Winter's Fire → Game of Thrones

lxvii. The Home I Once Knew

As I rode up the Kingsroad, in the direction of Winter Town and eventually Winterfell itself, I felt my chest tighten. My hands began to feel like they were damp and I felt reluctant to move the horse forward. Yet, I pushed on. I was returning home. I had to. It was time.

When I reached what was once Winter Town, I could not help the tears in my eyes and the tightness of my throat. Everything that I once knew was either reduced to ash or to rubble, some of it having been rebuilt, other places left in ruin. 

There was no more smell of baking bread near the house of the baker, or smell of ale and the sounds of men singing near the taverns, or banging of hammers on various metals at the blacksmiths' smithy. Worst of all, there were no smiling faces left. No children running around, screams of joy leaving them as they played. No townsfolk to stop and talk to.

The few people that I did see in the town looked miserable. All that was left was some of the houses, an inn that was eerily silent, and a small market that had become so much smaller it barely seemed like a market. No one smiled as I passed. They all averted their gaze, their fear obvious.

Seeing one of my favourite parts of the world being reduced to a shell of its former self saddened me greatly. Seeing the fear and pain on the faces of the townsfolk as I rode past made me feel so much worse. All the joy and liveliness that Winter Town once held was gone.

I had failed them.

The sadness and guilt was replaced by something much deeper as I got closer to Winterfell though. It was a darker, harsher feeling. One that made me want to scream and cry and tear everything down. One that also made me want to run and hide and live a life never destined for me, all to escape what I was seeing and what it made me feel.

Sitting atop the walls of Winterfell, where Stark banners once proudly flew, were the flags of House Bolton. Flayed men on the walls instead of direwolves. A symbol of fear and betrayal, sitting on the walls of the only place where I ever truly felt safe.

There were men I did not know standing at the East Gate. They had the Bolton coat of arms on their chest, not the Stark one. It just all seemed so wrong.

I barely had to utter my name before the gates were raised for me. The men gripped their weapons tightly and watched me closely as I rode through the East Gate. I should be welcomed entering Winterfell's main gate, not watched like I am some kind of criminal.

Entering one of Winterfell's many courtyards, I was met with what was once a familiar sight now turned a nightmare. Some of the walls were crumbling, others burnt. While most the castle was in-tact, not all of it was. And, worst of all, there were reminders that Winterfell now belonged to House Bolton everywhere.

From where I stood, I could see most of the outside of the buildings within Winterfell. A number of bridges ran from certain towers, allowing all of the courtyard area to be one, instead of mostly separated. It all looked so familiar to me, yet it was all so different.

The first place I looked to was the First Keep, which is one of the oldest parts of the castle. It had been abandoned when I was last home, but it looked as if it was being restored and lived in now. I remember hiding in the first few floors of the tower and sitting in the graveyard for loyal servants when one of my favourite cooks had died.

Then there was the Guards Hall. Father had never kept it anywhere near full capacity, but it was clear that it was mostly full now. I watched as men, completely unknown to me, came in and out of the building almost constantly. It was a building that, once upon a time, I would sneak inside of to ask the guards to train me. They had always been so kind when saying they would not do so unless they were sure it was fine with Father.