Chapter 6 – Many Wings, Many Words
Three ravens travelled with Artos and his cousins in a little wicker cage on their long ride. The first flew from the Dreadfort, the next from the walls of Karhold and the last, lonely bird took to the air at the Last Hearth. One by one they carried messages to Winterfell. The few short words were near identical and exactly as instructed.
On his return from Barrowton, Benjen was presented with the first two among no fewer than 10 notes delivered by ravens during his absence. From near and far they had come, though in truth almost anywhere was far from Winterfell. Those from his son were on top. Maester Luwin must have decided the order, for it was he who had handed them to the saddle-sore lord. There was the date and then a single sentence – "Shared bread and salt with Lord . . . who well understands what you ask of him" – followed by his son's name, all written in his hand.
The third message from Artos had arrived while he broke his fast several mornings later. He handed the note immediately to Arrana who smiled broadly.
"They will be on the Kings Road by now, travelling south," he told her.
"He says so little," she observed, looking again at the paper.
"Enough," Benjen said. "I had him add the word 'well' if all was indeed well and he did with all three ravens. It was a trifling idea but it gives comfort that their journey was as we had hoped. We will know more when they return."
Arrana's face changed to show the cheeky side that Benjen knew so well.
"Look at my lord husband," she cooed. "Look how he plays his little games with all the guile of a courtier of Kings Landing."
"You may laugh my lady," he replied. "But any guile I have I owe to you."
Her eyes were drawn again to their son's message and a thought struck her.
"Will you let him visit Alys? It would please them both."
"And you. It would please you too."
"And I," she admitted. "You know I do recall my husband promising to do all he can to please me, and he does come from an honourable family, it must be said."
"Well," he began, mocking a pose of deep consideration. "The horses I agreed to buy from Lady Dustin should soon be ready. Perhaps I should send an escort to see that they arrive safely."
"That would be wise husband, very wise."
"Lord Artos will be as accustomed as a Ryswell to the saddle before too long, my lord and lady," a cheerful voice intruded in their moment.
"A good morning to you Rickard," Arrana greeted him warmly, as Benjen acknowledged his presence with his customary nod.
"We may not be Ryswells of the Rills but we Starks do know our way around a horse," he told his future good-son.
"Just as well my lord as we have yours' saddled and the men are ready."
"Then let us not keep them waiting."
They rode through Winter Town and continued south, veering away from the Kings Road and towards the western arm of the White Knife. While his men talked here and there, Benjen preferred to be alone with his thoughts for the most part. Rickard had learned of his ways and let him be.
His daughter's betrothed had impressed Benjen, though it was hard to say what he had expected from him. Older than Robb and Theon, but still somewhat their age, the younger men certainly seemed to hold him with respect. It had only been a matter of days but Rickard had taken well to his first job of training the young lords in fighting on horseback. For hours their horses' hooves had churned a fallow field outside the castle. Straw figures were speared a hundred times over.
On their first day in Winterfell, Desmond had brought to Benjen a guardsman that Ned had sent back. The man told the story of how he and three others had been entrusted with returning Lady, Sansa's direwolf. It was a shock to hear that Ned himself had killed the animal. Even more unsettling was when they learned he had done so on the King's orders. It seemed there had been an ugly row involving Joffrey, Ned's girls and Arya's direwolf. Lady had been ordered killed as some sort of act of retribution to appease the Queen. Benjen asked question after question. Robb chimed in here and there, having heard the story before. But it was Rickard who seemed to make the most sense of it all.
"My lords," he had said. "I think what this tells us is that the Queen . . . She's a cunt."
Benjen had been a little reassured by other messages Luwin had waiting for him. His brother and nieces had arrived safely in Kings Landing. They were grateful for word of Bran, Ned wrote. He said also how he had met a small party of Northerners near Duskendale who were now heading home by the Kings Road. He was relieved to read this – if mostly for the sake of his nephews who missed their mother. There had been another message from Kings Landing about a tourney in honour of the new Hand. That was perhaps a good sign too, though he knew Ned would not have been in favour of the obscene purses on offer.
Swaying gently in the saddle, his mind remained on Ned and he wondered what he would have made of Catelyn and the news she had taken to him in person. Would he be angry with him for his having let her go? There was little use worrying about that, he realised. There was more at stake. Would the finger be pointed for the murder of Jon Arryn and the attempt on Bran's life? "Interesting times were upon them," Wyman Manderly had said. He would prefer they were not.
The sun was directly above them when they reached the village. They brought their horses to a slow walk and continued through the open way among the hovels. Children ran to and thro while women and older men stopped to look.
