“Hey… you see that?”
Bert’s voice was barely more than a whisper, carried away on the biting wind.
He nudged the man beside him, his fingers stiff with cold, his eyes straining into the shifting murk beyond the yard.
There, just for a heartbeat, a blur darted between the crumbling stone wall and the flickering torchlight.
A shadow, small and quick, slipping through the edge of vision.
Bert’s breath caught, the taste of stale ale and fear sour on his tongue.
By all the old gods and new, he swore he’d seen it.
It was a ghost, a trick of the dark that vanished the moment he tried to look it in the eye.
Gretch didn’t bother to glance over his shoulder.
He drew in a long, ragged breath that steamed white in the frigid air, the scent of damp earth and burnt oil filling his nose.
“I didn’t see shit, Bert,” Gretch grumbled, his voice thick with exhaustion and a raw edge of irritation.
“Save the horse piss for ale while we’re on watch, I told you. It’s going to rot your brain.”
“It’s not the damn ale!” Bert snapped, his words sharp and low, barely more than a hiss.
His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, trying to rub warmth into numb fingers.
“I saw something move. Quick, like a damn rat.”
Gretch shifted his weight, the chainmail beneath his doublet giving a soft, metallic rattle.
The cold bit through the layers, gnawing at his bones.
He squinted into the darkness, but all he saw was the uneven ground, the pitted stones, and the endless, oppressive black beyond the wall.
I’m looking right where you’re pointing, and all I see is dirt, stone, and a bloody wall.
He wrapped his gloved hands tighter around his spear, knuckles whitening.
Bert clicked his tongue, the taste of fear lingering.
He pressed closer to the brazier—a dying ember spitting red sparks with each gust of wind.
The faint heat was a cruel tease, just enough to remind them how truly miserable they were.
The air smelled of wet ash and old smoke, and every breath stung.
“It’s fuckin’ cold out here already,” Gretch muttered, his voice muffled by the scarf pulled over his mouth.
Bert fell silent, but his eyes never left the patch of darkness where the shadow had vanished.
Every muscle in his body was tight, ready to spring.
Seconds dragged by, heavy and slow.
Palpatine (Robb) crouched behind a plinth of broken masonry near the entrance, hidden by a cruel trick of the light and perfect angle.
He was a hole in the world, a shadow so deep it seemed to swallow the meager torchlight.
His black cloak wrapped around him, blending with the night, leaving only the pale line of his jaw and the glint of his eyes visible.
He didn’t even seem to breathe—no telltale mist, no sound, nothing but the silent promise of danger.
“Amateurs,” Palpatine thought, his mind cold and focused.
The Dark Lord drew power from the seething hatred within, the dark side humming at his fingertips, ready to strike if they uncovered his movements.
Finding one’s way about Winterfell had been depressingly effortless.
The defenders were overly lenient due to the castle’s age, size, and long-standing reputation for impregnability.
The presence of high walls and massive gates fostered an air of superiority.
Their carelessness was evident when they thought the stone bastion would take care of everything, trying to come in and out without garnering their ire.
Their lack of effort was both an affront and an additional challenge for House Stark.
He viewed it as a failure that needed addressing, hypocritical though it may be, considering he was currently sneaking out.
As the heir, he believed that if this was the level of competency displayed, a retraining or outright restructuring was essential for the continued service of their household guards.
That failure would be added to his list of things to address.
After taking control of the boy’s body, Palpatine meticulously explored the castle, mentally deconstructing Winterfell, piece by piece, and now guided by his memories.
He cataloged five distinct entrances to the Great Keep that could be exploited by assassins or infiltrators intent on harming the Lord of Winterfell and his family.
He had a unique understanding of vulnerability that the guards did not have.
Even at ease, Palpatine would not let his guard down; he had survived too many attempted assassinations on Coruscant and elsewhere to not see points that could be exploited by those who meant to do them harm.
As he was aware, these personal guards were notoriously careless and poorly trained, but the captain of the guard would say otherwise.
Without even trying, Palpatine had shown to no one but himself that his home was not impenetrable.
He raised his eyes to the sky, ready to move again in an instant, mentally sighing.
He was on his way to Winter Town, but he didn’t plan to spend all his time in a brothel waiting for the right moment to eliminate the owner. This chapter was taken from g.com without permission.
He had other time-sensitive matters requiring his “personal attention” before daybreak.
Erena would be his first for the night, but not his last; there was another.
Nella, his little ambitious friend, had only received vague details.
Mara had confirmed through their usual secret channels that the deed would be carried out swiftly; however, the specifics regarding when, how, and who would be responsible for removing Elena from the picture were never disclosed to Nella.
All the treacherous manager knew was that the proprietress was now the target of death.
It required a specific level of delicacy that he preferred to employ.
He needed no dramatic scene or any obvious signs of violence, such as blood on the floor or open wounds.
The less attention this attracted from the eyes of his father and his seneschals, the better.
He didn’t carry a blade; he needed none.
The Force was his only weapon, with the dark side serving as both armor and blade.
There was no limit to the dark side, and his command over it was immeasurable.
It only took a thought to calm a person’s heart permanently.
With a mere pinch of his fingers, he could clamp a throat shut.
The force had no equal, and none in this backwater were his either when it came to power.
To hear the two guards’ complaints about the chill, Palpatine patiently awaited their exact moment of turning back to the brazier.
Though “unsure” was a feeble feeling, Bert remained jittery.
The guard, an unproven individual, preferred to remain silent and evade the scorn of his peers rather than risk ridicule.
Palpatine nudged forward again, deigning not to be delayed.
No sound came from the quiet areas his boots found between the brittle frost and the rutted muck.
Straight ahead, clinging to the inside wall, was the staircase.
The ascent was effortless.
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