GOT Chapters

by Javir

game f thrones in the real world

21. Chapter 21

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

TYRION

The slot in his helm limited Tyrion's vision to what was before him, but when he turned

his head he saw three galleys beached on the tourney grounds, and a fourth, larger than the

others, standing well out into the river, firing barrels of burning pitch from a catapult.

"Wedge," Tyrion commanded as his men streamed out of the sally port. They formed up

in spearhead, with him at the point. Ser Mandon Moore took the place to his right, flames

shimmering against the white enamel of his armor, his dead eyes shining passionlessly

through his helm. He rode a coal-black horse barded all in white, with the pure white shield of

the Kingsguard strapped to his arm. On the left, Tyrion was surprised to see Podrick Payne, a

sword in his hand. "You're too young," he said at once. "Go back."

"I'm your squire, my lord."

Tyrion could spare no time for argument. "With me, then. Stay close." He kicked his

horse into motion.

They rode knee to knee, following the line of the looming walls. Joffrey's standard

streamed crimson and gold from Ser Mandon's staff, stag and lion dancing hoof to paw. They

went from a walk to a trot, wheeling wide around the base of the tower. Arrows darted from

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the city walls while stones spun and tumbled overhead, crashing down blindly onto earth and

water, steel and flesh. Ahead loomed the King's Gate and a surging mob of soldiers wrestling

with a huge ram, a shaft of black oak with an iron head. Archers off the ships surrounded

them, loosing their shafts at whatever defenders showed themselves on the gatehouse walls.

"Lances," Tyrion commanded. He sped to a canter.

The ground was sodden and slippery, equal parts mud and blood. His stallion stumbled

over a corpse, his hooves sliding and churning the earth, and for an instant Tyrion feared his

charge would end with him tumbling from the saddle before he even reached the foe, but

somehow he and his horse both managed to keep their balance. Beneath the gate men were

turning, hurriedly trying to brace for the shock. Tyrion lifted his axe and shouted, "King's

Landing!" Other voices took up the cry, and now the arrowhead flew, a long scream of steel

and silk, pounding hooves and sharp blades kissed by fire.

Ser Mandon dropped the point of his lance at the last possible instant, and drove Joffrey's

banner through the chest of a man in a studded jerkin, lifting him full off his feet before the

shaft snapped. Ahead of Tyrion was a knight whose surcoat showed a fox peering through a

ring of flowers. Florent was his first thought, but helmless ran a close second. He smashed the

man in the face with all the weight of axe and arm and charging horse, taking off half his

head. The shock of impact numbed his shoulder. Shagga would laugh at me, he thought,

riding on.

A spear thudded against his shield. Pod galloped beside him, slashing down at every foe

they passed. Dimly, he heard cheers from the men on the walls. The battering ram crashed

down into the mud, forgotten in an instant as its handlers fled or turned to fight. Tyrion rode

down an archer, opened a spearman from shoulder to armpit, glanced a blow off a swordfishcrested helm. At the ram his big red reared but the black stallion leapt the obstacle smoothly

and Ser Mandon flashed past him, death in snow-white silk. His sword sheared off limbs,

cracked heads, broke shields asunder—though few enough of the enemy had made it across

the river with shields intact.

Tyrion urged his mount over the ram. Their foes were fleeing. He moved his head right

to left and back again, but saw no sign of Podrick Payne. An arrow clattered against his

cheek, missing his eye-slit by an inch. His jolt of fear almost unhorsed him. If I'm to sit here

like a stump, I had as well paint a target on my breastplate.

He spurred his horse back into motion, trotting over and around a scatter of corpses.

Downriver, the Blackwater was jammed with the hulks of burning galleys. Patches of wildfire

still floated atop the water, sending fiery green plumes swirling twenty feet into the air. They

had dispersed the men on the battering ram, but he could see fighting all along the riverfront.

Ser Balon Swann's men, most like, or Lancel's, trying to throw the enemy back into the water

as they swarmed ashore off the burning ships. "We'll ride for the Mud Gate," he commanded.

Ser Mandon shouted, "The Mud Gate!" And they were off again. "King's Landing!" his

men cried raggedly, and "Halfman! Halfman!" He wondered who had taught them that.

Through the steel and padding of his helm, he heard anguished screams, the hungry crackle of

flame, the shuddering of warhorns, and the brazen blast of trumpets. Fire was everywhere.

Gods be good, no wonder the Hound was frightened. It's the flames he fears . . .

A splintering crash rang across the Blackwater as a stone the size of a horse landed

square amidships on one of the galleys. Ours or theirs? Through the roiling smoke, he could

not tell. His wedge was gone; every man was his own battle now. I should have turned back,

he thought, riding on.

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The axe was heavy in his fist. A handful still followed him, the rest dead or fled. He had

to wrestle his stallion to keep his head to the east. The big destrier liked fire no more than

Sandor Clegane had, but the horse was easier to cow.

Men were crawling from the river, men burned and bleeding, coughing up water,

staggering, most dying. He led his troop among them, delivering quicker cleaner deaths to

those strong enough to stand. The war shrank to the size of his eye-slit. Knights twice his size

fled from him, or stood and died. They seemed little things, and fearful. "Lannister!" he

shouted, slaying. His arm was red to the elbow, glistening in the light off the river. When his

horse reared again, he shook his axe at the stars and heard them call out "Halfman! Halfman!"

Tyrion felt drunk.

The battle fever. He had never thought to experience it himself, though Jaime had told

him of it often enough. How time seemed to blur and slow and even stop, how the past and

the future vanished until there was nothing but the instant, how fear fled, and thought fled,

and even your body. "You don't feel your wounds then, or the ache in your back from the

weight of the armor, or the sweat running down into your eyes. You stop feeling, you stop

thinking, you stop being you, there is only the fight, the foe, this man and then the next and

the next and the next, and you know they are afraid and tired but you're not, you're alive, and

death is all around you but their swords move so slowly, you can dance through them

laughing." Battle fever. I am half a man and drunk with slaughter, let them kill me if they can!

They tried. Another spearman ran at him. Tyrion lopped off the head of his spear, then

his hand, then his arm, trotting around him in a circle. An archer, bowless, thrust at him with

an arrow, holding it as if it were a knife. The destrier kicked at the man's thigh to send him

sprawling, and Tyrion barked laughter. He rode past a banner planted in the mud, one of

Stannis's fiery hearts, and chopped the staff in two with a swing of his axe. A knight rose up

from nowhere to hack at his shield with a two-handed greatsword, again and again, until

someone thrust a dagger under his arm. One of Tyrion's men, perhaps. He never saw.

"I yield, ser," a different knight called out, farther down the river. "Yield. Ser knight, I

yield to you. My pledge, here, here." The man lay in a puddle of black water, offering up a

lobstered gauntlet in token of submission. Tyrion had to lean down to take it from him. As he

did, a pot of wildfire burst overhead, spraying green flame. In the sudden stab of light he saw

that the puddle was not black but red. The gauntlet still had the knight's hand in it. He flung it

back. "Yield," the man sobbed hopelessly, helplessly. Tyrion reeled away.

A man-at-arms grabbed the bridle of his horse and thrust at Tyrion's face with a dagger.

He knocked the blade aside and buried the axe in the nape of the man's neck. As he was

wresting it free, a blaze of white appeared at the edge of his vision. Tyrion turned, thinking to

find Ser Mandon Moore beside him again, but this was a different white knight. Ser Balon

Swann wore the same armor, but his horse trappings bore the battling black-and-white swans

of his House. He's more a spotted knight than a white one, Tyrion thought inanely. Every bit

of Ser Balon was spattered with gore and smudged by smoke. He raised his mace to point

downriver. Bits of brain and bone clung to its head. "My lord, look."

Tyrion swung his horse about to peer down the Blackwater. The current still flowed

black and strong beneath, but the surface was a roil of blood and flame. The sky was red and

orange and garish green. "What?" he said. Then he saw.

Steel-clad men-at-arms were clambering off a broken galley that had smashed into a pier.

So many, where are they coming from? Squinting into the smoke and glare, Tyrion followed

them back out into the river. Twenty galleys were jammed together out there, maybe more, it

was hard to count. Their oars were crossed, their hulls locked together with grappling lines,

they were impaled on each other's rams, tangled in webs of fallen rigging. One great hulk

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floated hull-up between two smaller ships. Wrecks, but packed so closely that it was possible

to leap from one deck to the other and so cross the Blackwater.

Hundreds of Stannis Baratheon's boldest were doing just that. Tyrion saw one great fool

of a knight trying to ride across, urging a terrified horse over gunwales and oars, across tilting

decks slick with blood and crackling with green fire. We made them a bloody bridge, he

thought in dismay. Parts of the bridge were sinking and other parts were afire and the whole

thing was creaking and shifting and like to burst asunder at any moment, but that did not seem

to stop them. "Those are brave men," he told Ser Balon in admiration. "Let's go kill them."

He led them through the guttering fires and the soot and ash of the riverfront, pounding

down a long stone quay with his own men and Ser Balon's behind him. Ser Mandon fell in

with them, his shield a ragged ruin. Smoke and cinders swirled through the air, and the foe

broke before their charge, throwing themselves back into the water, knocking over other men

as they fought to climb up. The foot of the bridge was a half-sunken enemy galley with

Dragonsbane painted on her prow, her bottom ripped out by one of the sunken hulks Tyrion

had placed between the quays. A spearman wearing the red crab badge of House Celtigar

drove the point of his weapon up through the chest of Balon Swann's horse before he could

dismount, spilling the knight from the saddle. Tyrion hacked at the man's head as he flashed

by, and by then it was too late to rein up. His stallion leapt from the end of the quay and over

a splintered gunwale, landing with a splash and a scream in ankle-deep water. Tyrion's axe

went spinning, followed by Tyrion himself, and the deck rose up to give him a wet smack.

Madness followed. His horse had broken a leg and was screaming horribly. Somehow he

managed to draw his dagger, and slit the poor creature's throat. The blood gushed out in a

scarlet fountain, drenching his arms and chest. He found his feet again and lurched to the rail,

and then he was fighting, staggering and splashing across crooked decks awash with water.

Men came at him. Some he killed, some he wounded, and some went away, but always there

were more. He lost his knife and gained a broken spear, he could not have said how. He

clutched it and stabbed, shrieking curses. Men ran from him and he ran after them, clambering

up over the rail to the next ship and then the next. His two white shadows were always with

him; Balon Swann and Mandon Moore, beautiful in their pale plate. Surrounded by a circle of

Velaryon spearmen, they fought back to back; they made battle as graceful as a dance.

His own killing was a clumsy thing. He stabbed one man in the kidney when his back

was turned, and grabbed another by the leg and upended him into the river. Arrows hissed

past his head and clattered off his armor; one lodged between shoulder and breastplate, but he

never felt it. A naked man fell from the sky and landed on the deck, body bursting like a

melon dropped from a tower. His blood spattered through the slit of Tyrion's helm. Stones

began to plummet down, crashing through the decks and turning men to pulp, until the whole

bridge gave a shudder and twisted violently underfoot, knocking him sideways.

Suddenly the river was pouring into his helm. He ripped it off and crawled along the

listing deck until the water was only neck-deep. A groaning filled the air, like the death cries

of some enormous beast, The ship, he had time to think, the ship's about to tear loose. The

broken galleys were ripping apart, the bridge breaking apart. No sooner had he come to that

realization than he heard a sudden crack, loud as thunder, the deck lurched beneath him, and

he slid back down into the water.

