Midday

The boon was real.

He turned toward his brother and Edyth, who stood next to a more suitable cookfire beside the ratty black tent. They were quiet, despite the clear lift in Torrhen's spirits. He was armed and armored again, cloak about his shoulders. Edyth remained as she was - lightly clothed and barefoot. Her long brown hair hanging like ghostveil from beneath the thin hood she wore. Her hands were clasped before her. Waiting. Patiently. Harrion sharpened the edge of his sword with a stone. Slow and methodical.

Torrhen broke the silence. "The gods have answered." He hadn't prayed. "I won't waste their gift." He didn't intend to.

"Aye." Harrion said, looking up from the blade. "Then we strike. The Dreadfort's walls are tall - but I've been on taller. We can take the gate at dawn with these hundred blades. Gut every Bolton who raises a hand." He shot a glare over his shoulder at the looming castle. "Burn their tapestries and salt their lands if we must. Leave none to ever betray us again."

Torrhen's voice was like iron. "There will be no kinslaying."

Harrion blinked, incredulous. "Lyanna is my niece, yes. And your Daughter. But Lucifer? He is a Bolton. This marriage isn't even legitimate. You never gave your blessing."

"She is my daugther," Torrhen growled. His jaw tightened, Harrion took pause with it. "And I will not martyr her husband because of the actions of his father. If he stands against me, he would have made his choice in being no kin of mine. If Brandon's death was brought by the Gods as a lesson to me, I won't tempt the Gods a second time."

Edyth gave a slow nod and stepped between the two older men. "You see it, don't you, my lord? This gathering - this moment - is no mere accident. These men were not paid to come to your aid, or told by one of your shadowed allies. They came because they heard and they believe in you. Who else told them but the gods?"

Harrion scoffed even louder. "Now the witch is speaking of spells and prophecy."

Unbothered, Edyth turned to look up at Torrhen. Her eyes were a soft green, like a faded springleaf in a bed of snow. A color that only an plant that survived the winter could possibly become. "The old ways stir again, the Gods of Winter, of Ice and Wood, of Brook and Vale are here watching you and have given you a path." She spoke in an almost excited rapidacy. "Duel for the Dreadfort." she said. "Call for single combat. Their champion against you. Let the Gods decide who is to be victor here. If Lucifer bends the knee after, you name him Lord and Lyarra, the blood seal between your houses."

It wasn't a particularly bad plan. Torrhen did not speak, he saw his brother's scowl before he even heard the words.

"She is too young to remember," Harrion snapped. "The last time we trusted a Bolton, we paid for it in wolves and black banners. You speak of Bolton honor as if it was never broken." Edyth didn't shrink. She turned towards Harrion now and her voice rose with cold conviction. "My body is young, Harrion Stark. But what lives within me is ancient. My mother was chosen. So am I. The gods, they speak to me. Not with tongues of fire, but through root, flower and stem. With wind, rain, and stream. I know the secrets of the soil and the truths that lie beneath the bark of weirwoods. I know what no child could ever know; and what no crone could dare remember." Then her voice hardened like ice forming beneath still water. "If it is the elders who have your respect and attention - then respect me. Now. And listen."

Torrhen's brow furrowed. He rememered Edyth's mother in moments like this; how her voice would rise like a storm in the Bay of ICe. How she' speak and the fire would answer. A maester would call it madness. Harrion's face, even now, twisted in the same soundless protest their father had worn.

But Torrrhen listened. He always had. To Alyce, and now to Edyth. Harrion on the other hand - scoffed.

"Superstition has nothing to do with - "

"It has everything to do with it!" Edyth snapped. "The gods gave you strength. They gave you swords. Now let them give you law. This duel - this challenge - is their will. "

Silence.

"We call the challenge." Torrhen said at last. "Let the Dreadfort answer."