Chapter 155

In the darkness, the iron door emitted a clanking sound, like beautiful music. He hadn't heard such a sound in a long time.

Was that the stranger pushing the door?

The stranger is a southern god; they shouldn't have come to the north— the god who governs death in the north is also an old god, right? Would an old god have legs, wielding chains or a sickle? Or perhaps holding a piece of fish‑beam wood?

Too strange.

If the old god were a tree holding a piece of fish‑beam wood, it would surely stagger toward him— even if it bore that solemn, carved face, he would laugh out loud.

Death is release.

Thinking this, he felt for the first time that believing in the old gods was troublesome; here the old gods couldn't even clarify something as big as death, making it hard to arrange— nothing like the Seven, each of whom has a clear image, and everyone, no matter their station, can find a fitting image with the gods.

Yet believing in the Seven in the North is just as strange as believing in the old gods in the South.

After passing the Neck, aside from White Harbor and a group of southerners living in the North, they all believed in the old gods, even the wildlings beyond the Wall believed in the old gods.

Yet sharing the same faith did not lessen their mutual hatred.

He was intercepted by northern soldiers of unknown identity; his fellow guards Jacks, Kunt, and Shade now unknown fate, likely as ill‑fated as he. No, Jacks……

This reckless hero!

Poor Jacks. He accompanied Lord Aide south, the sole guard to survive King's Landing, yet upon stepping onto northern soil he suffered a heavy blow; he wasn't sure if he was dead, but among their party he was the only one who dared to counterattack amidst the enemy encirclement, striking the soldiers who desecrated Lord Aide's remains and bullied the nuns.

Poor nuns.

In the North there is ultimately no room for their activities; if he could personally see soldiers slit a nun's throat, that would be their fortune.

They followed the guards of Winterfell all the way, bearing the direwolf banner, enduring a difficult trek across the Neck's marshes, and successfully brought Lord Aide's remains back onto soil wholly belonging to the North.

After crossing the marsh, he felt relieved, for he was about to return to his homeland. Though the nuns showed no expression, he could sense their joy; he could not fathom why they insisted on returning north together— duty? Lord Aide believed in the old gods, and the North had no room for the Seven or these nuns.

He knew some force he didn't yet understand was driving them.

He truly wished to understand.

"What are you singing? Why do you keep singing?" Harris, bored on the return journey, asked a nun he was sure had red hair, "Chanting the scriptures keeps us calm." Harris could smell the incense on the nun, though by then they had clearly been traveling for nearly a month without lighting any candles, and he wondered if it was an illusion. "Is it because you're not calm to begin with?" The nun's skin was fair, after the long trek slightly smudged with dirt and ash, but Harris at that moment thought her beautiful, having forgotten how he once found her thick eyebrows and high cheekbones ugly and unpleasant.

At that moment he was looking at her face, forgetting how the nun had answered.

He had been listening to their chanting of the Seven Stars Scripture all along, and he could already recall some passages.

"The spirits behold mortals, knowing their sorrow. The god says, 'I have seen the suffering of my people; I have heard their cries of lament; I know their pain.'"

Can their spirits perceive his sorrow?

After returning to the North, he was blindfolded by soldiers and led across streams or rivers— he heard water, crossed slopes— he felt the incline, he experienced snow— snow melting on his face, he heard the roar of a collapsing suspension bridge, the iron gate of the prison thundering.

This must still be the North's prison.

Only the North's prison would be so empty and quiet: criminals are either beheaded promptly or sent to the northern Wall, while lesser offenders serve their sentences in pastures, fields, wheat fields, and mines.

"Kill me or send me to the Wall!" he had shouted repeatedly for days, but received no reply.

He thought they wanted to know the secrets he knew, but what secrets did he have? He knew no more than the other soldiers outside. They conducted no interrogation, as if they had no interest in what he knew.

If they killed those soldiers— Shade, Kunt, Jacks— they should have killed him too.

He was not a viscount of the Molan family, nor an heir; he was merely a common soldier serving the Stark family— oh, not so common, after Jorah Keynos died in King's Landing, the Young Wolf Lord promoted him to captain of the guard.

Captain of the guard, once an important and honorable duty, but his guard duty had utterly failed.

