Snippet #1502949

"The north is a cold, depressing place," Jans muttered as he stepped over a tangle of roots. "All these trees- they're suffocating, they are. Curse this blasted godswood and curse the gods of the north. I would hate to live here my whole life, I'd go half-mad."

"Some people go half-mad after being somewhere for too long, no matter where they live," Lionel responded. But he couldn't deny the truth behind Jans' words- he and his men were soldiers of summer, of open plains, clear skies, and wide oceans. The thick, crowded forest seemed too close, too near, too stifling. There was almost no room for one to stretch his arms; every breath Lionel took felt too shallow, too forced. "The sooner we reach the castle the better. Preferably before dark."

After two days of travelling on the White Knife river, Lionel's men had dragged the boats ashore and began a long trek through the godswood, which took another day before Winterfell was finally in sight. The Mummers had been all for storming it immediately, but Lionel had decided to hold off the final march for one night; he didn't want to fight with tired men. In the meantime, he had sent out several scouting parties to get a good feel for the area. He had more than enough men to put up a good fight against the Greyhardts, but without a proper strategy, trying to take the stronghold would be suicide. Although it was cowardly, the best tactic would be to secretly storm the castle, getting within the walls before it was too late.

They made camp in the forest that night. Lionel forbade the men from lighting campfires in the open, as it would draw attention from the scouts, but Reuben had found a nice little cave, which he had then turned into some sort of oven. The last Lionel heard of it, Reuben was now charging men to bring their raw kills to his "bakery". The boy should have been born a Mummer; he had the greed and selfishness of one. Jans had offered to intimidate Reuben into letting them roast their meat, but Lionel had declined. He didn't like eating before a military campaign. The adrenaline always flooded through his bloodstream; the excitement overwhelmed him- the endless possibilities, the strategies, the tactics, the whole battle which was really just a game- a game which happened to be the only thing Lionel was good at. When he was fighting, he lost control of his mind, but when he was commanding…he lost sight of everything completely, and the world became a diagram, where the opponents' forces were colored black and his were colored red. Nothing mattered, absolutely nothing mattered except for advancing the red and eradicating the black.

Eradication. It was such a lovely word. Lionel wasn't a sadist, had never enjoyed watching people suffer. It wasn't their pain he wanted. It was their total destruction, their annihilation, their disappearance from the world. When he knocked down an enemy, he wanted them to never stand up again. When he fought, he wished his opponent to disappear.

"Hey, catboy?"

Lionel looked up. It was Reuben.

"You've been staring at your sword like you can evaporate it with your mind." Reuben said, inviting himself into the tent. "Did it work?"

Lionel glared at him. "What is it?"

"Whoa, whoa, no need to get aggressive," Reuben said, lifting his arms up. "Calm down. Try taking deep breaths. Anyways, it's a messenger from House Thorneir, bearing some rather interesting news."

"House Thorneir?" Lionel repeated. "That doesn't make any sense. They're allied with the Greyhardts."

"And now, apparently, they want to betray them," Reuben replied. "They're offering you their aid. And they want to arrange a meeting."

Lionel laughed. Could it be possible? If House Thorneir wanted to turn against House Greyhardt, Winterfell would be taken with ease. But it was almost too good to be true- if Lionel had ever learned anything from Maester Syrus, it was that the trusting were always the first to die. If House Thorneir thought he was going to lower his defenses for such a ploy, they were gravely mistaken.

"A meeting won't be necessary," he said abruptly. "Tell House Thorneir that if they want to help, they'll lead a charge against Winterfell tomorrow morning. The Greyhardts trust them, they should be able to get in with ease. That'll be proof enough of their true loyalties. And don't sent the original messenger back- send one of our own so that at least we have a hostage. Oh yeah-" he added when Reuben started to head out. "Get Leliana in here. We need to go over the inside layout of Winterfell before tomorrow."