The Banquet Hall bristled with tension. Gleaming sword blades pointed at Roose Bolton from every direction, cutting off every avenue of escape.
There was not a trace of hesitation in the northern soldiers' eyes.
At a single command from Lynn, they would chop the lord of the Dreadfort into mincemeat.
Yet faced with certain death, Roose Bolton slowly curled his ashen lips into an unnervingly strange smile.
He might have suffered a crushing defeat in their battle of political schemes.
But he had not lost completely!
He still had one final trump card!
He still had the power to overturn the board!
"Lord Lynn."
Roose Bolton slowly rose from his chair.
He elegantly straightened his plain but meticulously arranged pink cloak, his movements as calm and composed as ever.
"You are indeed clever. Far cleverer than I imagined."
"But you made a mistake."
"A fatal mistake!"
"You were too arrogant. You should never have... let me bring them into Winterfell."
With that, Roose Bolton clapped his hands.
"All right. Come in."
No sooner had he spoken than the clatter of armor came from outside.
Everyone in the Banquet Hall paled at once, turning their eyes toward the doors.
"What's going on?!"
Crash!!!
Before they could react, the heavy oak doors were smashed to pieces from outside by a force beyond imagination!
Amid flying splinters, ten tall figures walked silently inside.
They wore black chain mail identical to that of the knights behind Roose Bolton, with iron masks concealing their faces and leaving only their eyes exposed.
But those were not human eyes.
Not a single emotion stirred in them. There was only the icy stillness of death.
They held oddly shaped curved blades, their edges flickering with an eerie black light.
The "armor" draped over them was not metal, but