The list was so steep he had to climb back up, hauling himself along a snapped line inch

by bloody inch. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the hulk they'd been tangled with drifting

downstream with the current, spinning slowly as men leapt over her side. Some wore

Stannis's flaming heart, some Joffrey's stag-and-lion, some other badges, but it seemed to

make no matter. Fires were burning upstream and down. On one side of him was a raging

battle, a great confusion of bright banners waving above a sea of struggling men, shield walls

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forming and breaking, mounted knights cutting through the press, dust and mud and blood

and smoke. On the other side, the Red Keep loomed high on its hill, spitting fire. They were

on the wrong sides, though. For a moment Tyrion thought he was going mad, that Stannis and

the castle had traded places. How could Stannis cross to the north bank? Belatedly he realized

that the deck was turning, and somehow he had gotten spun about, so castle and battle had

changed sides. Battle, what battle, if Stannis hasn't crossed who is he fighting? Tyrion was

too tired to make sense of it. His shoulder ached horribly, and when he reached up to rub it he

saw the arrow, and remembered. I have to get off this ship. Downstream was nothing but a

wall of fire, and if the wreck broke loose the current would take him right into it.

Someone was calling his name faintly through the din of battle. Tyrion tried to shout

back. "Here! Here, I'm here, help me!" His voice sounded so thin he could scarcely hear

himself. He pulled himself up the slanting deck, and grabbed for the rail. The hull slammed

into the next galley over and rebounded so violently he was almost knocked into the water.

Where had all his strength gone? It was all he could do to hang on.

"MY LORD! TAKE MY HAND! MY LORD TYRION!"

There on the deck of the next ship, across a widening gulf of black water, stood Ser

Mandon Moore, a hand extended. Yellow and green fire shone against the white of his armor,

and his lobstered gauntlet was sticky with blood, but Tyrion reached for it all the same,

wishing his arms were longer. It was only at the very last, as their fingers brushed across the

gap, that something niggled at him . . . Ser Mandon was holding out his left hand, why . . .

Was that why he reeled backward, or did he see the sword after all? He would never

know. The point slashed just beneath his eyes, and he felt its cold hard touch and then a blaze

of pain. His head spun around as if he'd been slapped. The shock of the cold water was a

second slap more jolting than the first. He flailed for something to grab on to, knowing that

once he went down he was not like to come back up. Somehow his hand found the splintered

end of a broken oar. Clutching it tight as a desperate lover, he shinnied up foot by foot. His

eyes were full of water, his mouth was full of blood, and his head throbbed horribly. Gods

give me strength to reach the deck . . . There was nothing else, only the oar, the water, the

deck.

Finally he rolled over the side and lay breathless and exhausted, flat on his back. Balls of

green and orange flame crackled overhead, leaving streaks between the stars. He had a

moment to think how pretty it was before Ser Mandon blocked out the view. The knight was a

white steel shadow, his eyes shining darkly behind his helm. Tyrion had no more strength

than a rag doll. Ser Mandon put the point of his sword to the hollow of his throat and curled

both hands around the hilt.

And suddenly he lurched to the left, staggering into the rail. Wood split, and Ser Mandon

Moore vanished with a shout and a splash. An instant later, the hulls came slamming together

again, so hard the deck seemed to jump. Then someone was kneeling over him. "Jaime?" he

croaked, almost choking on the blood that filled his mouth. Who else would save him, if not

his brother?

"Be still, my lord, you're hurt bad." A boy's voice, that makes no sense, thought Tyrion.

It sounded almost like Pod.

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

SANSA

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When Ser Lancel Lannister told the queen that the battle was lost, she turned her empty

wine cup in her hands and said, "Tell my brother, ser." Her voice was distant, as if the news

were of no great interest to her.

"Your brother's likely dead." Ser Lancel's surcoat was soaked with the blood seeping out

under his arm. When he had arrived in the hall, the sight of him had made some of the guests

scream. "He was on the bridge of boats when it broke apart, we think. Ser Mandon's likely

gone as well, and no one can find the Hound. Gods be damned, Cersei, why did you have

them fetch Joffrey back to the castle? The gold cloaks are throwing down their spears and

running, hundreds of them. When they saw the king leaving, they lost all heart. The whole

Blackwater's awash with wrecks and fire and corpses, but we could have held if—"

Osney Kettleblack pushed past him. "There's fighting on both sides of the river now,

Y'Grace. It may be that some of Stannis's lords are fighting each other, no one's sure, it's all

confused over there. The Hound's gone, no one knows where, and Ser Balon's fallen back

inside the city. The riverside's theirs. They're ramming at the King's Gate again, and Ser

Lancel's right, your men are deserting the walls and killing their own officers. There's mobs

at the Iron Gate and the Gate of the Gods fighting to get out, and Flea Bottom's one great

drunken riot."

Gods be good, Sansa thought, it is happening, Joffrey's lost his head and so have I. She

looked for Ser Ilyn, but the King's Justice was not to be seen. I can feel him, though. He's

close, I'll not escape him, he'll have my head.

Strangely calm, the queen turned to his brother Osfryd. "Raise the drawbridge and bar

the doors. No one enters or leaves Maegor's without my leave."

"What about them women who went to pray?"

"They chose to leave my protection. Let them pray; perhaps the gods will defend them.

Where's my son?"

"The castle gatehouse. He wanted to command the crossbowmen. There's a mob howling

outside, half of them gold cloaks who came with him when we left the Mud Gate."

"Bring him inside Maegor's now."

"No!" Lancel was so angry he forgot to keep his voice down. Heads turned toward them

as he shouted, "We'll have the Mud Gate all over again. Let him stay where he is, he's the

king—"

"He's my son." Cersei Lannister rose to her feet. "You claim to be a Lannister as well,

cousin, prove it. Osfryd, why are you standing there? Now means today."

Osfryd Kettleblack hurried from the hall, his brother with him. Many of the guests were

rushing out as well. Some of the women were weeping, some praying. Others simply

remained at the tables and called for more wine. "Cersei," Ser Lancel pleaded, "if we lose the

castle, Joffrey will be killed in any case, you know that. Let him stay, I'll keep him by me, I

swear—"

"Get out of my way." Cersei slammed her open palm into his wound. Ser Lancel cried

out in pain and almost fainted as the queen swept from the room. She spared Sansa not so

much as a glance. She's forgotten me. Ser Ilyn will kill me and she won't even think about it.

"Oh, gods," an old woman wailed. "We're lost, the battle's lost, she's running." Several

children were crying. They can smell the fear. Sansa found herself alone on the dais. Should

she stay here, or run after the queen and plead for her life?

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She never knew why she got to her feet, but she did. "Don't be afraid," she told them

loudly. "The queen has raised the drawbridge. This is the safest place in the city. There's thick

walls, the moat, the spikes . . ."

"What's happened?" demanded a woman she knew slightly, the wife of a lesser lordling.

"What did Osney tell her? Is the king hurt, has the city fallen?"

"Tell us," someone else shouted. One woman asked about her father, another her son.

Sansa raised her hands for quiet. "Joffrey's come back to the castle. He's not hurt.

They're still fighting, that's all I know, they're fighting bravely. The queen will be back

soon." The last was a lie, but she had to soothe them. She noticed the fools standing under the

galley. "Moon Boy, make us laugh."

Moon Boy did a cartwheel, and vaulted on top of a table. He grabbed up four wine cups

and began to juggle them. Every so often one of them would come down and smash him in

the head. A few nervous laughs echoed through the hall. Sansa went to Ser Lancel and knelt

beside him. His wound was bleeding afresh where the queen had struck him. "Madness," he

gasped. "Gods, the Imp was right, was right . . ."

"Help him," Sansa commanded two of the serving men. One just looked at her and ran,

flagon and all. Other servants were leaving the hall as well, but she could not help that.

Together, Sansa and the serving man got the wounded knight back on his feet. "Take him to

Maester Frenken." Lancel was one of them, yet somehow she still could not bring herself to

wish him dead. I am soft and weak and stupid, just as Joffrey says. I should be killing him, not

helping him.

The torches had begun to burn low, and one or two had flickered out. No one troubled to

replace them. Cersei did not return. Ser Dontos climbed the dais while all eyes were on the

other fool. "Go back to your bedchamber, sweet Jonquil," he whispered. "Lock yourself in,

you'll be safer there. I'll come for you when the battle's done."

Someone will come for me, Sansa thought, but will it be you, or will it be Ser Ilyn? For a

mad moment she thought of begging Dontos to defend her. He had been a knight too, trained

with the sword and sworn to defend the weak. No. He has not the courage, or the skill. I

would only be killing him as well.

It took all the strength she had in her to walk slowly from the Queen's Ballroom when

she wanted so badly to run. When she reached the steps, she did run, up and around until she

was breathless and dizzy. One of the guards knocked into her on the stair. A jeweled wine cup

and a pair of silver candlesticks spilled out of the crimson cloak he'd wrapped them in and

went clattering down the steps. He hurried after them, paying Sansa no mind once he decided

she was not going to try and take his loot.

Her bedchamber was black as pitch. Sansa barred the door and fumbled through the dark

to the window. When she ripped back the drapes, her breath caught in her throat.

The southern sky was aswirl with glowing, shifting colors, the reflections of the great

fires that burned below. Baleful green tides moved against the bellies of the clouds, and pools

of orange light spread out across the heavens. The reds and yellows of common flame warred

against the emeralds and jades of wildfire, each color flaring and then fading, birthing armies

of short-lived shadows to die again an instant later. Green dawns gave way to orange dusks in

half a heartbeat. The air itself smelled burnt, the way a soup kettle sometimes smelled if it

was left on the fire too long and all the soup boiled away. Embers drifted through the night air

like swarms of fireflies.

Sansa backed away from the window, retreating toward the safety of her bed. I'll go to

sleep, she told herself, and when I wake it will be a new day, and the sky will be blue again.

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The fighting will be done and someone will tell me whether I'm to live or die. "Lady," she

whimpered softly, wondering if she would meet her wolf again when she was dead.

Then something stirred behind her, and a hand reached out of the dark and grabbed her

wrist.

Sansa opened her mouth to scream, but another hand clamped down over her face,

smothering her. His fingers were rough and callused, and sticky with blood. "Little bird. I

knew you'd come." The voice was a drunken rasp.

Outside, a swirling lance of jade light spit at the stars, filling the room with green glare.

She saw him for a moment, all black and green, the blood on his face dark as tar, his eyes

glowing like a dog's in the sudden glare. Then the light faded and he was only a hulking

darkness in a stained white cloak.

"If you scream I'll kill you. Believe that." He took his hand from her mouth. Her breath

was coming ragged. The Hound had a flagon of wine on her bedside table. He took a long

pull. "Don't you want to ask who's winning the battle, little bird?"

"Who?" she said, too frightened to defy him.

The Hound laughed. "I only know who's lost. Me."

He is drunker than I've ever seen him. He was sleeping in my bed. What does he want

here? "What have you lost?"

"All." The burnt half of his face was a mask of dried blood. "Bloody dwarf. Should have

killed him. Years ago."

"He's dead, they say."

"Dead? No. Bugger that. I don't want him dead." He cast the empty flagon aside. "I want

him burned. If the gods are good, they'll burn him, but I won't be here to see. I'm going."

"Going?" She tried to wriggle free, but his grasp was iron.

"The little bird repeats whatever she hears. Going, yes."

"Where will you go?"