When ranks of soldiers taunted them, he dared not resist, merely holding the direwolf banner aloft so they could see it clearly; when a heavy punch struck his face, he finally realized the direwolf banner could not protect them as it had in the Neck.

He saw an enemy soldier roughly fling open a flat wooden box, rudely pulling back the direwolf banner that covered Lord Aide's remains; Jacks was the one who stepped forward to stop him at that moment.

It was useless; they had already seen the direwolf banner but still didn't care. He watched the banner drift aside like a rag, then fall to the ground, and be trampled into the mud by arriving soldiers.

This was no longer the North he knew.

This change frightened him. What had happened to the North?

Jacks was surrounded by soldiers and beaten; he could not rescue him, only glare as they grew more brutal.

They stripped the white ermine cloak from the remains, a soldier violently yanked it away, scattering the chest bones, and he saw a vertebra torn loose onto the ground.

He stepped forward to pick up the vertebra, but was viciously kneed for the effort, after which he could only painfully kneel on the ground.

"Who are you?" he asked in anguish, almost a shout, but the soldiers ignored him; the Silent Sisters nearby let out frightened cries, he couldn't make sense of the situation, but heard the sounds fade and dwindle. "These are Lord Aide's remains," he said.

That was pointless; the newcomers certainly knew who they were, knew their party's most important mission, and recognized whose remains lay before them.

He could not fathom why the soldiers would do this, nor could he imagine what had befallen the North.

His voice was drowned by laughter; an officer snatched the ermine cloak from a soldier's hands and clumsily donned it himself.

"This is the North's guard's cloak!" he laughed, announcing to the surrounding soldiers, "Look, the direwolf is still over the heart! Want to cut a hole here and stuff it with wolfskin? Best to use direwolf pelt— the Starks still have plenty."

He felt he should have drawn his sword then and killed that officer, or been slain by the surrounding soldiers.

But he didn't, unsure whether he still didn't want to die or wanted to understand the situation; either way, it was surely a mistake.

What he knew came mostly from the prison, partly from the guards.

The guards only occasionally entered the prison to tell him outside news; obviously, the soldiers always picked the brutal parts to relate. Those parts were too cruel, far beyond what he knew, so he didn't believe them.

He thought they were just torturing him.

This was to torment him for failing to protect Lord Aide's remains.

He had lost the chance to win honor; he recalled that two soldiers then had him tightly cuffed and taken his weapons.

They pulled off the skull.

The skull had been sewn to the body with silver thread; when pulled free, the thread straightened, dangling loosely on the corpse; a soldier then roughly tore the silver thread away, coiled it into a ring, stuffed it into his pocket, and laughed loudly.

Jacks' face streamed with blood; at that moment he bellowed and struggled, Harris wished he could fell the wicked soldiers with a heavy punch, but his resistance only earned him another beating, and it was then that he gradually lost his voice, after which he never saw him again.

He truly wished he could be like him. Better to die bravely than to watch the mission fail in cowardice; that would still honor his duty.

But who will tell these tales to Lord Aide's children?

"May you die badly!" he shouted in anger, but the soldiers merely laughed loudly; then the officer shook the skull before his eyes, making him dizzy. "You could make a drinking cup. Turn an enemy's head into a cup; if you're vexed, you can use it to hold drink." The nearby soldiers roared with laughter, utterly unreasonable.

Imagining that scene, he could not help but feel angry. He did not know whether this was why he had survived in prison, nor did he realize this scene also represented the power to overcome self‑abandonment in darkness and silence.

"The god says, 'Anger is a poison; the deeper its mark, the less able one is to hear the spirits' call and the spirits' voice.'" When he explained to the nun the reasons for waging war against the South, she answered him thus.

This is a foolish nun.

"But when one is angry, one is stronger." He didn't mind; the journey was boring, and he was willing to spare some time to talk with the nun. "Anger is the power of the evil god." She replied with her dry reasoning.

"The evil god," he thought the nun was referring to the old gods, so he arrogantly turned his head and ended the conversation.

"I heard there's still the skin of the Stark lord in the Terror Castle." The officer's beard filled his helmet, his thick palms covered in hair, and he used that hand to lift his chin, letting him see the emptiness in Lord Eddard's eye sockets.