"Lord Stark," one balding, grey-beard called. "If you're looking for your nephew you will find him beyond those trees. That's where they made their camp. They've been marchin' all morning. Those who aren't with the Ironborn lord, I mean."
Benjen followed the man's outstretched arm and soon spied the drab colours and outlines of tents through holes in the foliage.
"Thank you my good man," he said, giving a respectful nod before beginning to turn his mount.
"M'lord," the man called again. "Are we going to war?"
Benjen studied him and then looked again to the trees he had pointed out. As he moved his eyes from one to the other he knew he had an audience.
"You have kin over there with my nephew?"
"Yes, m'lord, my grandson. His father, my son . . . they say he fell at the Ruby Ford where King Robert won his crown. His mother died when he was born, she did. My grandson is all I have. He's a good boy m'lord."
"I am sure he is," he replied. Then, drawing a great breath and raising his head, he spoke to all who had gathered around.
"When my brother bid me to act as your Lord while he is serving the King, I did not gain sight of what is to come. Only the Old Gods can see our fates, but they know well my prayers.
"If a lord does not prepare for winter then I say to you he is not worthy of his people. And I say too that a lord would be no more worthy if he does not ready for war but merely wishes it never comes.
"Is this not true my good people?"
There were murmurs of agreement and nods.
"Be proud of your men. They are training to be true men of the North like their fathers before them. And fear not, they will be home at your hearths on the morrow."
He looked around the gathering; his words hanging in the air. It was the old man who broke the silence.
"Thank you m'lord," he said. Others joined in, adding kind and respectful words, and Benjen was glad of it, but it was the bold grandfather he cared about most. His heart warmed at having given him a measure of reassurance.
Rickard waited until they were halfway to the tents and out of hearing of those behind.
"That was well spoken my lord," he said delicately.
"My brother always said it is these people who suffer most in war Rickard," Benjen said. "We do well to remember that."
"Yes my lord."
Once through the trees they passed the lines of deserted tents. Now in the open they could see on the ground beyond a single mass of men with spears. A handful of men stood beside their horses, watching from a small rise to the side. On a neighbouring ground a line of men sent arrows at targets a hundred yards or more away.
As they approached a cry went out that brought the spearmen to a stop and Benjen too pulled his horse up. There must have been near half a thousand men standing together in a square, their spears pointing to the sky. At another shouted order every man turned to his right and then the first few ranks of those who now found themselves at the front slowly lowered their points. A further order and they moved forwards, thrusting their weapons at an imaginary enemy with a loud chorus of aggression. That voice cried out again and the men stopped as one, spears were raised and this time their butts were rested on the ground.
The watchers, Benjen realised, had mounted their horses and walked them over to the men who, conveniently, now faced in their direction. In the lead, he could see, was Robb, his direwolf wandering by the side of his horse. His nephew was speaking, but he could not make out the words. Whatever he was saying it was to the point and he was soon done. Abruptly the men began wandering apart or milling about talking. A moment later Robb saw him and made his way over.
"Uncle, we were not expecting you until tomorrow."
"Which is why I am here today," he said wryly. "From what we saw, you seem to be doing well. Have you had any troubles?"
"No, no troubles. Some of the men fought with father against the Ironborn or the Targaryens or both, or so they say. I tell each one I shall look to them to set an example. The younger men seem to be enjoying themselves. I guess it makes a change from what they do every other day."
"So it would, and what of Theon? I trust you have been recording your numbers and what they lack for?"
"Of course uncle, Pate will get his numbers and the smiths from around here will have much work to do. Theon has the archers in hand. I'm told he's hard but fair."
"That's good, and it's good to hear he's earning our coin."
"The girls of the Smoking Log will be pleased to hear of it too," Rickard remarked.
"And what do you know of the girls of the Smoking Log my Lord Rickard?"
"Ah, um, my lord, I have not . . . I would not bring dishonour . . . ," the man stumbled.
"Rather than have you finish that sentence," Benjen interrupted. "I will give you the advice my good brother offered before I was wed to his sister."
A somewhat relieved Rickard nodded, while Robb's smirk never left his face.
"First, do not make a promise you cannot keep; not to anyone, but especially not to your wife. And, second, respect her in your house and to your children."
The younger men continued to look to him, taking in his words and waiting for more.
"That's it," he said. "Well, he had a lot more to say about what would occur if I wronged her, but I would spare you such thoughts. They kept me awake at night for long enough as it was."
"You have my thanks my lord," Rickard said. "I hope . . . I mean to say, I will try to be the man you would have for your daughter."
"Now that was well spoken. Come, my belly grumbles."
"I am Artos Stark, son of Benjen Stark, acting Lord of Winterfell and of the North."
