NiTN Season 3 Outlines - 3 (Patreon)

Episode 3: "Always Darkest Before"

the night was cold, colder than usual even for the north, and the bolton men felt it in their bones as they worked under the dim light of a clouded moon. the air smelled of frost and decay, the latter coming from the grotesque cargo sprawled in the back of the first cart.

The body lay in a twisted heap, the remnants of his face barely recognizable under the bloat and blackening flesh. the men tried not to look directly at it, but the stench was impossible to ignore, curling in their nostrils and sticking to their throats.

“can’t believe we’re carting that back,” muttered one of the men, his voice low but cutting through the quiet.

“watch your tongue,” growled the man beside him. “you’d do well to remember whose blood runs in those veins.”

a nervous laugh rippled through the group, but it was short-lived.

the first man scoffed but said nothing more, his eyes flicking to the cart. ramsay bolton’s body lay within, partially decomposed, the sickly-sweet scent of rot escaping despite the haphazard tarp thrown over him.

the unease hanging over them wasn’t just from ramsay’s corpse. it was the sword.

---

the second group worked quietly in the dark, the air heavy with anticipation. the white sword stood where it had been left, thrust into the ground near the village’s edge, its smooth surface gleaming faintly even in the dim moonlight.

“how does a thing like this stay so clean?” one of the men muttered, his voice tinged with unease.

“doesn’t matter,” said another, gripping the hilt with both hands. “we’re taking it back to lord bolton.”

it took five men to pull the sword free, their muscles straining against the unnatural weight of the thing. it wasn’t its size—the blade wasn’t much longer than an ordinary hand-and-a-half sword—but it seemed to defy reason, its weight far surpassing its appearance.

it had taken hours to move the thing. five men to lift it, and another five to steady the cart as they loaded it.

no, the weight was something else. something they couldn’t explain but all felt the moment their hands touched the smooth, unmarred surface.

“doesn’t even look sharp,” one had said, sucking his thumb with caution in his eyes. it had cut him easily, parting the flesh of his thumb like a blade fresh from the grindstone. “How in the hells…”

“don’t matter,” the sergeant had growled, his eyes fixed on the massive blue spherical gem set where the crossguard should’ve been. “lord bolton wants it. that’s all we need to know.”

now the sword sat in the second cart, shrouded in a thick canvas, but its presence was palpable. even the horses pulling the cart shied away from it, their ears pinned flat against their heads.

“bloody thing feels cursed,” muttered one of the men as they hauled it onto the waiting cart.

“cursed or not, it’s not ours to question,” barked their leader. “load it up, and let’s move.”

another man chuckled darkly. “tell that to the ones who touched it. you see how pale greig got? looked like he’d seen a bloody ghost.”

"bloody thing’s cursed, i swear," said man muttered, his voice low and rough. he wiped a gloved hand across his brow, glancing nervously at the sword.

"then why’re we taking it?" another hissed, throwing a wary glance over his shoulder. the forest seemed to press in around them, the shadows darker than they had any right to be.

the leader of the group, a broad-shouldered man with a scar bisecting his cheek, shot them both a glare. "orders. you want to be the one to tell the lord bolton no? be my guest."

“enough,” the sergeant barked, his patience fraying. “get these carts moving. we leave before first light.”

the men grumbled but obeyed, their breath misting in the cold as they pushed the carts onto the narrow forest trail.

the carts creaked and groaned under their loads as they made their way through the forest, the riders keeping a wary eye on the shadows that clung to the trees. the sword and ramsay’s body were bound for the dreadfort, and though no one dared say it aloud, many of the men wished to be rid of both as quickly as possible.

“never seen a blade like that before,” one of the riders murmured to his companion. “don’t think i ever want to again.”

“you’re talking like it’s alive,” the other said, though his tone carried little conviction. “it’s just steel. no different from the rest of ‘em.”

but they both glanced back at the cart, where the sword lay covered but unmistakable, its presence a quiet weight that pressed on their minds.

--- 

the remaining bolton men gathered at the edge of the village, the faint light of the approaching dawn creeping over the horizon. their breaths misted in the cold air as they prepared for the assault, their weapons gleaming faintly in the growing light.

“lord bolton wants this done clean,” their leader said, his voice low but commanding. “no mess, no delays. we hit them hard, and we hit them fast.”

the men nodded, though their faces betrayed unease. the events of the night—the sword, ramsay’s body—had left them shaken, though none dared admit it.

“what if the stories are true?” one of the men asked hesitantly.

the leader glared at him. “what stories?”

“the sorcerer, the white blade, they call him,” the man muttered, his gaze flicking toward the village. “the one who killed ramsay.”

a tense silence followed, broken only by the leader’s sharp laugh. “you afraid of a boy with a sword? we’ve got numbers, steel, and lord bolton’s orders. that’s all that matters.”

the men murmured their agreement, though their unease lingered.

“mount up,” the leader ordered, his tone brooking no argument. “we finish this before the sun’s fully up.”

the men mounted their horses, their armor clinking softly as they formed into lines. the quiet before the charge was deafening, the stillness of the village broken only by the distant cry of a raven.

as the first rays of sunlight broke over the horizon, the bolton men began their assault, their war cries splitting the dawn.