had flowed from the loss of his left ear had long since turned cold against his cheek. His breeches were likewise soaked, frozen stiff.
But he could no longer care about the pain of his own body.
For after smashing his fist against the stone wall and drawing blood from his own hand, the stern-tempered Ser Rodrik, brimming with fury, had directly snatched the dagger from a guard and personally strode toward him.
"No, no, don't, Ser Rodrik. This has nothing to do with me. He is not my father—Lord Eddard Stark is my father. Robb is my brother!"
"I am innocent. I am innocent. Don't… don't…"
Knowing what he was about to face, Theon begged in despair. Tears streamed uncontrollably from his eyes; snot and tears mixed together and froze solid along with the blood on his cheeks.
He pleaded desperately, begging Rodrik to spare him.
He was indeed innocent.
But in Rodrik's eyes, he was not so innocent.
Hearing his words, Rodrik's gaze was filled with icy coldness.
"The blood that runs in you, your name, Theon—here, not a single one of those is innocent. So you must act like a man!"
With that, he personally hauled up the nineteen-year-old youth whom Lord Eddard Stark had brought to Winterfell as a hostage and ward, and raised for nine years.
He had grown up alongside the Stark children, received the same education, and Rodrik himself had taught him the arts of war. He had talent and was an excellent archer.
Yet he was, in the end, a Greyjoy—no matter how close he and Robb had been as friends and brothers.
Looking at the young lord lying motionless in the snow below the walls, fury surged in Rodrik's eyes.
He could not hear Robb's voice beneath the wind and snow, yet in his ears it seemed the heir of Winterfell's screams and cries echoed without cease.
"Balon Greyjoy, I warned you just now. This time, I will repay upon Theon Greyjoy double the harm you have done to Robb."
Facing the men below the walls, Rodrik shouted loudly.
Then, without another word, Rodrik raised his hand and, amid Theon's despairing howl, drove the blade straight into his eye socket.
He then gouged out the eyeball by force, still trailing strands of flesh and blood.
After doing this, Ser Rodrik did not stop.
He casually removed the blood-drenched eyeball from the tip of the blade and set it upon the stone bricks of the wall.
Then he turned and slashed once more across Theon's forehead and brow.
With the point of the knife in his hand, he thrust it into the flesh, and along the cut he had made over the brow bone, he seized the scalp and tore it open while pressing down on Theon's head.
Inhuman torment.
Cruel punishment.
The sight of it chilled the heart; the sound of it froze the soul.
Under pain beyond endurance, Theon's screams pierced through the wind and snow and rang clearly in the ears of Balon and the others.
Rodrik did this deliberately—he wanted Balon beneath the walls to know fear.
This was a coward's game. Whoever yielded first was the loser.
And the winner would take all.
At the same time, Rodrik understood clearly that if he truly wished to save Robb, this was the only way.
For in this match of pieces, the advantage lay with them. If he wished to win, wished to save Robb, then he could not retreat.
The moment he faltered and drew back, he would lose everything.
So he could only be more ruthless than the enemy—only then could he make them afraid.
Rodrik understood clearly that the enemy acted in such a manner because Balon and his band of pirates had already lost their way out.
In this sudden blizzard, the once favorable situation had overturned completely, and the tide had turned sharply for the worse.
Balon and the ironborn who had trespassed upon the North—who had still possessed a path of retreat—had, on the road to Winterfell, been driven into utter desperation by this storm that had lasted for several days.
They could no longer leave.
If they wished to survive, the only way was to take Winterfell.
Moreover, the Vale knights previously dispatched by the king had already entered the North and were not far from Winterfell.
Under such circumstances, if he wished to save Robb Stark, there was only one course left—unyielding resolve.
Unyielding until the enemy feared.
Unyielding until the enemy weakened.
Unyielding until the enemy surrendered.
Unyielding until they won final victory.
The enemy had no road left—either they would collapse in desperation, or they would go mad in desperation.
Whichever it was, it would lead to ruin.
Only by outlasting the enemy could one become the victor.
As the acting castellan of Winterfell, if he did not hold fast to this final line, then should the Greyjoys truly take Winterfell, the consequences would be grave.
"Balon Greyjoy, this is my second warning."
"If you do not surrender, and if you dare harm Robb Stark again, then next time I will cut off Theon Greyjoy's head."
Theon could no longer hear these words, for he had already fainted during the torment.
After shouting these words, Rodrik ordered the prepared archers to shoot the two pieces of his son's flesh back in the same manner, sending them to Balon as a gift.
A gift returned with interest.
"Father…"
Hearing her brother's screams gradually fade into silence, and having witnessed what Rodrik had just done, Asha could no longer remain still.
Their true purpose in coming here had been to rescue Theon—to use this rare opportunity to bring him back. The so-called plundering of the North had merely been a pretext to cover what they truly intended.
So long as the captains believed it and followed them here, that was enough.
Yet now the situation had developed in an inexplicable way; the two sides stood in confrontation, locked in stalemate.
And now Rodrik had issued his final ultimatum.
But though his daughter was flustered, Balon's face was iron-dark, and he did not do much.
He merely withdrew his gaze from the son upon the wall, already drenched in blood and unconscious.
"Asha, you are the heir to the Iron Islands. You are a Greyjoy, one of the ironborn. Iron and salt run in your veins."
"After what happened that year, I have always regarded you as my son."
