The Prince That Was Promised (Old Version)

Chapter 11 : Last Hearth

Orys Targaryen

Last Hearth

Cold crept into his bones as he and his men patiently waited for nightfall, inching forward through the snow toward the western side of Last Hearth. 'The beginning of the downfall of the damned Boltons.' Orys mused inwardly.

They wore light armor beneath white furs, some painted to blend into the snow, others skinned from snow bears and sheep. The castle loomed ahead; its walls were high, but compared to the Wall itself, they were nothing. On the battlements, the flickering torches of the guards stood out against the darkness, but there were fewer than he had expected.

"Slowly. We can't afford to lay siege to the castle," he whispered.

Tormund grinned, nodding as he passed the order along.

They crept across the frozen fields, moving like shadows in the night. At the moat, they found the ice solid beneath their boots. Winter had done them a favor. They crossed in pairs, moving with practiced silence. Behind them, twenty men remained skilled archers under Howland Reed's command.

Orys glanced toward the spotter as the man took hold of the grappling hook. A nod signaled the way was clear. The hook sailed through the air, catching firm. Without hesitation, Orys gripped the rope and began to climb. Five more followed on other ropes, scaling the twenty-meter wall in practiced silence.

He breathed heavily by the time he reached the end and crossed onto the battlements. He stared and saw a guard, and the man was looking toward him. "Fuck," he hissed. Yet, before the man could react. An arrow pierced through the man's throat, and a silent cry escaped the man before he fell limp on the battlements. On the other end of the wall, one of the freefolk ambushed a guard, slicing his throat.

'We will do this as bloodless as possible.' He ordered the night before, in the camp. 'These are fellow northmen, and they only follow them because of the fact their lord is emeny hands.' He sighed at the thought before walking to the closet's guardtower, unsheathing Longclaw. He opened the door and another guard, yet before he could react.

Orys lunged at the man, tackling him to the ground before swiftly slitting his throat with Longclaw. His free hand clamped over the man's mouth, muffling any final sound as the body convulsed beneath him. Warm blood seeped into the wooden floor, steaming in the cold air.

"You alright?" Mudin asked as Orys rose to his feet.

"I am," Orys replied, wiping the blade clean on the dead man's cloak. "Just... killing them doesn't feel right."

"Indeed," Mudin agreed with a nod. "But it's the only way we all live through what's to come."

Orys exhaled but said nothing. He knew Mudin was right. The Boltons had to fall, and hesitation would only get them killed.

They moved swiftly down the narrow stairwell. At the base, another guard stood at the entrance of a door, oblivious to the death creeping toward him. Orys sighed as he wrapped an arm around the man's mouth and throat, silencing him before driving Longclaw deep into his back. The body went limp in his grasp.

Stepping over the corpse, Orys made his way toward the outer bailey. Eight summers... It had been that long since he was last here. He remembered riding through these very gates with his uncle and Robb Stark, never imagining that one day, he would return as an attacker in the dead of night.

The bailey was eerily empty. No stable hands, no patrolling guards, no movement save for the flickering torchlight. Only four men stood watch at the gatehouse, with two more on the eastern wall.

He looked toward the wall and saw the archers, with Howland had climbed the wall. He sighed. "Archers, take them down." The guards looked at him. Yet, at the same moment, the bowstrings sang in unison, arrows slicing through the cold air. The guards barely had time to register their deaths before they crumpled where they stood. Silence fell once more.