Stannon looked at the man kneeling before him. Colen's hands trembled as he clutched his wounded arm, blood dripping onto the ground. The forest, once filled with the sounds of battle, was now eerily quiet. The only noises were the distant rustling of leaves and the heavy breathing of the survivors.
Stannon sighed, the disappointment clear on his face. He had trusted Colen, and this betrayal stung more than he cared to admit. After a moment of silence, he finally spoke.
"Take him," he ordered the men who had attacked him earlier.
At his command, two of the men who had first attacked him—the ones who had been playing their roles in this grand deception—stepped forward. They grabbed Colen by the arms and hauled him to his feet. The traitor let out a sharp breath but did not resist. He knew there was no escape.
"Make sure he doesn't try anything foolish," Stannon added, his eyes flicking toward the bound hands of his former ally. "I want him alive."
The men nodded and pulled Colen back into the shadows of the trees.
Then, turning to another group of his men, Stannon issued his next command.
"Inform the sailors. Guide them to House Boggs."
The men nodded and quickly moved out, disappearing into the dense forest. Stannon knew that House Boggs would be a temporary resting place before he returned to King's Landing. There, he would begin his real plan—the downfall of the Lannisters.
His eyes then shifted to the leader of the men who had faked the attack on him. The man, a grizzled warrior with sharp eyes and a scar running down his left cheek, stepped forward and bowed slightly.
"Is everything under control?" Stannon asked.
"Yes, my prince," the man replied firmly.
Stannon gave a satisfied nod. Everything had gone according to plan. The fake attack had been necessary—to test loyalties and flush out any hidden traitors among his ranks. Colen's betrayal was disappointing, but not unexpected. Stannon had suspected someone might turn on him, and now he had his answer.
He glanced around at his men. Some looked relieved, others uneasy. Even Melisandre, usually composed, seemed thoughtful as she observed the aftermath of the battle. Stannon knew she had likely realised why he had arranged this deception, why he had walked knowingly into a trap and allowed it to play out.
But he didn't explain himself.
Instead, he turned toward the darkening forest, his thoughts already on the next step. King's Landing awaited, and the Lannisters would soon learn what repercussions would they be forced to face after going against him.
Stannon looked at his men, who were still recovering from the staged battle. Though it was a staged battle for him the same was not for others afterall only Stannon was aware of the battle being staged and not them. Some had cuts and bruises, while others looked exhausted. The stress of being followed, attacked, and forced to fight had worn them out. They needed rest, and Stannon knew exactly where to take them.
"Lead us to House Boggs," he ordered.
The scarred warrior nodded. "Right away, my prince."
The group moved quietly through the dark forest. The only sounds were leaves rustling and their careful footsteps on the uneven ground. No one spoke much—they were too tired. Stannon walked at the front, already thinking about what came next.
House Boggs was one of the few noble families he completely trusted. Their loyalty wasn't given freely—Stannon had made sure of it. Most of the guards in their keep were his men, placed there over time. The lord and lady of the house had no choice but to remain loyal to him.
After nearly an hour of walking, they reached the estate. House Boggs wasn't grand, but it was well-protected. High stone walls surrounded the main keep, with wooden watchtowers at each corner. A narrow path led to the entrance, lit by flickering torches.
Before they reached the gate, it opened with a creak. Two guards in dark leather armor stood there, hands resting on their swords. But when they recognized Stannon and his men, they stepped aside without a word.
Inside the keep, Lord Roderick Boggs and his wife, Lady Marla, were waiting. Lord Roderick, a man in his late forties with graying hair, gave a small bow. Lady Marla stood beside him, looking tense but respectful.
"My prince," Lord Roderick said. "It is an honor to welcome you."
Stannon nodded. "Your hospitality is appreciated, Lord Boggs. My men and I need a place to rest. We have traveled far, and I have important matters to handle."
"Of course," Lord Roderick said quickly. His eyes flicked toward Colen, who was still being held by two of Stannon's men. "And what about him?"
"Lock him in the cell beneath the keep," Stannon ordered. "Make sure he's not harmed—for now."
Lord Roderick signaled his guards, who took Colen and led him away. The prisoner didn't resist. He knew he had no choice.