It looked exactly like any other skull, with no way to tell its identity. I heard the king had already taken the eyeballs from the sockets to feed the crows. "This could be a collector's item for us, not relying on human skin—too bad, the Terror Castle keeps the king's skin, while we only have the duke's skull." It was a cruel joke; he didn't know what had happened in the North to produce such offensive words. "But we still have a chance, after all, his son has already become king of the North." Another officer stood nearby, sneering, and said, "If everything goes smoothly, we'll soon be able to get a king's skull as well."

Those words made him feel ice-cold all over—what kind of plot was this? He kept thinking about it over and over in prison.

They should go to hell.

Were they northern traitors or a group of southern soldiers who had infiltrated the North? The speculation chilled him, because they all spoke with northern accents, and Eddard's remains were those of a southerner who had returned—there was no need to take them back again……

"The lady will be pleased with this wine jug." He heard a voice respond to the officers, "She has already begun designing it."

It was then that he was knocked unconscious. When he woke again, he had already been brought onto the road, not knowing how long he had traveled.

"My lady." That was the key word.

He wasn't very smart, but he almost immediately knew which lady was being referred to—only four ladies in the North could command troops: the widowed Lady Frey, Lady Hoard, Lady Glover, and Lady Dustin of Barrowton. He couldn't think of anyone else who could appear by the Neck besides her.

The one thing he couldn't fathom was why they had put an ordinary guard captain in prison instead of slitting his throat and leaving him on the roadside. Was it because he was a member of the Mallor family? To let him bear witness?

Any northern house that dared to attack the Stark retinue wouldn't care about the insignificant Mallor family; their house merely managed the forests west of Long Lake among the mountain clans for the Starks, bound tightly to them, and thus had no worth to be bought off.

The clang of the iron door sounded like a voice left from ancient times, giving him a little comfort in his despair—at least it wasn't his own heavy breathing and the various ghosts' lamentations in the darkness.

In prison, he had plenty of time to converse with all sorts of ghosts.

He repeatedly recalled his past experiences in his mind, and once all his memories had been emptied out, Lord Eddard, Captain Jory, his father Halmar, his mother, and the others in this prison came one by one to talk with him—all of them were dead.

Lord Eddard was as tall as when he was alive; he spoke softly, saying, "Don't blame yourself, live on well," and that he had returned to the North, to the old gods' embrace, had reunited with his father and brothers, had returned to the crypts of Winterfell, and had completed his escort duty.

He believed that not complete is anger letting him survive, Lord Eddard's comfort played a major role.

His father had also been here before, bringing very little news—so little that he needed to use some logic to judge whether the guards outside were lying to him—Halmar had already replaced him as captain of the guard of Winterfell, his brother seemed to be doing quite well, winning the favor of the she-wolf—favor from the she-wolf, not from Brandon Stark.

Father, in his mind there was only Halmar; the news he brought was all about Halmar. Perhaps he should tell him how the war outside was going, whether Lord Eddard's remains had indeed been seized by that lady, whether his guards were all dead, and whether the silent sisters and that talkative nun were……

They never came here to keep him company in conversation.

They believed in the Seven Gods, but the Seven Gods have no presence in the North, cannot pass through the northern lands to send messages to the deep underground prison. If they died, they would surely be taken by the Stranger, with no chance to wander again over the northern earth……

Those who can wander here are believers in the old gods, like Lord Eddard—he wasn't sure.

Lord Eddard was a good lord, yet his son and lady came here several times to reproach him.

Their first visit began suddenly one day after he felt he had been imprisoned for countless years.

They seemed to have come solely to reproach him; he could see the deep disappointment in the young wolf lord's eyes, the anger and contempt in Lady Catelyn's eyes, and the fury in Prince Rickon's eyes—anger almost bursting forth from them.

He didn't know how many times he had wept and feared because of their reproaches; fortunately, the prison was dark as night, so no one would likely see his fragile state; fortunately, he had Lord Eddard's comfort; fortunately, he still had anger.

He shouldn't weep; he was a good northern lad.