"Away from here. Away from the fires. Go out the Iron Gate, I suppose. North

somewhere, anywhere."

"You won't get out," Sansa said. "The queen's closed up Maegor's, and the city gates are

shut as well."

"Not to me. I have the white cloak. And I have this." He patted the pommel of his sword.

"The man who tries to stop me is a dead man. Unless he's on fire." He laughed bitterly.

"Why did you come here?"

"You promised me a song, little bird. Have you forgotten?"

She didn't know what he meant. She couldn't sing for him now, here, with the sky aswirl

with fire and men dying in their hundreds and their thousands. "I can't," she said. "Let me go,

you're scaring me."

"Everything scares you. Look at me. Look at me."

The blood masked the worst of his scars, but his eyes were white and wide and terrifying.

The burnt corner of his mouth twitched and twitched again. Sansa could smell him; a stink of

sweat and sour wine and stale vomit, and over it all the reek of blood, blood, blood.

"I could keep you safe," he rasped. "They're all afraid of me. No one would hurt you

again, or I'd kill them." He yanked her closer, and for a moment she thought he meant to kiss

her. He was too strong to fight. She closed her eyes, wanting it to be over, but nothing

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happened. "Still can't bear to look, can you?" she heard him say. He gave her arm a hard

wrench, pulling her around and shoving her down onto the bed. "I'll have that song. Florian

and Jonquil, you said." His dagger was out, poised at her throat. "Sing, little bird. Sing for

your little life."

Her throat was dry and tight with fear, and every song she had ever known had fled from

her mind. Please don't kill me, she wanted to scream, please don't. She could feel him

twisting the point, pushing it into her throat, and she almost closed her eyes again, but then

she remembered. It was not the song of Florian and Jonquil, but it was a song. Her voice

sounded small and thin and tremulous in her ears.

Gentle Mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war, we pray, stay the swords and stay

the arrows, let them know a better day.

Gentle Mother, strength of women, help our daughters through this fray, soothe the

wrath and tame the fury, teach us all a kinder way.

She had forgotten the other verses. When her voice trailed off, she feared he might kill

her, but after a moment the Hound took the blade from her throat, never speaking.

Some instinct made her lift her hand and cup his cheek with her fingers. The room was

too dark for her to see him, but she could feel the stickiness of the blood, and a wetness that

was not blood. "Little bird," he said once more, his voice raw and harsh as steel on stone.

Then he rose from the bed. Sansa heard cloth ripping, followed by the softer sound of

retreating footsteps.

When she crawled out of bed, long moments later, she was alone. She found his cloak on

the floor, twisted up tight, the white wool stained by blood and fire. The sky outside was

darker by then, with only a few pale green ghosts dancing against the stars. A chill wind was

blowing, banging the shutters. Sansa was cold. She shook out the torn cloak and huddled

beneath it on the floor, shivering.

How long she stayed there she could not have said, but after a time she heard a bell

ringing, far off across the city. The sound was a deep-throated bronze booming, coming faster

with each knell. Sansa was wondering what it might mean when a second bell joined in, and a

third, their voices calling across the hills and hollows, the alleys and towers, to every corner

of King's Landing. She threw off the cloak and went to her window.

The first faint hint of dawn was visible in the east, and the Red Keep's own bells were

ringing now, joining in the swelling river of sound that flowed from the seven crystal towers

of the Great Sept of Baelor. They had rung the bells when King Robert died, she remembered,

but this was different, no slow dolorous death knell but a joyful thunder. She could hear men

shouting in the streets as well, and something that could only be cheers.

It was Ser Dontos who brought her the word. He staggered through her open door,

wrapped her in his flabby arms, and whirled her around and around the room, whooping so

incoherently that Sansa understood not a word of it. He was as drunk as the Hound had been,

but in him it was a dancing happy drunk. She was breathless and dizzy when he let her down.

"What is it?" She clutched at a bedpost. "What's happened? Tell me!"

"It's done! Done! Done! The city is saved. Lord Stannis is dead, Lord Stannis is fled, no

one knows, no one cares, his host is broken, the danger's done. Slaughtered, scattered, or gone

over, they say. Oh, the bright banners! The banners, Jonquil, the banners! Do you have any

wine? We ought to drink to this day, yes. It means you're safe, don't you see?"

"Tell me what's happened!" Sansa shook him.

Ser Dontos laughed and hopped from one leg to the other, almost falling. "They came up

through the ashes while the river was burning. The river, Stannis was neck-deep in the river,

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and they took him from the rear. Oh, to be a knight again, to have been part of it! His own

men hardly fought, they say. Some ran but more bent the knee and went over, shouting for

Lord Renly! What must Stannis have thought when he heard that? I had it from Osney

Kettleblack who had it from Ser Osmund, but Ser Balon's back now and his men say the

same, and the gold cloaks as well. We're delivered, sweetling! They came up the roseroad and

along the riverbank, through all the fields Stannis had burned, the ashes puffing up around

their boots and turning all their armor grey, but oh! the banners must have been bright, the

golden rose and golden lion and all the others, the Marbrand tree and the Rowan, Tarly's

huntsman and Redwyne's grapes and Lady Oakheart's leaf. All the westermen, all the power

of Highgarden and Casterly Rock! Lord Tywin himself had their right wing on the north side

of the river, with Randyll Tarly commanding the center and Mace Tyrell the left, but the

vanguard won the fight. They plunged through Stannis like a lance through a pumpkin, every

man of them howling like some demon in steel. And do you know who led the vanguard? Do

you? Do you? Do you?"

"Robb?" It was too much to be hoped, but . . .

"It was Lord Renly! Lord Renly in his green armor, with the fires shimmering off his

golden antlers! Lord Renly with his tall spear in his hand! They say he killed Ser Guyard

Morrigen himself in single combat, and a dozen other great knights as well. It was Renly, it

was Renly, it was Renly! Oh! the banners, darling Sansa! Oh! to be a knight!"

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

DAENERYS

She was breaking her fast on a bowl of cold shrimp-and-persimmon soup when Irri

brought her a Qartheen gown, an airy confection of ivory samite patterned with seed pearls.

"Take it away," Dany said. "The docks are no place for lady's finery."

If the Milk Men thought her such a savage, she would dress the part for them. When she

went to the stables, she wore faded sandsilk pants and woven grass sandals. Her small breasts

moved freely beneath a painted Dothraki vest, and a curved dagger hung from her medallion

belt. Jhiqui had braided her hair Dothraki-fashion, and fastened a silver bell to the end of the

braid. "I have won no victories," she tried telling her handmaid when the bell tinkled softly.

Jhiqui disagreed. "You burned the maegi in their house of dust and sent their souls to

hell."

That was Drogon's victory, not mine, Dany wanted to say, but she held her tongue. The

Dothraki would esteem her all the more for a few bells in her hair. She chimed as she

mounted her silver mare, and again with every stride, but neither Ser Jorah nor her bloodriders

made mention of it. To guard her people and her dragons in her absence, she chose Rakharo.

Jhogo and Aggo would ride with her to the waterfront.

They left the marble palaces and fragrant gardens behind and made their way through a

poorer part of the city where modest brick houses turned blind walls to the street. There were

fewer horses and camels to be seen, and a dearth of palanquins, but the streets teemed with

children, beggars, and skinny dogs the color of sand. Pale men in dusty linen skirts stood

beneath arched doorways to watch them pass. They know who I am, and they do not love me.

Dany could tell from the way they looked at her.

Ser Jorah would sooner have tucked her inside her palanquin, safely hidden behind silken

curtains, but she refused him. She had reclined too long on satin cushions, letting oxen bear

her hither and yon. At least when she rode she felt as though she was getting somewhere.

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It was not by choice that she sought the waterfront. She was fleeing again. Her whole life

had been one long flight, it seemed. She had begun running in her mother's womb, and never

once stopped. How often had she and Viserys stolen away in the black of night, a bare step

ahead of the Usurper's hired knives? But it was run or die. Xaro had learned that Pyat Pree

was gathering the surviving warlocks together to work ill on her.

Dany had laughed when he told her. "Was it not you who told me warlocks were no more

than old soldiers, vainly boasting of forgotten deeds and lost prowess?"

Xaro looked troubled. "And so it was, then. But now? I am less certain. It is said that the

glass candles are burning in the house of Urrathon Night-Walker, that have not burned in a

hundred years. Ghost grass grows in the Garden of Gehane, phantom tortoises have been seen

carrying messages between the windowless houses on Warlock's Way, and all the rats in the

city are chewing off their tails. The wife of Mathos Mallarawan, who once mocked a

warlock's drab moth-eaten robe, has gone mad and will wear no clothes at all. Even freshwashed silks make her feel as though a thousand insects were crawling on her skin. And Blind

Sybassion the Eater of Eyes can see again, or so his slaves do swear. A man must wonder."

He sighed. "These are strange times in Qarth. And strange times are bad for trade. It grieves

me to say so, yet it might be best if you left Qarth entirely, and sooner rather than later." Xaro

stroked her fingers reassuringly. "You need not go alone, though. You have seen dark visions

in the Palace of Dust, but Xaro has dreamed brighter dreams. I see you happily abed, with our

child at your breast. Sail with me around the Jade Sea, and we can yet make it so! It is not too

late. Give me a son, my sweet song of joy!"

Give you a dragon, you mean. "I will not wed you, Xaro."

His face had grown cold at that. "Then go."

"But where?"

"Somewhere far from here."

Well, perhaps it was time. The people of her khalasar had welcomed the chance to

recover from the ravages of the red waste, but now that they were plump and rested once

again, they began to grow unruly. Dothraki were not accustomed to staying long in one place.

They were a warrior people, not made for cities. Perhaps she had lingered in Qarth too long,

seduced by its comforts and its beauties. It was a city that always promised more than it

would give you, it seemed to her, and her welcome here had turned sour since the House of

the Undying had collapsed in a great gout of smoke and flame. Overnight the Qartheen had

come to remember that dragons were dangerous. No longer did they vie with each other to

give her gifts. Instead the Tourmaline Brotherhood had called openly for her expulsion, and

the Ancient Guild of Spicers for her death. It was all Xaro could do to keep the Thirteen from

joining them.

But where am I to go? Ser Jorah proposed that they journey farther east, away from her

enemies in the Seven Kingdoms. Her bloodriders would sooner have returned to their great

grass sea, even if it meant braving the red waste again. Dany herself had toyed with the idea

of settling in Vaes Tolorro until her dragons grew great and strong. But her heart was full of

doubts. Each of these felt wrong, somehow . . . and even when she decided where to go, the

question of how she would get there remained troublesome.

Xaro Xhoan Daxos would be no help to her, she knew that now. For all his professions of

devotion, he was playing his own game, not unlike Pyat Pree. The night he asked her to leave,

Dany had begged one last favor of him. "An army, is it?" Xaro asked. "A kettle of gold? A

galley, perhaps?"

Dany blushed. She hated begging. "A ship, yes."

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Xaro's eyes had glittered as brightly as the jewels in his nose. "I am a trader, Khaleesi.

So perhaps we should speak no more of giving, but rather of trade. For one of your dragons,

you shall have ten of the finest ships in my fleet. You need only say that one sweet word."

"No," she said.

"Alas," Xaro sobbed, "that was not the word I meant."

"Would you ask a mother to sell one of her children?"

"Whyever not? They can always make more. Mothers sell their children every day."

"Not the Mother of Dragons."

"Not even for twenty ships?"

"Not for a hundred."