"Ha! The boy speaks," the big, bald man answered. "And a Stark, he says. We'll have your horse, your purse and your sword."
"And then you'll kill me."
Artos was surprised himself when the words came out of his mouth, and with those before him at a loss for what to say, he found the courage to speak again.
"So perhaps not," he said, standing more upright, his hand moving to grasp his sword. "What we'll do instead is have you all throw your weapons over there and then you can lead us back out on to the Kings Road."
"I say we cut his cock off and put it in his mouth," the shorter woman menaced.
The haggard man and the taller woman were speaking too, but Artos was not interested in their words. He was watching, thinking. Noise and time, he thought. He needed enough of a racket to bring the others and the time for them to come. With a deep breath he drew his sword and raised it above his head with both hands in a single motion.
"Sad that you chose to lose your heads," he said, eyes moving from side to side, looking for their reactions to his sudden move.
The taller woman was telling him to lower his sword; promising that he would live if he did. The other woman was speaking again, and so was the big man with the shiny head. But it was the man furthest to his left who drew his attention; his hand was reaching across his shoulder for an axe strapped to his back.
Turning sharply on his heels, Artos ran several steps to his left. Just as suddenly he stopped and turned back, swinging his sword as he did in a wide arc. The man with the axe had moved to give chase, as he had hoped he would, and was now caught in the path of his blade. It was a surprise at how little force he felt when it cut the man's neck. But this was no blunt sword against strong armour. No, blood never sprayed so freely in the yard.
The others were bunched up behind the fallen man and he went toward them. A spear thrust at his head and he parried it away at the very last second, stepping to his right and slashing at the man who was trying to get behind him from that side. This time he felt it more in his hands as his sword tore through ragged clothes and the flesh beneath.
He needed space now so he backed away quickly, trying to work out his next move. He was vaguely aware of the screaming of the man he had gutted and hoped it would soon bring the help he needed.
There were three of them moving wearily towards him. The tall woman was the one with the spear that had nearly sliced his face. She was in the middle and the men in black were on either side, both holding swords. The other woman, he saw, had backed away. The odds against him had halved but he had never felt so threatened.
"You're fucked now boy," the bald man said and Artos did not reply. He could hear the man still moaning behind them and grimaced at the thought of his own death.
Trying to catch his breath, he took up a stance and waited. He readied to dart to one side or the other again, knowing it was his only chance. As if reading his mind the woman with the spear held it back in a crouch, poised to lunge as soon as he moved. The men were closing in; the woman back slightly but keeping pace.
He chose the gaunt man, reasoning he was on the right and that they might think he favoured his left after his initial attack, but knowing the truth that he was simply more fearful of what the big man could do with his heftier sword.
Resolved again to act, he slowly put his weight forward, looking to the left to try to make his adversaries guess wrong. Then his chosen man went down; a familiar white beast atop him. Mid-motion, Artos reacted without thought, whirling around to his left and slashing across the big man's face.
When he stopped he saw in an instant that the man had dropped his sword and was clutching his face, blood streaming between his fingers. His screams almost drowned out the cries of the other man, down on the ground frantically calling for the woman to spear the great wolf that was devouring him. But she was turning her back to them. Barely having paused, Artos thrust his sword into the big man, angling it upwards into his chest and turning his screams into a grunt and a gurgle.
The man's legs collapsed beneath him and Artos looked up just in time to see the smaller woman fall too as a great sword swung down from a horse. In a flurry of hooves, the woman with the spear was knocked to the ground, and the mauled man made no more sound as the wolf kept on gnawing.
The son of Benjen Stark pulled his sword free and walked with a purpose. The woman was on her knees, her back to him and the spear by her side. Someone had dropped from their saddle with a heavy thud and was striding towards them. She was speaking. Artos swung. Her head half bounced, half rolled, before coming to a stop. He looked down to see her lifeless eyes staring back at him.
"Aye the blood of the Umbers runs strong in the lad," Greatjon Umber was saying again as Benjen closed the door behind them.
"You can jape now Jon but the Old Gods would not have saved you if anything had happened to my boy," Arrana fumed. "Where were you?"
Seeing the fearsome man cowering from his wife would ordinarily have amused Benjen no end yet he shared her fears of what could have been, and now was the time to demand answers.
The Greatjon mumbled at first before telling the tale of how his own sword had cleaved one of the wildlings in two. When that failed to impress he added that no one could have expected to come across a party of Night's Watch deserters and wildlings so far south.
"Why have you come to Winterfell, Lord Umber?"
The formal address as much as the question caught his good brother off-guard and he gaped at the two of them before finding his voice again.
"You send your son to my seat to talk of war," he said. "I thought the counsel of a lord who has seen war would be of use to you, Lord Stark."