"Good northern lad," Lord Eddard whispered, "hold on and live on, live on..." The last time he saw Lord Eddard, he appeared utterly frail, as if he had aged thirty years since their last meeting, like an old man. "How are you?" he cried out then, "I'm so tired, so tired, keep on living..." Lord Eddard's skull was the shape of a wine jug, hovering above his body, and the rest of his body parts likewise hovered; with each step he trembled, as if bearing a heavy load. "How are you?" In the darkness he saw his dark form, and in the phosphorescent light he saw that each of Lord Eddard's bones was wrapped in bronze, flashing with evil sigils, drawing strength from his trembling body, while Lord Eddard continually weakened, weakened.

He wanted to cry, but didn't know what to do. "Tell me, lord, tell me, what can I do for you?" he asked. But Lord Eddard said nothing except his usual words, "Keep on living..."

To live on was truly too hard. The prison's inhabitants seemed to reappear only after a very long time—he felt each appearance came months or even years apart—and he needed to subsist on the scant food left by the prison guards for months.

"Just make do with eating, I won't come every day because this place is really stinky." When he was first thrown into prison, the guard said that to him. "Also, don't get sick; if you do, no one will treat you."

He did not get sick.

"Muscular," that was the reason he was promoted to captain of the guard after Jory; now he could feel his muscles slowly wasting away, the flesh on his face disappearing as well, often able to feel his scrawny thigh bones, the leg bones lacking the bronze that clung to Lord Eddard's, instead covered with flabby skin that could sway left and right like a pouch.

If it weren't for the thick straw in the prison, he might have been awakened in his sleep by his own bones poking him.

Following the clang of the iron door came footsteps and the sound of torches burning.

Was it time for food again? How long ago was the last time?

At first he could judge time by how much food there was, but after several calculations he found he couldn't work it out precisely, so he simply gave up. He concluded that in darkness, time cannot be judged.

Perhaps he is now old and on his deathbed; perhaps, if he's lucky, by the time he gets out again, Halmar will already have an adult grandson.

The firelight slowly approached, and he raised his hand to shield his eyes.

The light stung his eyes, making them almost impossible to open, but he wanted to see his surroundings clearly.

His hand was also dry and rough, brushing against the tangled hair flung before his eyes.

He must look absolutely terrible now.

He lay on a pile of straw, slowly watching the firelight draw near.

This time was different from before; their footsteps were frequent and hurried, and there was clearly more than one person.

There were three torches.

"Open the cell door!" he heard a voice shout loudly, the commotion so great it made his ears ache a little.

He felt he could understand the words; they were coming to open the cell door, not to bring food. Good, good—today he would die.

If it had been when he was first thrown into the great prison, he surely could have rushed over, seized a sword by force, perhaps carved a bloody path out, but now……

Now he might not be able to stand steady, nor walk steady.

Perhaps he would have to move even slower than Prince Brandon.

Bran hadn't come to reproach him, he thought happily.

"Who..." he wanted to say who was there, but the words tangled on his tongue, leaving only a muffled grunt; if Halmar saw his weakness, he would surely mock him mercilessly.

"Captain Harris?" a soldier spoke.

The voice was very familiar; he immediately recognized it.

"Tim...?" Pockmarked Tim? Is that really you?

"Gods! You're still alive, captain!" Pockmarked Tim thrust the torch toward him, and he hastily raised his hand to shield his eyes.

Tim's gesture was a little annoying to him.

He had always been rash and timid; when he first recruited this man into what he considered his troop, he had hesitated.

Harris let his eyes gradually adjust to the torchlight, following the light to look at the newcomer, certain this wasn't some enemy trick.

He looked up from below, seeing Stark's brown-gray leather armor etched with the ice plains wolf emblem, the same as his own.

He felt like crying, but he wouldn't cry in front of these people; he suppressed his excitement, opened his mouth, shoved his fist in and bit down hard, then slumped to the side, taking deep breaths.

But it was no use; the unwilling tears still streamed down his cheeks. He held back his sobs, hoping to hide the emotion, but Tim and the soldiers behind him surged forward and hugged him tightly, which moved him inexplicably.

"You're safe, Captain!" Tim shouted, stepping forward, his voice carrying a miraculous soothing power.

"Where are we?" he asked; if he couldn't figure this out, he wouldn't rest in peace—at least he ought to know exactly who the enemy was.

Several soldiers exchanged glances, showing doubt.