His mouth curled downward. "I do not have a hundred. But you have three dragons.

Grant me one, for all my kindnesses. You will still have two and thirty ships as well."

Thirty ships would be enough to land a small army on the shore of Westeros. But I do not

have a small army. "How many ships do you own, Xaro?"

"Eighty-three, if one does not count my pleasure barge."

"And your colleagues in the Thirteen?"

"Among us all, perhaps a thousand."

"And the Spicers and the Tourmaline Brotherhood?"

"Their trifling fleets are of no account."

"Even so," she said, "tell me."

"Twelve or thirteen hundred for the Spicers. No more than eight hundred for the

Brotherhood."

"And the Asshai'i, the Braavosi, the Summer Islanders, the Ibbenese, and all the other

peoples who sail the great salt sea, how many ships do they have? All together?"

"Many and more," he said irritably. "What does this matter?"

"I am trying to set a price on one of the three living dragons in the world." Dany smiled

at him sweetly. "It seems to me that one-third of all the ships in the world would be fair."

Xaro's tears ran down his cheeks on either side of his jewel-encrusted nose. "Did I not

warn you not to enter the Palace of Dust? This is the very thing I feared. The whispers of the

warlocks have made you as mad as Mallarawan's wife. A third of all the ships in the world?

Pah. Pah, I say. Pah."

Dany had not seen him since. His seneschal brought her messages, each cooler than the

last. She must quit his house. He was done feeding her and her people. He demanded the

return of his gifts, which she had accepted in bad faith. Her only consolation was that at least

she'd had the great good sense not to marry him.

The warlocks whispered of three treasons . . . once for blood and once for gold and once

for love. The first traitor was surely Mirri Maz Duur, who had murdered Khal Drogo and their

unborn son to avenge her people. Could Pyat Pree and Xaro Xhoan Daxos be the second and

the third? She did not think so. What Pyat did was not for gold, and Xaro had never truly

loved her.

The streets grew emptier as they passed through a district given over to gloomy stone

warehouses. Aggo went before her and Jhogo behind, leaving Ser Jorah Mormont at her side.

Her bell rang softly, and Dany found her thoughts returning to the Palace of Dust once more,

as the tongue returns to a space left by a missing tooth. Child of three, they had called her,

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daughter of death, slayer of lies, bride of fire. So many threes. Three fires, three mounts to

ride, three treasons. "The dragon has three heads," she sighed. "Do you know what that

means, Jorah?"

"Your Grace? The sigil of House Targaryen is a three-headed dragon, red on black."

"I know that. But there are no three-headed dragons."

"The three heads were Aegon and his sisters."

"Visenya and Rhaenys," she recalled. "I am descended from Aegon and Rhaenys through

their son Aenys and their grandson Jaehaerys."

"Blue lips speak only lies, isn't that what Xaro told you? Why do you care what the

warlocks whispered? All they wanted was to suck the life from you, you know that now."

"Perhaps," she said reluctantly. "Yet the things I saw . . ."

"A dead man in the prow of a ship, a blue rose, a banquet of blood . . . what does any of

it mean, Khaleesi? A mummer's dragon, you said. What is a mummer's dragon, pray?"

"A cloth dragon on poles," Dany explained. "Mummers use them in their follies, to give

the heroes something to fight."

Ser Jorah frowned.

Dany could not let it go. "His is the song of ice and fire, my brother said. I'm certain it

was my brother. Not Viserys, Rhaegar. He had a harp with silver strings."

Ser Jorah's frown deepened until his eyebrows came together. "Prince Rhaegar played

such a harp," he conceded. "You saw him?"

She nodded. "There was a woman in a bed with a babe at her breast. My brother said the

babe was the prince that was promised and told her to name him Aegon."

"Prince Aegon was Rhaegar's heir by Elia of Dorne," Ser Jorah said. "But if he was this

prince that was promised, the promise was broken along with his skull when the Lannisters

dashed his head against a wall."

"I remember," Dany said sadly. "They murdered Rhaegar's daughter as well, the little

princess. Rhaenys, she was named, like Aegon's sister. There was no Visenya, but he said the

dragon has three heads. What is the song of ice and fire?"

"It's no song I've ever heard."

"I went to the warlocks hoping for answers, but instead they've left me with a hundred

new questions."

By then there were people in the streets once more. "Make way," Aggo shouted, while

Jhogo sniffed at the air suspiciously. "I smell it, Khaleesi," he called. "The poison water." The

Dothraki distrusted the sea and all that moved upon it. Water that a horse could not drink was

water they wanted no part of. They will learn, Dany resolved. I braved their sea with Khal

Drogo. Now they can brave mine.

Qarth was one of the world's great ports, its great sheltered harbor a riot of color and

clangor and strange smells. Winesinks, warehouses, and gaming dens lined the streets, cheek

by jowl with cheap brothels and the temples of peculiar gods. Cutpurses, cutthroats,

spellsellers, and moneychangers mingled with every crowd. The waterfront was one great

marketplace where the buying and selling went on all day and all night, and goods might be

had for a fraction of what they cost at the bazaar, if a man did not ask where they came from.

Wizened old women bent like hunchbacks sold flavored waters and goat's milk from glazed

ceramic jugs strapped to their shoulders. Seamen from half a hundred nations wandered

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amongst the stalls, drinking spiced liquors and trading jokes in queer-sounding tongues. The

air smelled of salt and frying fish, of hot tar and honey, of incense and oil and sperm.

Aggo gave an urchin a copper for a skewer of honey-roasted mice and nibbled them as he

rode. Jhogo bought a handful of fat white cherries. Elsewhere they saw beautiful bronze

daggers for sale, dried squids and carved onyx, a potent magical elixir made of virgin's milk

and shade of the evening, even dragon's eggs which looked suspiciously like painted rocks.

As they passed the long stone quays reserved for the ships of the Thirteen, she saw chests

of saffron, frankincense, and pepper being off-loaded from Xaro's ornate Vermillion Kiss.

Beside her, casks of wine, bales of sourleaf, and pallets of striped hides were being trundled

up the gangplank onto the Bride in Azure, to sail on the evening tide. Farther along, a crowd

had gathered around the Spicer galley Sunblaze to bid on slaves. It was well known that the

cheapest place to buy a slave was right off the ship, and the banners floating from her masts

proclaimed that the Sunblaze had just arrived from Astapor on Slaver's Bay.

Dany would get no help from the Thirteen, the Tourmaline Brotherhood, or the Ancient

Guild of Spicers. She rode her silver past several miles of their quays, docks, and storehouses,

all the way out to the far end of the horseshoe-shaped harbor where the ships from the

Summer Islands, Westeros, and the Nine Free Cities were permitted to dock.

She dismounted beside a gaming pit where a basilisk was tearing a big red dog to pieces

amidst a shouting ring of sailors. "Aggo, Jhogo, you will guard the horses while Ser Jorah and

I speak to the captains."

"As you say, Khaleesi. We will watch you as you go."

It was good to hear men speaking Valyrian once more, and even the Common Tongue,

Dany thought as they approached the first ship. Sailors, dockworkers, and merchants alike

gave way before her, not knowing what to make of this slim young girl with silver-gold hair

who dressed in the Dothraki fashion and walked with a knight at her side. Despite the heat of

the day, Ser Jorah wore his green wool surcoat over chain-mail, the black bear of Mormont

sewn on his chest.

But neither her beauty nor his size and strength would serve with the men whose ships

they needed.

"You require passage for a hundred Dothraki, all their horses, yourself and this knight,

and three dragons?" said the captain of the great cog Ardent Friend before he walked away

laughing. When she told a Lyseni on the Trumpeteer that she was Daenerys Stormborn,

Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, he gave her a deadface look and said, "Aye, and I'm Lord

Tywin Lannister and shit gold every night." The cargomaster of the Myrish galley Silken

Spirit opined that dragons were too dangerous at sea, where any stray breath of flame might

set the rigging afire. The owner of Lord Faro's Belly would risk dragons, but not Dothraki.

"I'll have no such godless savages in my Belly, I'll not." The two brothers who captained the

sister ships Quicksilver and Greyhound seemed sympathetic and invited them into the cabin

for a glass of Arbor red. They were so courteous that Dany was hopeful for a time, but in the

end the price they asked was far beyond her means, and might have been beyond Xaro's.

Pinchbottom Petto and Sloe-Eyed Maid were too small for her needs, Bravo was bound for

the Jade Sea, and Magister Manolo scarce looked seaworthy.

As they made their way toward the next quay, Ser Jorah laid a hand against the small of

her back. "Your Grace. You are being followed. No, do not turn." He guided her gently

toward a brass-seller's booth. "This is a noble work, my queen," he proclaimed loudly, lifting

a large platter for her inspection. "See how it shines in the sun?"

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The brass was polished to a high sheen. Dany could see her face in it . . . and when Ser

Jorah angled it to the right, she could see behind her. "I see a fat brown man and an older man

with a staff. Which is it?"

"Both of them," Ser Jorah said. "They have been following us since we left Quicksilver."

The ripples in the brass stretched the strangers queerly, making one man seem long and

gaunt, the other immensely squat and broad. "A most excellent brass, great lady," the

merchant exclaimed. "Bright as the sun! And for the Mother of Dragons, only thirty honors."

The platter was worth no more than three. "Where are my guards?" Dany declared. "This

man is trying to rob me!" For Jorah, she lowered her voice and spoke in the Common Tongue.

"They may not mean me ill. Men have looked at women since time began, perhaps it is no

more than that."

The brass-seller ignored their whispers. "Thirty? Did I say thirty? Such a fool I am. The

price is twenty honors."

"All the brass in this booth is not worth twenty honors," Dany told him as she studied the

reflections. The old man had the look of Westeros about him, and the brown-skinned one

must weigh twenty stone. The Usurper offered a lordship to the man who kills me, and these

two are far from home. Or could they be creatures of the warlocks, meant to take me

unawares?

"Ten, Khaleesi, because you are so lovely. Use it for a looking glass. Only brass this fine

could capture such beauty."

"It might serve to carry nightsoil. If you threw it away, I might pick it up, so long as I did

not need to stoop. But pay for it?" Dany shoved the platter back into his hands. "Worms have

crawled up your nose and eaten your wits."

"Eight honors," he cried. "My wives will beat me and call me fool, but I am a helpless

child in your hands. Come, eight, that is less than it is worth."

"What do I need with dull brass when Xaro Xhoan Daxos feeds me off plates of gold?"

As she turned to walk off, Dany let her glance sweep over the strangers. The brown man was

near as wide as he'd looked in the platter, with a gleaming bald head and the smooth cheeks

of a eunuch. A long curving arakh was thrust through the sweat-stained yellow silk of his

bellyband. Above the silk, he was naked but for an absurdly tiny iron-studded vest. Old scars

crisscrossed his tree-trunk arms, huge chest, and massive belly, pale against his nut-brown

skin.

The other man wore a traveler's cloak of undyed wool, the hood thrown back. Long

white hair fell to his shoulders, and a silky white beard covered the lower half of his face. He

leaned his weight on a hardwood staff as tall as he was. Only fools would stare so openly if

they meant me harm. All the same, it might be prudent to head back toward Jhogo and Aggo.

"The old man does not wear a sword," she said to Jorah in the Common Tongue as she drew

him away.

The brass merchant came hopping after them. "Five honors, for five it is yours, it was

meant for you."

Ser Jorah said, "A hardwood staff can crack a skull as well as any mace."

