Game of Thrones: The Frozen Throne

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Inside the war tent, Borric Stern, heir to Driftwood Hall, refused to divulge any information. Left with no other choice, Lord Eddard signaled to Ser Jory Cassel, the captain of the Winterfell guards, to have him imprisoned.

Ser Theon raised an eyebrow, puzzled. "My lord, why keep him alive? He refuses to speak and even dares to defy you to your face. He is of no use to us. Better to simply kill him and be done with it."

Eddard's voice was steady. "Do not forget, Theon, that we have our own hostages in the hands of the Rockborn."

Ser Herman Tallhart, Lord of Torrhen's Square, as well as Wyllis Manderly, heir to White Harbor, and his younger brother, Wendel, had all been captured during the Battle of Seal Bay by the infamous sea reaver, Helen Pyke, the Iron Whore.

Ser Domeric Bolton, standing nearby, crossed his arms. "Lord Stark, do you truly believe the Rockborn would keep them alive? The old texts speak of their savagery—some claim they feast on the flesh of men."

Theon chuckled darkly. "The Rockborn are butchers. What could be more appetizing to them than the plump Manderly brothers? Wyllis and Wendel—two fat sausages ready for the roasting spit."

Benfred Tallhart, heir to Torrhen's Square, paled at the jest. His father, Ser Herman Tallhart, had been taken alongside the Manderly brothers. His thick neck flushed red with anger. "Are you saying the Rockborn truly eat men? My father—is he in danger?"

Theon smirked. "Your father is too lean. More suited for stew than a feast."

Though Benfred and Theon were companions of old, the jest infuriated him. He snarled, "Greyjoy, if my father perishes, I'll hold the Ironborn accountable. It was your kind that took him!"

Theon opened his mouth to retort, but Eddard cut him off. "Enough! Benfred, your father will not perish. We will negotiate a trade."

Throughout the exchange, Norrick, the Rockborn scout, had remained silent. Eddard turned to him. "Tell me, Norrick, do your people truly partake in such barbarism?"

The man ran a hand through his thick beard. "When I was a lad, my parents would frighten me with tales—'Disobey, and the Cannibal Clans will snatch you up and feast on your bones!' The old stories claim all Rockborn feast on men, but Lord Stark, I can tell you this—my clan, the Mapleborn, do not."

Eddard's eyes narrowed. "And what of the others?"

Norrick shrugged. "Some things are best left unquestioned."

At that moment, Maester Uther of the Dreadfort entered, flanked by two guards carrying a massive object between them. They set it down with care—a unicorn's horn.

The old maester, white-haired and gaunt, fingered the heavy chain around his neck. "My lord, the warriors of the North felled three unicorns in the last skirmish. Finally, proof! The Citadel has long debated whether such beasts even exist. If this horn were sent to Oldtown, it would be priceless."

Eddard allowed himself a small smile. "Then it must be sent to Winterfell. This is a prize of the North. Unicorns are native to the Isle of Skagos, which is under my domain. It shall remain in the North."

Maester Uther sighed. "The Citadel trained every maester. In return, we are duty-bound to offer them artifacts of academic worth. A unicorn's horn is a relic of immense value. It belongs in Oldtown."

Eddard's expression hardened. "If the Citadel desires it, they may send coin to Winterfell and purchase it. I do not give gifts for free."

Long ago, when Eddard had sought additional maesters to aid in Winterfell's expansion, the Citadel had refused, citing a lack of resources. Now, with a treasure in hand, Eddard would not part with it lightly.

"Carve the unicorns' flesh for provisions," Eddard ordered. "Our men suffer from dwindling supplies. Their meat shall serve us well."

"As for the horns and bones, store them. They will come with us to Winterfell." He knew the Citadel would pay handsomely for such trophies. The Citadel never lacked coin, for their patrons spanned all of Westeros. House Hightower of Oldtown, in particular, held wealth beyond measure.

As he considered the worth of the unicorns, Eddard could not help but wish his men had slain more of them.

Meanwhile, beyond the walls of the Dreadfort, Borric Stern and his remaining Rockborn warriors had fled to Abyss Keep, leading their herd of unicorns. There, he found himself standing before two imposing figures—King of the Crags, Samlor Crowl, and Helen Pyke, the Iron Whore.

Samlor Crowl was a bear of a man, his silvering hair doing little to dim his ferocity. By contrast, Borric Stern, Lord of the Driftwood Clans, was lean and sharp-featured, his hawkish nose and cold eyes betraying little emotion.

Helen Pyke was clad not in armor, but in a flowing sea-green gown adorned with purple amethysts and blue sapphires. Her beauty was undeniable, and Borric found his gaze lingering on her more than once. As she moved, the silken fabric of her dress swayed, each step as graceful as a serpent's dance.

Borric recounted his skirmish with the Northmen in the craggy wilderness.

"A foolish mistake!" Samlor Crowl roared. "I sent my nephew, Donald Crowl, north to summon you—to bring your warriors and your unicorns to Abyss Keep. I did not command you to engage Stark's army!"

Borric scowled. "The Sistermen pirates and the Pentoshi mercenaries pillaged my lands and slaughtered my people. The other clans suffered as well. We were filled with rage. We saw the enemy, and we struck. Besides, the Northmen suffered heavy losses, too."

Helen Pyke's voice was smooth as silk. "Tell me, Lord Stern, how many Rockborn remain? And how many Northmen still stand? One for one, do you think Eddard Stark would hesitate to trade lives? That is not how wars are won."

Borric's eyes flared. "Mind your tongue, woman. Do you mean to lecture me on war?"

Helen merely smiled. "I led my reavers to burn Stark's grain ships. The Northmen are running out of food. If we hold Abyss Keep, within a month, they will starve. Then, and only then, do we strike."

Borric sneered. "This is your grand strategy? Abandon the rest of Skagos? What if Stark marches elsewhere? What if he strikes Driftwood Hall?"

Helen shook her head. "He will not. The North does not have the supplies for such a campaign. You may rest easy, my lord."

Borric remained unconvinced. But as the Iron Whore's lips curled into a knowing smile, he found himself wondering whether she saw something he did not.

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