"And how many men would you counsel my husband to fight alone in the woods?"
"Oh enough sister," the Greatjon thundered. "You would do better to ask the men of your own household where they were than to lay the blame at my feet. And what is all of this? Have you not trained the boy to swing a sword? We should be drinking with the lad, not whining like old women."
The sound of a knock on the solar door brought some relief to the tension in the air.
"Come," an angry Arrana called.
Maester Luwin entered, clearly taken aback and studiously avoiding the glare of the acting lord's wife.
"Lord Stark, a raven," he said, handing the message over.
"Dark wings, dark words," the Greatjon intoned.
"You'll get more than dark words," his sister hissed.
"Catelyn," Benjen said, ending the row. "She's in Riverrun. She bids that we seize the Imp – Tyrion Lannister; says he was behind the attempt on Bran's life."
"My lord, it is surely too late for that," Luwin offered. "He was here a moon past now. Lady Catelyn would be closer to him than we, and he may even be beyond the Riverlands' reach."
"Hmm, and I cannot say if I would do as she asks of us in any case."
Arrana raised her eyebrows inquisitively.
"Think on it: What sense does it make that the Lannister lord would design a saddle for Bran to ride again? Why would he care if he had tried to have the boy killed?"
"I would say guilt, but I didn't see it," she admitted. "You would think that if he had been the one responsible he would have left with the King, not gone north on some jaunt of fancy to the Wall, only to return here and stay not one but two nights."
"No, he did not strike me as a fool," Benjen agreed. "Much the opposite."
"My lord, my lady," Luwin said. "I am sure Lady Catelyn has her reasons to suspect Lord Tyrion."
"Aye and I would never trust a Lannister," the Greatjon joined in. "Or a dwarf."
"Well, we best hope she shared all that she knows with Ned and that my brother can find the truth."
The days passed by and the arrival of a raven or two became almost routine.
Few told of reason for concern but the shadow of war did not abate either. Lords across the North wrote to tell of some minor thing or another, with their messages no doubt motivated more by a wish for news in return. One sent a bird asking for exactly that, and received no reply for he should have known better.
A cryptic message from White Harbour telling Benjen that their deliveries had been successful brought an odd look from Luwin but the maester knew not to ask.
When his good brother had been told of all that had the Starks worried he counselled Benjen to call the banners and to march to stand behind Ned and confront the Lannisters. Arrana had replied that his counsel was best reserved for war because that was all his advice would bring.
After a few late nights in which much ale and wine was consumed, brother and sister had, if not mended recent wounds, allowed them to be forgotten. Besides, it was hard for his wife to remain aggrieved when her son was fit and well.
Benjen had taken the time to talk to Artos of what had occurred in the woods. He was reflective on having sent others to their deaths, but not in what his father judged to be an unhealthy manner. The lad had matured beyond his years, which made him proud but also feel a little guilty for he was at least somewhat responsible.
He had planned to send Artos and Rickard to Barrowton, but Barbrey Dustin had wasted no time in sending the horses he had agreed to buy. Without such an excuse he judged more time needed to pass before he could send them to visit Alys.
Winterfell's stables were full again. The guard stronger than before Ned had left – at least in numbers – and the Greatjon was helping to train those who were new. There was an unfortunate side-effect of his assistance with Luwin being called upon a little too often to treat injuries in the training yard.
Men from Deepwood Motte and Torrhen's Square passed through on their way to Moat Cailin. Those from the Stark lands and from Castle Cerwyn and White Harbour had been there for a time already. Ser Wendel had sent word of his arrival there and of their work. More ravens.
There were few enough from Kings Landing though. Sansa had written once to her mother and brothers. It read almost like some fanciful tale; giving no hint as to what was truly happening in the muck of the capital.
The uncertainty had Benjen doubting himself. He dreamt of Ned returning to Winterfell and laughing at his brother jumping at shadows. He gained reassurance from Arrana, who said it was better to be thought too cautious than to be caught unprepared.
Sometimes, during the day, ravens could be seen arriving at Winterfell. They would fly around before coming to rest in the rookery above the Maester's Turret. Today, none saw the bird come but Luwin, who retrieved the message from its leg.
Benjen was with his son, his nephews and Theon, waiting to watch the Greatjon and Desmond spar with swords. His captain had felled his good brother once and the latter had demanded a rematch, which had drawn the spectators.
The maester's chains clanged together and he panted as he hurried towards them, clutching a note in his outstretched hand, while holding his robe with the other.
"My lord," Luwin said. "A raven. Grave news."
All around him there was quiet. He read it twice. His blood boiled. He felt his heart skip a beat. But he did not hesitate.
"Call the banners."