"Four! I know you want it!" He danced in front of them, scampering backward as he

thrust the platter at their faces.

"Do they follow?"

"Lift that up a little higher," the knight told the merchant. "Yes. The old man pretends to

linger at a potter's stall, but the brown one has eyes only for you."

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"Two honors! Two! Two!" The merchant was panting heavily from the effort of running

backward.

"Pay him before he kills himself," Dany told Ser Jorah, wondering what she was going to

do with a huge brass platter. She turned back as he reached for his coins, intending to put an

end to this mummer's farce. The blood of the dragon would not be herded through the bazaar

by an old man and a fat eunuch.

A Qartheen stepped into her path. "Mother of Dragons, for you." He knelt and thrust a

jewel box into her face.

Dany took it almost by reflex. The box was carved wood, its mother-of-pearl lid inlaid

with jasper and chalcedony. "You are too generous." She opened it. Within was a glittering

green scarab carved from onyx and emerald. Beautiful, she thought. This will help pay for our

passage. As she reached inside the box, the man said, "I am so sorry," but she hardly heard.

The scarab unfolded with a hiss.

Dany caught a glimpse of a malign black face, almost human, and an arched tail dripping

venom . . . and then the box flew from her hand in pieces, turning end over end. Sudden pain

twisted her fingers. As she cried out and clutched her hand, the brass merchant let out a

shriek, a woman screamed, and suddenly the Qartheen were shouting and pushing each other

aside. Ser Jorah slammed past her, and Dany stumbled to one knee. She heard the hiss again.

The old man drove the butt of his staff into the ground, Aggo came riding through an

eggseller's stall and vaulted from his saddle, Jhogo's whip cracked overhead, Ser Jorah

slammed the eunuch over the head with the brass platter, sailors and whores and merchants

were fleeing or shouting or both . . .

"Your Grace, a thousand pardons." The old man knelt. "It's dead. Did I break your

hand?"

She closed her fingers, wincing. "I don't think so."

"I had to knock it away," he started, but her bloodriders were on him before he could

finish.

Aggo kicked his staff away and Jhogo seized him round the shoulders, forced him to his

knees, and pressed a dagger to his throat. "Khaleesi, we saw him strike you. Would you see

the color of his blood?"

"Release him." Dany climbed to her feet. "Look at the bottom of his staff, blood of my

blood." Ser Jorah had been shoved off his feet by the eunuch. She ran between them as arakh

and longsword both came flashing from their sheaths. "Put down your steel! Stop it!"

"Your Grace?" Mormont lowered his sword only an inch. "These men attacked you."

"They were defending me." Dany snapped her hand to shake the sting from her fingers.

"It was the other one, the Qartheen." When she looked around he was gone. "He was a

Sorrowful Man. There was a manticore in that jewel box he gave me. This man knocked it out

of my hand." The brass merchant was still rolling on the ground. She went to him and helped

him to his feet. "Were you stung?"

"No, good lady," he said, shaking, "or else I would be dead. But it touched me, aieeee,

when it fell from the box it landed on my arm." He had soiled himself, she saw, and no

wonder.

She gave him a silver for his trouble and sent him on his way before she turned back to

the old man with the white beard. "Who is it that I owe my life to?"

"You owe me nothing, Your Grace. I am called Arstan, though Belwas named me

Whitebeard on the voyage here." Though Jhogo had released him the old man remained on

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one knee. Aggo picked up his staff, turned it over, cursed softly in Dothraki, scraped the

remains of the manticore off on a stone, and handed it back.

"And who is Belwas?" she asked.

The huge brown eunuch swaggered forward, sheathing his arakh. "I am Belwas. Strong

Belwas they name me in the fighting pits of Meereen. Never did I lose." He slapped his belly,

covered with scars. "I let each man cut me once, before I kill him. Count the cuts and you will

know how many Strong Belwas has slain."

Dany had no need to count his scars; there were many, she could see at a glance. "And

why are you here, Strong Belwas?"

"From Meereen I am sold to Qohor, and then to Pentos and the fat man with sweet stink

in his hair. He it was who send Strong Belwas back across the sea, and old Whitebeard to

serve him."

The fat man with sweet stink in his hair . . . "Illyrio?" she said. "You were sent by

Magister Illyrio?"

"We were, Your Grace," old Whitebeard replied. "The Magister begs your kind

indulgence for sending us in his stead, but he cannot sit a horse as he did in his youth, and sea

travel upsets his digestion." Earlier he had spoken in the Valyrian of the Free Cities, but now

he changed to the Common Tongue. "I regret if we caused you alarm. If truth be told, we

were not certain, we expected someone more . . . more . . ."

"Regal?" Dany laughed. She had no dragon with her, and her raiment was hardly

queenly. "You speak the Common Tongue well, Arstan. Are you of Westeros?"

"I am. I was born on the Dornish Marches, Your Grace. As a boy I squired for a knight of

Lord Swann's household." He held the tall staff upright beside him like a lance in need of a

banner. "Now I squire for Belwas."

"A bit old for such, aren't you?" Ser Jorah had shouldered his way to her side, holding

the brass platter awkwardly under his arm. Belwas's hard head had left it badly bent.

"Not too old to serve my liege, Lord Mormont."

"You know me as well?"

"I saw you fight a time or two. At Lannisport where you near unhorsed the Kingslayer.

And on Pyke, there as well. You do not recall, Lord Mormont?"

Ser Jorah frowned. "Your face seems familiar, but there were hundreds at Lannisport and

thousands on Pyke. And I am no lord. Bear Island was taken from me. I am but a knight."

"A knight of my Queensguard." Dany took his arm. "And my true friend and good

counselor." She studied Arstan's face. He had a great dignity to him, a quiet strength she

liked. "Rise, Arstan Whitebeard. Be welcome, Strong Belwas. Ser Jorah you know. Ko Aggo

and Ko Jhogo are blood of my blood. They crossed the red waste with me, and saw my

dragons born."

"Horse boys." Belwas grinned toothily. "Belwas has killed many horse boys in the

fighting pits. They jingle when they die."

Aggo's arakh leapt to his hand. "Never have I killed a fat brown man. Belwas will be the

first."

"Sheath your steel, blood of my blood," said Dany, "this man comes to serve me.

Belwas, you will accord all respect to my people, or you will leave my service sooner than

you'd wish, and with more scars than when you came."

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The gap-toothed smile faded from the giant's broad brown face, replaced by a confused

scowl. Men did not often threaten Belwas, it would seem, and less so girls a third his size.

Dany gave him a smile, to take a bit of the sting from the rebuke. "Now tell me, what

would Magister Illyrio have of me, that he would send you all the way from Pentos?"

"He would have dragons," said Belwas gruffly, "and the girl who makes them. He would

have you."

"Belwas has the truth of us, Your Grace," said Arstan. "We were told to find you and

bring you back to Pentos. The Seven Kingdoms have need of you. Robert the Usurper is dead,

and the realm bleeds. When we set sail from Pentos there were four kings in the land, and no

justice to be had."

Joy bloomed in her heart, but Dany kept it from her face. "I have three dragons," she

said, "and more than a hundred in my khalasar, with all their goods and horses."

"It is no matter," boomed Belwas. "We take all. The fat man hires three ships for his little

silverhair queen."

"It is so, Your Grace," Arstan Whitebeard said. "The great cog Saduleon is berthed at the

end of the quay, and the galleys Summer Sun and Joso's Prank are anchored beyond the

breakwater."

Three heads has the dragon, Dany thought, wondering. "I shall tell my people to make

ready to depart at once. But the ships that bring me home must bear different names."

"As you wish," said Arstan. "What names would you prefer?"

"Vhagar," Daenerys told him. "Meraxes. And Balerion. Paint the names on their hulls in

golden letters three feet high, Arstan. I want every man who sees them to know the dragons

are returned."

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

ARYA

The heads had been dipped in tar to slow the rot. Every morning when Arya went to the

well to draw fresh water for Roose Bolton's basin, she had to pass beneath them. They faced

outward, so she never saw their faces, but she liked to pretend that one of them was Joffrey's.

She tried to picture how his pretty face would look dipped in tar. If I was a crow I could fly

down and peck off his stupid fat pouty lips.

The heads never lacked for attendants. The carrion crows wheeled about the gatehouse in

raucous unkindness and quarreled upon the ramparts over every eye, screaming and cawing at

each other and taking to the air whenever a sentry passed along the battlements. Sometimes

the maester's ravens joined the feast as well, flapping down from the rookery on wide black

wings. When the ravens came the crows would scatter, only to return the moment the larger

birds were gone.

Do the ravens remember Maester Tothmure? Arya wondered. Are they sad for him?

When they quork at him, do they wonder why he doesn't answer? Perhaps the dead could

speak to them in some secret tongue the living could not hear.

Tothmure had been sent to the axe for dispatching birds to Casterly Rock and King's

Landing the night Harrenhal had fallen, Lucan the armorer for making weapons for the

Lannisters, Goodwife Harra for telling Lady Whent's household to serve them, the steward

for giving Lord Tywin the keys to the treasure vault. The cook was spared (some said because

he'd made the weasel soup), but stocks were hammered together for pretty Pia and the other

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women who'd shared their favors with Lannister soldiers. Stripped and shaved, they were left

in the middle ward beside the bear pit, free for the use of any man who wanted them.

Three Frey men-at-arms were using them that morning as Arya went to the well. She

tried not to look, but she could hear the men laughing. The pail was very heavy once full. She

was turning to bring it back to Kingspyre when Goodwife Amabel seized her arm. The water

went sloshing over the side onto Amabel's legs. "You did that on purpose," the woman

screeched.

"What do you want?" Arya squirmed in her grasp. Amabel had been half-crazed since

they'd cut Harra's head off.

"See there?" Amabel pointed across the yard at Pia. "When this northman falls you'll be

where she is."

"Let me go." She tried to wrench free, but Amabel only tightened her fingers.

"He will fall too. Harrenhal pulls them all down in the end. Lord Tywin's won now, he'll

be marching back with all his power, and then it will be his turn to punish the disloyal. And

don't think he won't know what you did!" The old woman laughed. "I may have a turn at you

myself. Harra had an old broom, I'll save it for you. The handle's cracked and splintery—"

Arya swung the bucket. The weight of the water made it turn in her hands, so she didn't

smash Amabel's head in as she wanted, but the woman let go of her anyway when the water

came out and drenched her. "Don't ever touch me," Arya shouted, "or I'll kill you. You get

away."

Sopping, Goodwife Amabel jabbed a thin finger at the flayed man on the front of Arya's

tunic. "You think you're safe with that little bloody man on your teat, but you're not! The

Lannisters are coming! See what happens when they get here."

Three-quarters of the water had splashed out on the ground, so Arya had to return to the

well. If I told Lord Bolton what she said, her head would be up next to Harra's before it got

dark, she thought as she drew up the bucket again. She wouldn't, though.

Once, when there had been only half as many heads, Gendry had caught Arya looking at

them. "Admiring your work?" he asked.

He was angry because he'd liked Lucan, she knew, but it still wasn't fair. "It's

Steelshanks Walton's work," she said defensively. "And the Mummers, and Lord Bolton."

"And who gave us all to them? You and your weasel soup."

Arya punched his arm. "It was just hot broth. You hated Ser Amory too."

"I hate this lot worse. Ser Amory was fighting for his lord, but the Mummers are

sellswords and turncloaks. Half of them can't even speak the Common Tongue. Septon Utt

likes little boys, Qyburn does black magic, and your friend Biter eats people."

