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6. Rescue
🕑 Added 2025-01-20 18:07:40 +0000 UTCJon Snow POV
"Little Crow, coming with you has been one of the best decisions I’ve made in my life, I tell ya," Tormund said, his broad smile almost warming the icy air around us. "Not just for me, either. Ain’t that right, lads?"
A thunderous cheer of "Aye!" erupted from over a hundred men scattered across the frozen lakes, their enthusiasm ringing loud despite the cold that bit through even the thickest furs. The men worked tirelessly, chipping away at the surface ice of two frozen lakes as part of our plans.
For the past three weeks, we’ve been raiding Bolton supply caravans and patrols, striking fear into their forces while bolstering our own. These raids have been surprisingly exhilarating—a dangerous but oddly satisfying game of outsmarting the Bastard of Bolton. The spoils of our efforts kept us well-fed and warm, with enough left over to share with the settlements near the Crofter’s Village.
We couldn’t give them too much, though. Bandits, emboldened under the Boltons’ rule, prowl the area, always ready to plunder anyone bold—or foolish—enough to feast openly. Ramsay’s men rarely deal with them, as long as the bandits pay their due in gold.
Our numbers have swelled during this campaign. Crewyn’s men joined us after we intercepted their scouting party sent by Cley Cerwyn. Ramsay had ordered Cley to investigate the raids, and Crewyn’s men were meant to track us down. Instead, they now fight alongside us to kill every Bolton man as revenge for flaying their lord and killing his heir. I sent one of their number back to Castle Cerwyn under cover of darkness, carrying my message.
The message was simple: Cley Cerwyn has more reason than most to despise the Boltons. Ramsay flayed Cley’s father, Lord Medger Cerwyn, leaving his house broken and terrified. If Cley’s thirst for vengeance outweighs his fear, he’ll side with us. Still, I’ve taken no chances—Ghost is shadowing the scout, ready to warn me if anything goes wrong.
"It makes me happy to see that everyone is enjoying the successful raids we've been conducting, but our time to feast is coming to an end today. Except for the five hundred who will be staying near Last Hearth, everyone else should be here by the time we leave for Wintertown," I said with a smile, eliciting groans and grumbles from the group. "Tormund, please try to preserve as much fish and meat as you can. Although our supplies will be sufficient, I don't want any of the Freefolk or Northerners to go without food or sleep on an empty stomach."
Tormund chuckled, wiping fish blood off his blade. "Don’t worry about the food, Crow. Preservin’ meat and fish for hard times is a skill every Freefolk learns young. We’ll have enough to keep the bellies of both Northerners and Freefolk full."
"I trust you, Tormund," I replied, watching him expertly gut and dry the fish. "But tell me, do you think the Boltons will fall for it?"
Tormund paused, his knife hovering mid-air. He glanced at me with a thoughtful expression before his familiar grin returned. "If it were me, Crow, I’d fall for it. But it ain’t me we’re dealin’ with. These Boltons, they’re cruel, sure, but that makes their man fear them. The dogs and fools they send after us will be desperate to avoid punishment. That desperation will blind them—and it’ll be their undoing."
His words were reassuring, and I nodded in thanks. Tormund grinned, tossing a bloodied fish toward one of Crewyn’s men who was arranging the catch near a pyre. The fish struck him in the back of the head. The man turned with a mix of irritation and anger, which Tormund answered with a wink and a toothy grin.
I couldn’t help but chuckle at the scene. Leaning back, I closed my eyes and warged into Luna, my presence slipping into her form as easily as drawing breath. Through her keen eyes, I saw the progress of our Freefolk and Northern allies, noting their steady march toward our location.
For now, everything is in motion. The traps are set, the men are prepared, and the time has come. Soon, we’ll march for Winterfell—and one way or another, another Stark will not be added to the collection of Boltons.
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The biting chill of the northern wind swept through Wintertown, carrying the scent of smoke, frost, and desperation. It was past the hour of the wolf, and the streets lay silent save for the occasional scuttle of a rat or the faint creak of frozen timber. I crouched in the shadows, hidden in the lee of a crumbling wall, with Tormund and ten of his Freefolk warriors beside me. A handful of Crewyn’s men lingered nearby, their breaths fogging in the cold air as they awaited my signal.
Tormund shifted beside me, his broad figure as inconspicuous as a bear among mice. He gave me a sharp nod, his blue eyes gleaming in the darkness. “You sure about this, Crow? Could be a lot more fun to bash their heads in than sneakin’ about like a thief.”
I didn’t answer, keeping my gaze fixed on Winterfell. There would be no bashing heads tonight unless it was absolutely necessary. Any noise, any mistake, and we wouldn’t be walking out of the castle alive.
I gestured for the group to move. Silent as Ghost, we crossed the frozen expanse between Wintertown and Winterfell’s outer walls. The moonlight reflected off the snow, making every movement feel exposed, but the layers of frost also dulled the sound of our boots. The Freefolk moved with the practiced ease of hunters, and the Crewyn men, though less skilled, followed their lead without a word.
We reached the base of the wall where the Broken Tower loomed above us. Its shattered top was a jagged silhouette against the starry sky, but it was more than just a ruin to me—it was a secret path, one of the many. But only Arya and I had explored this hidden passage beneath its foundation, and now it would serve me to save our little brother.