Inside the great hall, the warmth of the fire was a welcome change from the cold night. Servants moved quickly, bringing food and drink. The meal was simple but filling—roasted meat, dark bread, and warm broth. Stannon's men ate quickly, too exhausted to talk much. Even Stannon, usually careful with his meals, ate without hesitation.
As the evening went on, most of his men went to their rooms to rest. But Stannon still had work to do. He pushed back his chair and stood, turning to Lord Roderick.
"I need to speak with Colen," he said.
Lord Roderick hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "The cell is ready, my prince. He is secured."
Before Stannon could leave, a voice stopped him.
"I'm coming with you," Hilda said.
Hilda was one of his most trusted warriors, a fierce fighter who had been by his side through many hunts and fights.
Stannon studied her for a moment before giving a small nod. "Fine. Let's go."
They walked through the dimly lit halls, heading to the lower part of the keep. The cell was beneath the main hall, deep in the stone foundation. It was cold and damp, smelling of mildew and old blood. A single torch flickered outside the iron-barred door.
Colen sat against the far wall, his wrists tied, his face pale from blood loss. He looked up as they entered, his expression unreadable.
Stannon stepped forward. "You betrayed me, Colen. That much is clear. What I want to know is why."
Colen let out a slow breath and leaned back against the wall. "Does it matter?"
"It does," Stannon said. "Depending on your answer, your fate may change."
Colen gave a hollow laugh. "Loyalty and fate. You always think ten steps ahead, don't you?"
Stannon didn't reply. He simply waited.
Colen shifted, his fingers twitching against the cold stone. "You think you can change things—that you can outplay them, outmaneuver them. But you don't realize how deep this goes. The Lannisters—" He shook his head. "You're not the only one playing this game, my prince."
Hilda stiffened, gripping her sword. "You think you're in a position to lecture us?"
Colen ignored her. He looked directly at Stannon. "If you keep going down this path, you'll face an enemy far greater than you ever imagined."
Stannon spoke suddenly, his voice cutting through the damp stillness of the cell.
"You're not a Lannister's man," he said, watching Colen's reaction carefully. "If you were, you wouldn't have waited this long to kill me. The Lannisters want nothing other than my death. You had plenty of chances. So why now? There's someone else involved in this."
Colen's expression faltered for the briefest moment before he quickly masked it, his face hardening. But that moment of hesitation was enough for Stannon. He knew he was right.
Even after all this, Colen still refused to speak. Stannon narrowed his eyes and took a slow step closer, his presence looming over the traitor.
Stannon had never been a fool when it came to those he allowed near him. He had investigated Colen's past twice—once when he first arrived at Winterfell, using the North's own informants and the kingdom's spies, and again later with his own trusted network. Both times, the information had been the same.
Colen's parents had been simple folk, living in a small settlement in the North. Their village had been raided by bandits—ruthless men who left nothing behind. His parents had been slaughtered alongside the rest of the settlement. Colen alone had survived, not because of luck or mercy, but because he had killed one of the bandits himself.
The remaining bandits had intended to kill him, but one of them had stopped the execution. Colen had been young, his features striking despite the dirt and blood. The bandit leader had a taste for handsome men. Instead of a quick death, Colen had been captured and taken to him.
For days and nights, he had been abused, turned into the leader's personal plaything. In time, Colen learned to endure it, to survive. He had gained the bandit leader's trust, enough that they no longer saw him as a threat. Eventually, he had been placed in one of their squads, a reluctant member of their group.
That was how he had encountered Stannon and the rest is history.
So why?
Why would a man who had been saved from hell itself betray the very person who had freed him?
Stannon studied him, searching for an answer in his expression.
"If I were in your place," he said finally, his voice low, "I wouldn't have done this. I would've spent the rest of my life repaying my savior. But you… you're trying to kill me."
Colen finally looked up. His face was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—something dark and an immense fury, something that made even Stannon hesitate.
Colen's body shook as he glared at Stannon, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His hands clenched into fists, his whole body tense with barely contained rage.
Then, he snapped.
"Saved me?" He shouted. "Repay you? To the bastard who killed my family?"
His eyes burned with hatred as he pushed against his chains as if trying to jump at Stannon, his voice rising. "You took everything from me! And now you expect gratitude?"
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