The worst thing was, she couldn't even say he was wrong. The Brave Companions did

most of the foraging for Harrenhal, and Roose Bolton had given them the task of rooting out

Lannisters. Vargo Hoat had divided them into four bands, to visit as many villages as

possible. He led the largest group himself, and gave the others to his most trusted captains.

She had heard Rorge laughing over Lord Vargo's way of finding traitors. All he did was

return to places he had visited before under Lord Tywin's banner and seize those who had

helped him. Many had been bought with Lannister silver, so the Mummers often returned

with bags of coin as well as baskets of heads. "A riddle!" Shagwell would shout gleefully. "If

Lord Bolton's goat eats the men who fed Lord Lannister's goat, how many goats are there?"

"One," Arya said when he asked her.

"Now there's a weasel clever as a goat!" the fool tittered.

470

Rorge and Biter were as bad as the others. Whenever Lord Bolton took a meal with the

garrison, Arya would see them there among the rest. Biter gave off a stench like bad cheese,

so the Brave Companions made him sit down near the foot of the table where he could grunt

and hiss to himself and tear his meat apart with fingers and teeth. He would sniff at Arya when

she passed, but it was Rorge who scared her most. He sat up near Faithful Ursywck, but she

could feel his eyes crawling over her as she went about her duties.

Sometimes she wished she had gone off across the narrow sea with Jaqen H'ghar. She

still had the stupid coin he'd given her, a piece of iron no larger than a penny and rusted along

the rim. One side had writing on it, queer words she could not read. The other showed a man's

head, but so worn that all his features had rubbed off. He said it was of great value, but that

was probably a lie too, like his name and even his face. That made her so angry that she threw

the coin away, but after an hour she got to feeling bad and went and found it again, even

though it wasn't worth anything.

She was thinking about the coin as she crossed the Flowstone Yard, struggling with the

weight of the water in her pail. "Nan," a voice called out. "Put down that pail and come help

me."

Elmar Frey was no older than she was, and short for his age besides. He had been rolling

a barrel of sand across the uneven stone, and was red-faced from exertion. Arya went to help

him. Together they pushed the barrel all the way to the wall and back again, then stood it

upright.

She could hear the sand shifting around inside as Elmar pried open the lid and pulled out

a chain-mail hauberk. "Do you think it's clean enough?" As Roose Bolton's squire, it was his

task to keep his mail shiny-bright.

"You need to shake out the sand. There's still spots of rust. See?" She pointed. "You'd

best do it again."

"You do it." Elmar could be friendly when he needed help, but afterward he would

always remember that he was a squire and she was only a serving girl. He liked to boast how

he was the son of the Lord of the Crossing, not a nephew or a bastard or a grandson but a

trueborn son, and on account of that he was going to marry a princess.

Arya didn't care about his precious princess, and didn't like him giving her commands.

"I have to bring m'lord water for his basin. He's in his bedchamber being leeched. Not the

regular black leeches but the big pale ones."

Elmar's eyes got as big as boiled eggs. Leeches terrified him, especially the big pale ones

that looked like jelly until they filled up with blood. "I forgot, you're too skinny to push such

a heavy barrel."

"I forgot, you're stupid." Arya picked up the pail. "Maybe you should get leeched too.

There's leeches in the Neck as big as pigs." She left him there with his barrel.

The lord's bedchamber was crowded when she entered. Qyburn was in attendance, and

dour Walton in his mail shirt and greaves, plus a dozen Freys, all brothers, half-brothers, and

cousins. Roose Bolton lay abed, naked. Leeches clung to the inside of his arms and legs and

dotted his pallid chest, long translucent things that turned a glistening pink as they fed. Bolton

paid them no more mind than he did Arya.

"We must not allow Lord Tywin to trap us here at Harrenhal," Ser Aenys Frey was

saying as Arya filled the washbasin. A grey stooped giant of a man with watery red eyes and

huge gnarled hands, Ser Aenys had brought fifteen hundred Frey swords south to Harrenhal,

yet it often seemed as if he were helpless to command even his own brothers. "The castle is so

large it requires an army to hold it, and once surrounded we cannot feed an army. Nor can we

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hope to lay in sufficient supplies. The country is ash, the villages given over to wolves, the

harvest burnt or stolen. Autumn is on us, yet there is no food in store and none being planted.

We live on forage, and if the Lannisters deny that to us, we will be down to rats and shoe

leather in a moon's turn."

"I do not mean to be besieged here." Roose Bolton's voice was so soft that men had to

strain to hear it, so his chambers were always strangely hushed.

"What, then?" demanded Ser Jared Frey, who was lean, balding, and pockmarked. "Is

Edmure Tully so drunk on his victory that he thinks to give Lord Tywin battle in the open

field?"

If he does he'll beat them, Arya thought. He'll beat them as he did on the Red Fork,

you'll see. Unnoticed, she went to stand by Qyburn.

"Lord Tywin is many leagues from here," Bolton said calmly. "He has many matters yet

to settle at King's Landing. He will not march on Harrenhal for some time."

Ser Aenys shook his head stubbornly. "You do not know the Lannisters as we do, my

lord. King Stannis thought that Lord Tywin was a thousand leagues away as well, and it undid

him."

The pale man in the bed smiled faintly as the leeches nursed of his blood. "I am not a

man to be undone, ser."

"Even if Riverrun marshals all its strength and the Young Wolf wins back from the west,

how can we hope to match the numbers Lord Tywin can send against us? When he comes, he

will come with far more power than he commanded on the Green Fork. Highgarden has

joined itself to Joffrey's cause, I remind you!"

"I had not forgotten."

"I have been Lord Tywin's captive once," said Ser Hosteen, a husky man with a square

face who was said to be the strongest of the Freys. "I have no wish to enjoy Lannister

hospitality again."

Ser Harys Haigh, who was a Frey on his mother's side, nodded vigorously. "If Lord

Tywin could defeat a seasoned man like Stannis Baratheon, what chance will our boy king

have against him?" He looked round to his brothers and cousins for support, and several of

them muttered agreement.

"Someone must have the courage to say it," Ser Hosteen said. "The war is lost. King

Robb must be made to see that."

Roose Bolton studied him with pale eyes. "His Grace has defeated the Lannisters every

time he has faced them in battle."

"He has lost the north," insisted Hosteen Frey. "He has lost Winterfell! His brothers are

dead . . ."

For a moment Arya forgot to breathe. Dead? Bran and Rickon, dead? What does he

mean? What does he mean about Winterfell, Joffrey could never take Winterfell, never, Robb

would never let him. Then she remembered that Robb was not at Winterfell. He was away in

the west, and Bran was crippled, and Rickon only four. It took all her strength to remain still

and silent, the way Syrio Forel had taught her, to stand there like a stick of furniture. She felt

tears gathering in her eyes, and willed them away. It's not true, it can't be true, it's just some

Lannister lie.

"Had Stannis won, all might have been different," Ronel Rivers said wistfully. He was

one of Lord Walder's bastards.

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"Stannis lost," Ser Hosteen said bluntly. "Wishing it were otherwise will not make it so.

King Robb must make his peace with the Lannisters. He must put off his crown and bend the

knee, little as he may like it."

"And who will tell him so?" Roose Bolton smiled. "It is a fine thing to have so many

valiant brothers in such troubled times. I shall think on all you've said."

His smile was dismissal. The Freys made their courtesies and shuffled out, leaving only

Qyburn, Steelshanks Walton, and Arya. Lord Bolton beckoned her closer. "I am bled

sufficiently. Nan, you may remove the leeches."

"At once, my lord." It was best never to make Roose Bolton ask twice. Arya wanted to

ask him what Ser Hosteen had meant about Winterfell, but she dared not. I'll ask Elmar, she

thought. Elmar will tell me. The leeches wriggled slowly between her fingers as she plucked

them carefully from the lord's body, their pale bodies moist to the touch and distended with

blood. They're only leeches, she reminded herself. If I closed my hand, they'd squish between

my fingers.

"There is a letter from your lady wife." Qyburn pulled a roll of parchment from his

sleeve. Though he wore maester's robes, there was no chain about his neck; it was whispered

that he had lost it for dabbling in necromancy.

"You may read it," Bolton said.

The Lady Walda wrote from the Twins almost every day, but all the letters were the

same. "I pray for you morn, noon, and night, my sweet lord," she wrote, "and count the days

until you share my bed again. Return to me soon, and I will give you many trueborn sons to

take the place of your dear Domeric and rule the Dreadfort after you." Arya pictured a plump

pink baby in a cradle, covered with plump pink leeches.

She brought Lord Bolton a damp washcloth to wipe down his soft hairless body. "I will

send a letter of my own," he told the onetime maester.

"To the Lady Walda?"

"To Ser Helman Tallhart."

A rider from Ser Helman had come two days past. Tallhart men had taken the castle of

the Darrys, accepting the surrender of its Lannister garrison after a brief siege.

"Tell him to put the captives to the sword and the castle to the torch, by command of the

king. Then he is to join forces with Robett Glover and strike east toward Duskendale. Those

are rich lands, and hardly touched by the fighting. It is time they had a taste. Glover has lost a

castle, and Tallhart a son. Let them take their vengeance on Duskendale."

"I shall prepare the message for your seal, my lord."

Arya was glad to hear that the castle of the Darrys would be burned. That was where

they'd brought her when she'd been caught after her fight with Joffrey, and where the queen

had made her father kill Sansa's wolf. It deserves to burn. She wished that Robett Glover and

Ser Helman Tallhart would come back to Harrenhal, though; they had marched too quickly,

before she'd been able to decide whether to trust them with her secret.

"I will hunt today," Roose Bolton announced as Qyburn helped him into a quilted jerkin.

"Is it safe, my lord?" Qyburn asked. "Only three days past, Septon Utt's men were

attacked by wolves. They came right into his camp, not five yards from the fire, and killed

two horses."

"It is wolves I mean to hunt. I can scarcely sleep at night for the howling." Bolton

buckled on his belt, adjusting the hang of sword and dagger. "It's said that direwolves once

roamed the north in great packs of a hundred or more, and feared neither man nor mammoth,

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but that was long ago and in another land. It is queer to see the common wolves of the south

so bold."

"Terrible times breed terrible things, my lord."

Bolton showed his teeth in something that might have been a smile. "Are these times so

terrible, Maester?"

"Summer is gone and there are four kings in the realm."

"One king may be terrible, but four?" He shrugged. "Nan, my fur cloak." She brought it

to him. "My chambers will be clean and orderly upon my return," he told her as she fastened

it. "And tend to Lady Walda's letter."

"As you say, my lord."

The lord and maester swept from the room, giving her not so much as a backward glance.

When they were gone, Arya took the letter and carried it to the hearth, stirring the logs with a

poker to wake the flames anew. She watched the parchment twist, blacken, and flare up. If the

Lannisters hurt Bran and Rickon, Robb will kill them every one. He'll never bend the knee,

never, never, never. He's not afraid of any of them. Curls of ash floated up the chimney. Arya

squatted beside the fire, watching them rise through a veil of hot tears. If Winterfell is truly

gone, is this my home now? Am I still Arya, or only Nan the serving girl, for forever and

forever and forever?