"And what I require you to remember now is this: from this moment onward, do not think of yourself as a woman."
"The Drowned God made us to rape and to plunder, to forge new heavens and new lands with blood, flame, and song, and to carve our names into them."
Balon looked at the daughter he had long raised as his heir, and in his heart he had already made his choice.
Pain flowed in his eyes, yet he knew clearly that if he wished to gain what he sought, he must endure loss.
He also understood why Rodrik was being so unyielding.
For at this moment, in essence, they were seated at a gambling table with all cards laid bare, playing a game called cowardice.
This sudden blizzard, which had raged for several days, had completely buried their road of retreat.
If they wished to live—if they wished even to win—there was only one course: to press forward.
Just as when a storm strikes at sea, only by charging straight into it can one win a chance at survival.
Either to be shattered to pieces, or to win honor and wealth.
Hearing her father's words, Asha paused slightly, her gaze instinctively turning once more toward her brother on the wall, drenched in blood.
This long-plotted scheme of theirs could be said to have failed with the coming of this storm.
Yet three or four months ago, the North had not been like this—nor had the Seven Kingdoms.
In the span of only a few months, the entire balance of the continent had undergone such sudden and dramatic upheaval.
Originally, they had intended to profit from the chaos; such things they had done more than once.
The war between the Westerlands and the Reach, the struggle for succession to the Iron Throne—the undercurrents moving in the shadows, and the turmoil that could be foreseen sweeping across the lands south of Westeros, all would have allowed them to act as they pleased within this storm.
And such disorder could not end quickly; their stage had been wide.
Yet just when everything had been laid in careful design, the wind shifted—like the weather now trapping them here.
Like a voyage at sea where one moment the sky is clear, and the next the winds rise and clouds gather.
The ship that had merely meant to slip quietly across the sea had thus fallen into mortal peril.
And now, as soon as her father spoke those words, Asha understood that he had made his choice—even if it meant abandoning his only remaining son.
As captain of the Black Wind, at such a critical moment Asha was never lacking in courage, nor in the pride of the ironborn.
She knew what she must do.
Seeing the look in his daughter's eyes, Balon knew she understood his meaning.
He then turned to face the captains who had followed him here.
Confronted by gazes that were complex, ill-intentioned, or evasive, Balon understood just as clearly that he, too, must be unyielding if he did not wish to be stabbed in the back and devoured by these men.
He gave them his answer to Rodrik.
With one foot planted upon Robb Stark's arm, he drew the longsword from his waist.
With a single stroke, Robb Stark's right hand was severed at the forearm. Warm blood burst from the wound, melting the snow it touched.
Like Rodrik, he too had to be unyielding—more resolute, more ruthless.
If he wished to live, he had no other choice.
Otherwise, without the Northmen lifting a hand, these bloodthirsty pirates would be the first to devour him—trading him, Asha, and the lives of the House of Greyjoy for the enemy's so-called mercy.
"Five minutes have passed. Send his arm over."
Amid the biting wind and snow, Balon's voice was colder than the northern wind itself.
Cold and pain had numbed Robb, who had been tortured without cease. Yet as a Northman, as the heir of House Stark, he remained clear of mind.
This time he did not even utter an unconscious cry.
"Balon Greyjoy, you may kill me, but you will never make me yield."
"You will never make the North yield…"
"And the North… remembers."
Struggling, Robb turned his face from the snow and cast a taunting glance at the white-haired man who had captured and tormented him.
Balon cast him a cold glance, his eyes filled with frost.
He said nothing more.
For he had nothing to say to a dead man.
From the moment he chose to abandon his last son, Theon Greyjoy, Robb Stark was never meant to live.
He was still alive now only because he was still of use.
He would be the battering ram to knock open the gates of Winterfell.
Faced with such cold indifference, amid the falling snow, Robb seemed to discern his intent.
Suddenly, a bleak smile curved his lips. His white teeth were stained with vivid red, and blood still streamed from the severed half of his arm.
Robb felt himself growing colder and colder.
With effort, he turned over to face the vast falling snow, the same smile still on his face—yet now calmer, more at peace.
All at once, he shouted toward the sky, "Ser Rodrik, in my father's name I command you—hold Winterfell. You must not yield because of me!"
"Even if it costs my life!"
"Ser Rodrik, defend the honor of House Stark!"
"And the man who betrayed me was Roose Bolton! He betrayed me, betrayed my father, and betrayed the North!"
From the moment he had been dragged to the forefront of this standoff, Robb had been gathering his breath.
He had to shout out every word, to tell those within Winterfell who the true traitor was.
He did not care if he died here, but the honor of House Stark must not be stained through him.
He would not let his life become the stone that knocked open Winterfell's gates.
Yet hearing his sudden outcry, Balon did not stop him. He did not even spare him another glance.
More precisely, the reason he had not cut out Robb's tongue with the first stroke, and had even brought him so close to Winterfell, was for this very purpose.
He knew that Roose Bolton was inside Winterfell. The men of House Karstark whom he had defeated in his surprise attack, driven from the Wolfswood, and pursued thereafter—as well as the other northern lords—were all within the castle as well.
And he knew even more clearly that the command to hold Winterfell was not a consensus shared by all inside its walls.
So long as there were divisions, so long as there were cracks, he would find a way to pry them wider.
He would claim the final victory.
He would become the winner of this game of cowards.
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