"Captain, we're in Longstream City, the Leswiel family's Longstream City," he stood up, revealing a stern expression; Tim looked much steadier and more confident than before, "of the Streamlands."

"Les... wiel," he heard himself say, his voice trembling, several teeth missing, feeling he could no longer speak normally; this must be ridiculous, "They, why?"

"Viscount Tim, we should wait until after we get the captain out of prison to talk," said a stranger he didn't know, an unfamiliar voice; he had covered his nose several times, dissatisfied with the environment, "Trust that His Highness will explain everything clearly."

"Not bad. This place is terrible, damn Leswiel!" He threw the torch to another soldier.

"Tim... Viscount?" He wondered, already a viscount? And His Highness—also an unfamiliar title—but he didn't want to ask about it here.

"I..."

"Can you still stand?" the soldier asked.

Perhaps, he said silently, pressing his hands hard against the straw pile, he struggled to rise; the moment he stood, he almost swayed and fell over.

Tim and another soldier slipped their arms under his waist and easily lifted him; his light weight surprised them, "Gods! Damn Leswiel, treating you like this! Damn it, we'll avenge you, we will, just wait!" he shouted loudly.

He didn't know how he got out of prison; outside was as dark as inside, but the air quality and temperature were completely different. They draped a cloak over him; he felt cold, shivering all over, yet he craved fresh air.

The air still carried a bloody smell; he could smell it instantly.

"Woman, hurry over and bring some food for my captain!" Tim shouted at the maid‑like girl, a clear command, "You damned civilians, you deserve to die! The captain can't eat rich food yet—quickly bring soft bread and meat porridge!"

Harris envied Tim deeply.

The pockmarks on his face didn't look as ugly as before.

The maid hurried away.

When the maid brought food again, Tim had already briefly introduced him to things he didn't know, which shocked and saddened him.

"Ah, eat something, then we'll take you to the earl's bath." Tim paced back and forth in the room, "You know, you don't smell like a captain at all, more like an old beggar!" he lamented, sounding urgent, "Damn Leswiel!" he cursed again.

As he wolfed down the last spoonful of porridge, Tim stood up, looked toward the door, back to him, and said excitedly, "Hey, Captain, you don't know this—we raced back from Haytown to Longstream City overnight, flying the Leswiel flag and a bunch of random spears and such, and marched right into the city." He kept his excitement, clapping and laughing, turning around, "Haha, the city guards thought they were the victorious Leswiel lord returning!" He muttered to himself, "Once His Highness finishes sorting out this mess in the city, he'll surely see you. She's probably out killing right now—too bad I wasn't there..." He glanced embarrassedly at Harris.

"No matter, it's my fault for delaying you." He said bitterly.

"Ah, what are you saying… you finished eating? I'll take you to the earl's bath!" He laughed loudly, "We've never been there before—damn, we haven't had a proper sleep in two days; the last time was in Wintercoming City, and hey, before dawn we were shouted awake." He turned his gaze to Harris, who had stayed silent; he dropped the subject, "I really worry I'll drown in the bath—I feel like just sitting or lying down will put me to sleep. Oh, I promise I won't let you drown."

The earl's bath is on the left side of the city lord's manor; go down the corridor and steps. The spacious bath steams, its ceiling a colored dome of glass, with three red, black, and white horse heads high on the thick stone walls, constantly spouting hot water from their mouths into the bath.

"Thanks to you, I can use the bath before the other cavalry." The bath runs east‑west, divided by water flow into gathering pool, lord's pool, knights' pool, and servants' pool. "She‑wolf, uh, His Highness promised we could use the Leswiel earl's bath; I guess we can use the lord's pool—heh, the lord and his lady may use this pool, though his lady died early, I don't know what woman he'll bring here." He turned his head to the attending maid, "What woman is Earl Rodrick bringing here?" he demanded loudly; the maid stammered, unable to answer, and then he burst out laughing.

"Why are you just standing there? Hurry and get the captain undressed, gods, damn Leswiel!" He said, as if seeing his attire for the first time. Whether hair, beard, or clothing, everything was tangled together, looking as disheveled as possible.

The maid approached him then, carefully removing his clothes; in the firelight he saw his own emaciated frame beneath the rags.