She spent the next few hours tending to the lord's chambers. She swept out the old rushes

and scattered fresh sweet-smelling ones, laid a fresh fire in the hearth, changed the linens and

fluffed the featherbed, emptied the chamber pots down the privy shaft and scrubbed them out,

carried an armload of soiled clothing to the washerwomen, and brought up a bowl of crisp

autumn pears from the kitchen. When she was done with the bedchamber, she went down half

a flight of stairs to do the same in the great solar, a spare drafty room as large as the halls of

many a smaller castle. The candles were down to stubs, so Arya changed them out. Under the

windows was a huge oaken table where the lord wrote his letters. She stacked the books,

changed the candles, put the quills and inks and sealing wax in order.

A large ragged sheepskin was tossed across the papers. Arya had started to roll it up

when the colors caught her eye: the blue of lakes and rivers, the red dots where castles and

cities could be found, the green of woods. She spread it out instead. THE LANDS OF THE

TRIDENT, said the ornate script beneath the map. The drawing showed everything from the

Neck to the Blackwater Rush. There's Harrenhal at the top of the big lake, she realized, but

where's Riverrun? Then she saw. It's not so far . . .

The afternoon was still young by the time she was done, so Arya took herself off to the

godswood. Her duties were lighter as Lord Bolton's cupbearer than they had been under

Weese or even Pinkeye, though they required dressing like a page and washing more than she

liked. The hunt would not return for hours, so she had a little time for her needlework.

She slashed at birch leaves till the splintery point of the broken broomstick was green and

sticky. "Ser Gregor," she breathed. "Dunsen, Polliver, Raff the Sweetling." She spun and

leapt and balanced on the balls of her feet, darting this way and that, knocking pinecones

flying. "The Tickler," she called out one time, "the Hound," the next. "Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn,

Queen Cersei." The bole of an oak loomed before her, and she lunged to drive her point

through it, grunting "Joffrey, Joffrey, Joffrey." Her arms and legs were dappled by sunlight

and the shadows of leaves. A sheen of sweat covered her skin by the time she paused. The

heel of her right foot was bloody where she'd skinned it, so she stood one-legged before the

heart tree and raised her sword in salute. "Valar morghulis," she told the old gods of the

north. She liked how the words sounded when she said them.

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As Arya crossed the yard to the bathhouse, she spied a raven circling down toward the

rookery, and wondered where it had come from and what message it carried. Might be it's

from Robb, come to say it wasn't true about Bran and Rickon. She chewed on her lip, hoping.

If I had wings I could fly back to Winterfell and see for myself. And if it was true, I'd just fly

away, fly up past the moon and the shining stars, and see all the things in Old Nan's stories,

dragons and sea monsters and the Titan of Braavos, and maybe I wouldn't ever fly back

unless I wanted to.

The hunting party returned near evenfall with nine dead wolves. Seven were adults, big

grey-brown beasts, savage and powerful, their mouths drawn back over long yellow teeth by

their dying snarls. But the other two had only been pups. Lord Bolton gave orders for the

skins to be sewn into a blanket for his bed. "Cubs still have that soft fur, my lord," one of his

men pointed out. "Make you a nice warm pair of gloves."

Bolton glanced up at the banners waving above the gatehouse towers. "As the Starks are

wont to remind us, winter is coming. Have it done." When he saw Arya looking on, he said,

"Nan, I'll want a flagon of hot spice wine, I took a chill in the woods. See that it doesn't get

cold. I'm of a mind to sup alone. Barley bread, butter, and boar."

"At once, my lord." That was always the best thing to say.

Hot Pie was making oatcakes when she entered the kitchen. Three other cooks were

boning fish, while a spit boy turned a boar over the flames. "My lord wants his supper, and

hot spice wine to wash it down," Arya announced, "and he doesn't want it cold." One of the

cooks washed his hands, took out a kettle, and filled it with a heavy, sweet red. Hot Pie was

told to crumble in the spices as the wine heated. Arya went to help.

"I can do it," he said sullenly. "I don't need you to show me how to spice wine."

He hates me too, or else he's scared of me. She backed away, more sad than angry. When

the food was ready, the cooks covered it with a silver cover and wrapped the flagon in a thick

towel to keep it warm. Dusk was settling outside. On the walls the crows muttered round the

heads like courtiers round a king. One of the guards held the door to Kingspyre. "Hope that's

not weasel soup," he jested.

Roose Bolton was seated by the hearth reading from a thick leather-bound book when

she entered. "Light some candles," he commanded her as he turned a page. "It grows gloomy

in here."

She placed the food at his elbow and did as he bid her, filling the room with flickering

light and the scent of cloves. Bolton turned a few more pages with his finger, then closed the

book and placed it carefully in the fire. He watched the flames consume it, pale eyes shining

with reflected light. The old dry leather went up with a whoosh, and the yellow pages stirred

as they burned, as if some ghost were reading them. "I will have no further need of you

tonight," he said, never looking at her.

She should have gone, silent as a mouse, but something had hold of her. "My lord," she

asked, "will you take me with you when you leave Harrenhal?"

He turned to stare at her, and from the look in his eyes it was as if his supper had just

spoken to him. "Did I give you leave to question me, Nan?"

"No, my lord." She lowered her eyes.

"You should not have spoken, then. Should you?"

"No. My lord."

For a moment he looked amused. "I will answer you, just this once. I mean to give

Harrenhal to Lord Vargo when I return to the north. You will remain here, with him."

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"But I don't—" she started.

He cut her off. "I am not in the habit of being questioned by servants, Nan. Must I have

your tongue out?"

He would do it as easily as another man might cuff a dog, she knew. "No, my lord."

"Then I'll hear no more from you?"

"No, my lord."

"Go, then. I shall forget this insolence."

Arya went, but not to her bed. When she stepped out into the darkness of the yard, the

guard on the door nodded at her and said, "Storm coming. Smell the air?" The wind was

gusting, flames swirling off the torches mounted atop the walls beside the rows of heads. On

her way to the godswood, she passed the Wailing Tower where once she had lived in fear of

Weese. The Freys had taken it for their own since Harrenhal's fall. She could hear angry

voices coming from a window, many men talking and arguing all at once. Elmar was sitting

on the steps outside, alone.

"What's wrong?" Arya asked him when she saw the tears shining on his cheeks.

"My princess," he sobbed. "We've been dishonored, Aenys says. There was a bird from

the Twins. My lord father says I'll need to marry someone else, or be a septon."

A stupid princess, she thought, that's nothing to cry over. "My brothers might be dead,"

she confided.

Elmar gave her a scornful look. "No one cares about a serving girl's brothers."

It was hard not to hit him when he said that. "I hope your princess dies," she said, and ran

off before he could grab her. In the godswood she found her broomstick sword where she had

left it, and carried it to the heart tree. There she knelt. Red leaves rustled. Red eyes peered

inside her. The eyes of the gods. "Tell me what to do, you gods," she prayed.

For a long moment there was no sound but the wind and the water and the creak of leaf

and limb. And then, far far off, beyond the godswood and the haunted towers and the

immense stone walls of Harrenhal, from somewhere out in the world, came the long lonely

howl of a wolf. Gooseprickles rose on Arya's skin, and for an instant she felt dizzy. Then, so

faintly, it seemed as if she heard her father's voice. "When the snows fall and the white winds

blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives," he said.

"But there is no pack," she whispered to the weirwood. Bran and Rickon were dead, the

Lannisters had Sansa, Jon had gone to the Wall. "I'm not even me now, I'm Nan."

"You are Arya of Winterfell, daughter of the north. You told me you could be strong.

You have the wolf blood in you."

"The wolf blood." Arya remembered now. "I'll be as strong as Robb. I said I would."

She took a deep breath, then lifted the broomstick in both hands and brought it down across

her knee. It broke with a loud crack, and she threw the pieces aside. I am a direwolf, and done

with wooden teeth.

That night she lay in her narrow bed upon the scratchy straw, listening to the voices of

the living and the dead whisper and argue as she waited for the moon to rise. They were the

only voices she trusted anymore. She could hear the sound of her own breath, and the wolves

as well, a great pack of them now. They are closer than the one I heard in the godswood, she

thought. They are calling to me.

Finally she slipped from under the blanket, wriggled into a tunic, and padded barefoot

down the stairs. Roose Bolton was a cautious man, and the entrance to Kingspyre was

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guarded day and night, so she had to slip out of a narrow cellar window. The yard was still,

the great castle lost in haunted dreams. Above, the wind keened through the Wailing Tower.

At the forge she found the fires extinguished and the doors closed and barred. She crept

in a window, as she had once before. Gendry shared a mattress with two other apprentice

smiths. She crouched in the loft for a long time before her eyes adjusted enough for her to be

sure that he was the one on the end. Then she put a hand over his mouth and pinched him. His

eyes opened. He could not have been very deeply asleep. "Please," she whispered. She took

her hand off his mouth and pointed.

For a moment she did not think he understood, but then he slid out from under the

blankets. Naked, he padded across the room, shrugged into a loose rough-spun tunic, and

climbed down from the loft after her. The other sleepers did not stir. "What do you want

now?" Gendry said in a low angry voice.

"A sword."

"Blackthumb keeps all the blades locked up, I told you that a hundred times. Is this for

Lord Leech?"

"For me. Break the lock with your hammer."

"They'll break my hand," he grumbled. "Or worse."

"Not if you run off with me."

"Run, and they'll catch you and kill you."

"They'll do you worse. Lord Bolton is giving Harrenhal to the Bloody Mummers, he told

me so."

Gendry pushed black hair out of his eyes. "So?"

She looked right at him, fearless. "So when Vargo Hoat's the lord, he's going to cut off

the feet of all the servants to keep them from running away. The smiths too."

"That's only a story," he said scornfully.

"No, it's true, I heard Lord Vargo say so," she lied. "He's going to cut one foot off

everyone. The left one. Go to the kitchens and wake Hot Pie, he'll do what you say. We'll

need bread or oatcakes or something. You get the swords and I'll do the horses. We'll meet

near the postern in the east wall, behind the Tower of Ghosts. No one ever comes there."

"I know that gate. It's guarded, same as the rest."

"So? You won't forget the swords?"

"I never said I'd come."

"No. But if you do, you won't forget the swords?"

He frowned. "No," he said at last. "I guess I won't."

Arya reentered Kingspyre the same way she had left it, and stole up the winding steps

listening for footfalls. In her cell, she stripped to the skin and dressed herself carefully, in two

layers of smallclothes, warm stockings, and her cleanest tunic. It was Lord Bolton's livery.

On the breast was sewn his sigil, the flayed man of the Dreadfort. She tied her shoes, threw a

wool cloak over her skinny shoulders, and knotted it under her throat. Quiet as a shadow, she

moved back down the stairs. Outside the lord's solar she paused to listen at the door, easing it

open slowly when she heard only silence.

The sheepskin map was on the table, beside the remains of Lord Bolton's supper. She

rolled it up tight and thrust it through her belt. He'd left his dagger on the table as well, so she

took that too, just in case Gendry lost his courage.

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A horse neighed softly as she slipped into the darkened stables. The grooms were all

asleep. She prodded one with her toe until he sat up groggily and said, "Eh? Whas?"

"Lord Bolton requires three horses saddled and bridled."

The boy got to his feet, pushing straw from his hair. "Wha, at this hour? Horses, you

say?" He blinked at the sigil on her tunic. "Whas he want horses for, in the dark?"

"Lord Bolton is not in the habit of being questioned by servants." She crossed her arms.

The stableboy was still looking at the flayed man. He knew what it meant. "Three, you

say?"

"One two three. Hunting horses. Fast and surefoot." Arya helped him with the bridles and

saddles, so he would not need to wake any of the others. She hoped they would not hurt him

afterward, but she knew they probably would.

