Maidenpool, a small town built beside the Red Fork, had been fortunate enough to escape the Lannisters' ravages amid the endless fighting in the Riverlands.
When the Targaryen army arrived with the might of a dragon behind it, the town had wisely surrendered, securing a rare measure of peace.
Yet that brief tranquility vanished entirely when the northern army under Roose Bolton appeared outside its walls.
There was scarcely even a token resistance. The hundred-odd Targaryen auxiliary troops stationed here were less a defensive force than a symbol of public order.
Against nearly ten thousand ravenous northern soldiers under Bolton, homesick and seething with pent-up anger, their resistance melted like snow plunged into boiling water.
The gates were easily breached, and scattered fighting along a few streets quickly died down.
But the residents of Maidenpool did not find themselves restored to the rule of the King in the North as they had imagined.
What awaited them was a nightmare even worse than the Lannisters' rampage.
Roose Bolton tacitly permitted-indeed, indulged-his soldiers in a brutal sack of the town that had already surrendered.
Long-suppressed resentment, the frustration of being unable to return home, contempt for the weakness of the Riverlands, and the savagery bred by prolonged war all found an outlet at that moment.
Cries, pleas, wild laughter, the crash of breaking objects, and the crackle of burning timber mingled together, replacing the familiar bustle of town life.
Like beasts breaking free of their chains, the northern soldiers stormed every house still reasonably intact, seizing anything of value... food, valuables, even the better clothes worn by terrified residents.
Those who resisted were killed without mercy, and women's shrill screams echoed through the lanes.
Roose Bolton sat on his horse, his long, pale face expressionless, his cold eyes surveying the town engulfed