The maid wrinkled her nose, apparently unable to tolerate his smell. But fortunately he wasn't wearing many clothes, and soon he was stripped naked.

"Damn Leswiel!" Seeing the bony skeleton under the clothes, he cursed in pain.

"Captain, though you're thin, hurry into the bath! You need to wash properly." He withdrew his anger and then laughed as he stripped off his clothes.

"Woman, why are you just standing there? Our captain's health is poor—quickly take off your clothes, get into the bath, and give him a good wash." The threat was obvious.

The girl was a bit older than Bethcais, but not much; hearing this, her face flushed instantly.

Harris's face flushed just as much, but he was already in the bath, so he didn't have to endure the embarrassment again.

He thought of the nun.

"Yes, Viscount." She bowed, then began to undo her clothes; Tim watched her leisurely.

"She‑wolf, cough, His Highness said the women of Longstream City wholly belong to her, but she obviously doesn't need that many. Though I could stand in, I dare not poach her spoils, but Captain, you're different—you don't yet belong to her unit and need proper rest; I, however, may use her spoils to serve you." He leaned back against the pool's edge, letting out a deeply satisfied moan.

Not long after, he heard Tim's deep snoring, but he couldn't sleep; he felt he had already slept away years' worth of rest in prison.

The girl meticulously cleaned the mud from his body, combed his hair and beard. He saw clumps of dirt falling from his hair.

Warm water continued to pour from the horse heads, splashing into the gathering pool, then slowly flowing downstream into the lord's pool.

"Do you need me to shave your beard?" the girl asked, reaching toward his beard.

His brown beard was a tangled mess; he had never grown a beard, but perhaps this was a chance.

"Just comb it… neat will do."

When Tim suddenly woke up, Harris had already donned the coat and cloak they had prepared for him; the material was fine, but once out of the bath water it felt icy cold.

"Haha, how is it? Much easier, right?" Tim laughed at him, then let out a deep yawn, "I just slept really well." He curled up, submerged his head entirely in the bath, then sprang to his feet and stepped out of the bath.

"If the she‑wolf gave my castle a bath like this, I'd be satisfied. Ah, Longstream City truly lives up to its name—even the bath is like a stream. I don't think it's much smaller than the Stark family's." He gave a big yawn, casually dried himself with a towel, then quickly pulled on his leather armor and outer garments.

"Captain, you look much better." He chuckled casually, "Recover quickly—maybe you'll catch up with our Blood She‑wolf's fight against Bolton. Fighting behind her, though sometimes tough, there's never been a dead end. Can you still walk?"

"Without legs I can't." Losing several teeth in prison made speaking painful; to keep his speech clear, he hardly dared talk at all.

"Then you must." He sheathed his sword and walked out of the bathroom beside him.

The eastern sky already showed fish‑belly white; good, he thought, it's sunlight.

As he slowly approached the city lord's manor, the steps were already flowing with blood; several headless corpses lay haphazardly along the left and right corridors.

In the manor's table he saw a skull still bleeding.

"The middle one is Rickard Leswiel's," Tim whispered close to his ear, "the ones beside should be his brother and father; the Southerners who entered the city together killed them and their descendants. The she‑wolf is furious now, but I think she might be secretly pleased…" Tim said this, then suddenly tensed his body and moved away from him.

Blood stained the she‑wolf's leather armor as she coldly stared at Tim.

That fool doesn't know the she‑wolf has extraordinary hearing!

The great hall of Longstream City lies inside the city lord's manor; it isn't as large as Wintercoming City's hall, but still sizable. Inside the hall, only some people he still recognized; the rest were strangers. Most of these people wore Stark leather armor, a few wore White Harbor cavalry garb, easy to tell apart, while the majority of those kneeling on the ground were Streamland nobles.

"The Leswiel family once swore fealty to the Starks, but they broke their oath. Today you declare allegiance to me, so I have reason to doubt; therefore I demand hostages: if you are lords, you are now my hostages—you may send trusted men back to your lands, bringing your heirs to Wintercoming City to exchange for your release; if you are heirs, I will also take you to Wintercoming City to await your fathers or clan heads coming to Wintercoming City to submit; if you are neither lord nor heir, you will follow me and fight for me, proving your loyalty in future battles, just like these Southerners beside me."