Carefully, I uncovered the entrance. The snow-covered hatch groaned faintly as I pulled it open, revealing a narrow staircase descending into darkness. One by one, we slipped inside.
The air grew colder as we descended, due to the damp stone walls around us. The Freefolk grumbled softly under their breath, unused to the confines of Winterfell’s ancient labyrinth, but Tormund silenced them with a sharp look.
At the bottom of the staircase, the passage opened into a network of tunnels. I led the way, torchlight flickering against the walls. The path twisted and turned, but my feet knew the way as if it was just yesterday when Arya and I were roaming here hoping to find some treasure left behind by Starks of Old. Eventually, the familiar scent of earth and decay filled the air. From that, I realized that we had reached the Crypts.
The silence was heavy, broken only by the faint shuffle of footsteps and the crackle of the torch. The statues of my ancestors loomed on either side, their stone faces watching as I passed. Freefolk and Cerwyn's men began to quicken their pace, the sound of their boots growing louder and increasing the risk of alerting any Bolton men outside the Crypts. I turned to signal them to slow down, but as the torchlight fell on their faces, I saw fear and nervousness in everyone.
Tormund was the only one managing better; the others looked as if they might piss their pants at any moment if we stayed here any longer. "Make haste, Snow. Before they come out and make their displeasure known," Tormund said while looking at the statues, irritation clear in his tone. I nodded and quickened my pace as much as I could without making too much noise to draw attention outside.
We approached the narrow stairwell that led upward. The air grew warmer as we climbed. I held up a hand, motioning for silence. At the top of the stairs, the passage opened into a disused corridor lined with cobwebs. The heavy stones muffled all sounds from the castle above, but I knew it was just a matter of time before we encountered guards.
We moved swiftly, keeping to the shadows as we approached the door leading to the cellars. I cracked it open, peering through the gap. Two Bolton guards stood at the far end of the room, speaking in low voices as they leaned against a stack of barrels. Their torches cast flickering light across the rows of supplies, throwing their silhouettes against the walls.
I turned to the group and whispered, “Stay quiet. Follow my lead.”
Tormund grunted softly, his massive frame tense with anticipation. The Freefolk with their large frames are not made for stealth in these confined spaces, but even they knew the stakes. We slipped into the room, hugging the shadows as we crept along the edges. The guards didn’t seem to notice, their conversation growing louder as one of them complained about the duty of going out of Winterfell to patrol and fearing the same fate others were fearing.
Everything was going smoothly—until one of the Freefolk, a young man named Harl, bumped into a crate, sending it crashing to the floor.
The noise shattered the silence like a thunderclap. The guards spun around, drawing their swords. “Who goes there?” one of them barked, raising his torch high.
Thinking fast, I motioned to one of Cerwyn's men, Torren, he nodded pulling his hood of borrowed Bolton cloak tighter over his head. “Patrol,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “Lord Bolton sent us to check the cellars. To check if the boy is alive.”
The guards hesitated, their expressions suspicious. One of them squinted at me. “Never seen you lot before. And who’s that ginger brute?” He nodded toward Tormund, whose fiery beard was impossible to hide.
I tightened my grip on Longclaw, my heart pounding. “New recruits from the Wintertown,” Torren said quickly. “Lord Bolton wanted more men guarding Winterfell.”
Just as I thought it worked. The other guard asked another question, "You the bald one, what is your name?" I couldn't help but panic and chuckle at the same time. The bald one is one of the free folk who told his name, "Roose" "What.."
Before the guards could ask any more questions, Tormund surged forward, burying his blade in the man’s throat. The second guard barely had time to react before Crewyn’s men were on him, muffling his screams as they dispatched him with brutal efficiency.
The room fell silent once more, save for the harsh breathing of the men around me. I glanced at Roose, who looked away, an unapologetic look across his face. “We have to move. Now,” I hissed, my voice low but firm.
We dragged the bodies into the shadows, covering the blood as best we could. The momentary delay had cost us precious time, and we couldn’t afford another mistake.
With renewed urgency, we pressed on. The deeper we went into the cellars, the darker and colder it became. The air smelled of damp earth and rot, mingled with the faint scent of smoke from torches above.
At last, we found Rickon. He was curled up in a corner, bound and gagged, his dark hair matted with dirt. His wide, terrified eyes met mine, and I felt a surge of relief and fury all at once.
“Rickon,” I whispered, kneeling beside him. I cut the ropes and removed the gag, pulling him into a brief, fierce embrace. “You’re safe now. We’re getting you out of here.”
He nodded, his small frame trembling as he clung to me. I hugged him close as he started to sob and I waited for him to let it all out. Rickon closed his eyes to sleep or fainted I don't know just as I was bout to check. Torren knelt beside us, his face grim. “This place be crawling with men soon enough,” he muttered. “We need to go.”
I nodded, lifting sleeping Rickon into my arms. “Back to the Crypts. From there, we take the passage to the Broken Tower.” Grumbles and the sound of moving were the only responses I got.
The return journey was harrowing. Every creak of the floorboards and every distant shout set our nerves on edge. We moved as quickly as we could, avoiding the main corridors and slipping back into the Crypts without incident.
By the time we emerged from the hidden passage beneath the Broken Tower and thought that we were safe the sound of horns with shouts of "Intruders" forced us to move quickly toward our horses.