Bulan is dead; the Wolf Girl before you is the master of Winterfell, the new guardian of the North.

"Are these Southerners?" This time Halisi leaned toward Tim.

"They are the Southerners from Hayton. They heard that His Highness led cavalry to attack the creek lands, seized the farm owners' warhorses, and joined our army. Their numbers are even greater than ours, of course, not counting the White Harbor cavalry." He couldn't stop talking once he started, "Do you know who is happiest now?" He leaned in, glanced toward the Wolf Girl, then continued, "It's Aide Laisiwei. His Highness promised him Long Creek Castle—damn, giving such a fine castle to such a waste. But he is only the lord of the castle; he can no longer rule the creek lands."

Anyway, a castle like Long Creek won't be given to a petty viscount.

"Please rise, everyone. There are chairs beside you; please all sit down." She waited for these creek-land nobles to sit one by one.

The cavalry belonging to Shitateke and White Harbor stood to the left and right, motionless.

"My cavalry are exhausted to the extreme, so I will make a long story short." She gripped the precious sword in her hand, looked to one side, and then the person beside her held out a piece of silk, respectfully handing it to the Wolf Girl. "Babalei Laisiwei intercepted the remains of the Winterfell guard captain escorting my father, Aide Shitateke, northward; on the return north, they were ambushed by her, and the remains were divided and buried in your homelands."

The crowd stirred. "Too awful," "Too hateful," "Damn it." He heard the creek-land nobles' murmurs, but a few remained silent.

"All families that accepted the remains must return them to Winterfell; moreover, for those families that accepted the remains, I will confiscate half of their land and half of their taxes, and use them to reward the soldiers who fought with me; the Lis Wei family's territory, aside from Long Creek Castle and Long Creek Lake, all other lands, castles, titles, feudal obligations, taxes, reclaimed land, mines, farms, pastures, and grasslands shall revert to Shitateke, and shall be used for the warriors and officers who have campaigned with me. I welcome you to break your promises again, for I have too many viscounts under my command, and you have not yet freed up many castles."

A noble rose from the chair and knelt again on one knee.

"Accepting Lord Aide's remains is an evil act; I was momentarily weak and yielded, so I am willing to accept Your Highness's punishment." said an older man with some noble bearing.

"You seem to be mistaken, Lord Heiland. The Hay Hall has already been granted to Viscount Meisi Maruite; moreover, you have no chance for redemption—this leg bone was provided by Viscount Meisi."

"He, he is just a steward!" Heiland shouted.

The Wolf Girl slowly drew her Waleiliya precious sword.

"If you don't speak up, I might even forget, Viscount Hengte—you are the uncle of Lady Babalei, you directly participated in the evil act; you know the evil I speak of."

A young man near the Wolf Girl suddenly drew a dagger; in the instant before anyone could react, he stabbed toward Meiyi, and Halisi felt his hair stand on end. Such a sudden move.

When he blinked again, that young person's hand was already on their neck, they had collapsed to their knees, but blood kept spurting from the wound, then they fell to the ground, their body trembling continuously, and then they lost consciousness.

The hall fell silent.

Meiyi slowly sheathed her passion.

"I'm sorry, Viscount Hengte, is this your son? Letting you see this before your death is truly regrettable." She left her seat and slowly approached Viscount Hengte Heiland. "Viscount, you plotted to incite rebellion, insulted your father's remains, assisted in carrying out a vicious curse, committed the crimes of mistreating the populace and murdering southern orphans. I, Meiyi of the Shitateke family, in the name of the Duke of Winterfell and Guardian of the North, hereby sentence you to death. You are the lord of the North; you have the right to choose your manner of death."

At that moment, the soldiers standing beside him lifted Viscount Hengte up from both sides. He was still in shock; for a while, he could not utter a word.

"Do what your father would do, bastard!" Viscount Hengte glared angrily at Meiyi.

She walked out of the hall with two soldiers; after ten breaths, a soldier returned holding his head, and thus another skull appeared on the table.

She sat back down in her seat.

"The Shitateke family has the right to be angry." The Wolf Girl turned her head toward Harris, "Captain, tell them what Lady Babalei and her soldiers did to my father's remains."