Leading the horses across the castle was the worst part. She stayed in the shadow of the

curtain wall whenever she could, so the sentries walking their rounds on the ramparts above

would have needed to look almost straight down to see her. And if they do, what of it? I'm my

lord's own cupbearer. It was a chill dank autumn night. Clouds were blowing in from the

west, hiding the stars, and the Wailing Tower screamed mournfully at every gust of wind. It

smells like rain. Arya did not know whether that would be good or bad for their escape.

No one saw her, and she saw no one, only a grey-and-white cat creeping along atop the

godswood wall. It stopped and spit at her, waking memories of the Red Keep and her father

and Syrio Forel. "I could catch you if I wanted," she called to it softly, "but I have to go, cat."

The cat hissed again and ran off.

The Tower of Ghosts was the most ruinous of Harrenhal's five immense towers. It stood

dark and desolate behind the remains of a collapsed sept where only rats had come to pray for

near three hundred years. It was there she waited to see if Gendry and Hot Pie would come. It

seemed as though she waited a long time. The horses nibbled at the weeds that grew up

between the broken stones while the clouds swallowed the last of the stars. Arya took out the

dagger and sharpened it to keep her hands busy. Long smooth strokes, the way Syrio had

taught her. The sound calmed her.

She heard them coming long before she saw them. Hot Pie was breathing heavily, and

once he stumbled in the dark, barked his shin, and cursed loud enough to wake half of

Harrenhal. Gendry was quieter, but the swords he was carrying rang together as he moved.

"Here I am." She stood. "Be quiet or they'll hear you."

The boys picked their way toward her over tumbled stones. Gendry was wearing oiled

chain-mail under his cloak, she saw, and he had his blacksmith's hammer slung across his

back. Hot Pie's red round face peered out from under a hood. He had a sack of bread dangling

from his right hand and a big wheel of cheese under his left arm. "There's a guard on that

postern," said Gendry quietly. "I told you there would be."

"You stay here with the horses," said Arya. "I'll get rid of him. Come quick when I call."

Gendry nodded. Hot Pie said, "Hoot like an owl when you want us to come."

"I'm not an owl," said Arya. "I'm a wolf. I'll howl."

Alone, she slid through the shadow of the Tower of Ghosts. She walked fast, to keep

ahead of her fear, and it felt as though Syrio Forel walked beside her, and Yoren, and Jaqen

H'ghar, and Jon Snow. She had not taken the sword Gendry had brought her, not yet. For this

the dagger would be better. It was good and sharp. This postern was the least of Harrenhal's

gates, a narrow door of stout oak studded with iron nails, set in an angle of the wall beneath a

defensive tower. Only one man was set to guard it, but she knew there would be sentries up in

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that tower as well, and others nearby walking the walls. Whatever happened, she must be

quiet as a shadow. He must not call out. A few scattered raindrops had begun to fall. She felt

one land on her brow and run slowly down her nose.

She made no effort to hide, but approached the guard openly, as if Lord Bolton himself

had sent her. He watched her come, curious as to what might bring a page here at this black

hour. When she got closer, she saw that he was a northman, very tall and thin, huddled in a

ragged fur cloak. That was bad. She might have been able to trick a Frey or one of the Brave

Companions, but the Dreadfort men had served Roose Bolton their whole life, and they knew

him better than she did. If I tell him I am Arya Stark and command him to stand aside . . . No,

she dare not. He was a northman, but not a Winterfell man. He belonged to Roose Bolton.

When she reached him she pushed back her cloak so he would see the flayed man on her

breast. "Lord Bolton sent me."

"At this hour? Why for?"

She could see the gleam of steel under the fur, and she did not know if she was strong

enough to drive the point of the dagger through chain-mail. His throat, it must be his throat,

but he's too tall, I'll never reach it. For a moment she did not know what to say. For a

moment she was a little girl again, and scared, and the rain on her face felt like tears.

"He told me to give all his guards a silver piece, for their good service." The words

seemed to come out of nowhere.

"Silver, you say?" He did not believe her, but he wanted to; silver was silver, after all.

"Give it over, then."

Her fingers dug down beneath her tunic and came out clutching the coin Jaqen had given

her. In the dark the iron could pass for tarnished silver. She held it out . . . and let it slip

through her fingers.

Cursing her softly, the man went to a knee to grope for the coin in the dirt and there was

his neck right in front of her. Arya slid her dagger out and drew it across his throat, as smooth

as summer silk. His blood covered her hands in a hot gush and he tried to shout but there was

blood in his mouth as well.

"Valar morghulis," she whispered as he died.

When he stopped moving, she picked up the coin. Outside the walls of Harrenhal, a wolf

howled long and loud. She lifted the bar, set it aside, and pulled open the heavy oak door. By

the time Hot Pie and Gendry came up with the horses, the rain was falling hard. "You killed

him!" Hot Pie gasped.

"What did you think I would do?" Her fingers were sticky with blood, and the smell was

making her mare skittish. It's no matter, she thought, swinging up into the saddle. The rain

will wash them clean again.

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

SANSA

The throne room was a sea of jewels, furs, and bright fabrics. Lords and ladies filled the

back of the hall and stood beneath the high windows, jostling like fishwives on a dock.

The denizens of Joffrey's court had striven to outdo each other today. Jalabhar Xho was

all in feathers, a plumage so fantastic and extravagant that he seemed like to take flight. The

High Septon's crystal crown fired rainbows through the air every time he moved his head. At

the council table, Queen Cersei shimmered in a cloth-of-gold gown slashed in burgundy

velvet, while beside her Varys fussed and simpered in a lilac brocade. Moon Boy and Ser

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Dontos wore new suits of motley, clean as a spring morning. Even Lady Tanda and her

daughters looked pretty in matching gowns of turquoise silk and vair, and Lord Gyles was

coughing into a square of scarlet silk trimmed with golden lace. King Joffrey sat above them

all, amongst the blades and barbs of the Iron Throne. He was in crimson samite, his black

mantle studded with rubies, on his head his heavy golden crown.

Squirming through a press of knights, squires, and rich townfolk, Sansa reached the front

of the gallery just as a blast of trumpets announced the entry of Lord Tywin Lannister.

He rode his warhorse down the length of the hall and dismounted before the Iron Throne.

Sansa had never seen such armor; all burnished red steel, inlaid with golden scrollwork and

ornamentation. His rondels were sunbursts, the roaring lion that crowned his helm had ruby

eyes, and a lioness on each shoulder fastened a cloth-of-gold cloak so long and heavy that it

draped the hindquarters of his charger. Even the horse's armor was gilded, and his bardings

were shimmering crimson silk emblazoned with the lion of Lannister.

The Lord of Casterly Rock made such an impressive figure that it was a shock when his

destrier dropped a load of dung right at the base of the throne. Joffrey had to step gingerly

around it as he descended to embrace his grandfather and proclaim him Savior of the City.

Sansa covered her mouth to hide a nervous smile.

Joff made a show of asking his grandfather to assume governance of the realm, and Lord

Tywin solemnly accepted the responsibility, "until Your Grace does come of age." Then

squires removed his armor and Joff fastened the Hand's chain of office around his neck. Lord

Tywin took a seat at the council table beside the queen. After the destrier was led off and his

homage removed, Cersei nodded for the ceremonies to continue.

A fanfare of brazen trumpets greeted each of the heroes as he stepped between the great

oaken doors. Heralds cried his name and deeds for all to hear, and the noble knights and

highborn ladies cheered as lustily as cutthroats at a cockfight. Pride of place was given to

Mace Tyrell, the Lord of Highgarden, a once-powerful man gone to fat, yet still handsome.

His sons followed him in; Ser Loras and his older brother Ser Garlan the Gallant. The three

dressed alike, in green velvet trimmed with sable.

The king descended the throne once more to greet them, a great honor. He fastened about

the throat of each a chain of roses wrought in soft yellow gold, from which hung a golden disc

with the lion of Lannister picked out in rubies. "The roses support the lion, as the might of

Highgarden supports the realm," proclaimed Joffrey. "If there is any boon you would ask of

me, ask and it shall be yours."

And now it comes, thought Sansa.

"Your Grace," said Ser Loras, "I beg the honor of serving in your Kingsguard, to defend

you against your enemies."

Joffrey drew the Knight of Flowers to his feet and kissed him on his cheek. "Done,

brother."

Lord Tyrell bowed his head. "There is no greater pleasure than to serve the King's Grace.

If I was deemed worthy to join your royal council, you would find none more loyal or true."

Joff put a hand on Lord Tyrell's shoulder and kissed him when he stood. "Your wish is

granted."

Ser Garlan Tyrell, five years senior to Ser Loras, was a taller bearded version of his more

famous younger brother. He was thicker about the chest and broader at the shoulders, and

though his face was comely enough, he lacked Ser Loras's startling beauty. "Your Grace,"

Garlan said when the king approached him, "I have a maiden sister, Margaery, the delight of

our House. She was wed to Renly Baratheon, as you know, but Lord Renly went to war

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before the marriage could be consummated, so she remains innocent. Margaery has heard

tales of your wisdom, courage, and chivalry, and has come to love you from afar. I beseech

you to send for her, to take her hand in marriage, and to wed your House to mine for all time."

King Joffrey made a show of looking surprised. "Ser Garlan, your sister's beauty is

famed throughout the Seven Kingdoms, but I am promised to another. A king must keep his

word."

Queen Cersei got to her feet in a rustle of skirts. "Your Grace, in the judgment of your

small council, it would be neither proper nor wise for you to wed the daughter of a man

beheaded for treason, a girl whose brother is in open rebellion against the throne even now.

Sire, your councilors beg you, for the good of your realm, set Sansa Stark aside. The Lady

Margaery will make you a far more suitable queen."

Like a pack of trained dogs, the lords and ladies in the hall began to shout their pleasure.

"Margaery," they called. "Give us Margaery!" and "No traitor queens! Tyrell! Tyrell!"

Joffrey raised a hand. "I would like to heed the wishes of my people, Mother, but I took a

holy vow."

The High Septon stepped forward. "Your Grace, the gods hold betrothal solemn, but your

father, King Robert of blessed memory, made this pact before the Starks of Winterfell had

revealed their falseness. Their crimes against the realm have freed you from any promise you

might have made. So far as the Faith is concerned, there is no valid marriage contract 'twixt

you and Sansa Stark."

A tumult of cheering filled the throne room, and cries of "Margaery, Margaery," erupted

all around her. Sansa leaned forward, her hands tight around the gallery's wooden rail. She

knew what came next, but she was still frightened of what Joffrey might say, afraid that he

would refuse to release her even now, when his whole kingdom depended upon it. She felt as

if she were back again on the marble steps outside the Great Sept of Baelor, waiting for her

prince to grant her father mercy, and instead hearing him command Ilyn Payne to strike off

his head. Please, she prayed fervently, make him say it, make him say it.

Lord Tywin was looking at his grandson. Joff gave him a sullen glance, shifted his feet,

and helped Ser Garlan Tyrell to rise. "The gods are good. I am free to heed my heart. I will

wed your sweet sister, and gladly, ser." He kissed Ser Garlan on a bearded cheek as the cheers

rose all around them.

Sansa felt curiously light-headed. I am free. She could feel eyes upon her. I must not

smile, she reminded herself. The queen had warned her; no matter what she felt inside, the

face she showed the world must look distraught. "I will not have my son humiliated," Cersei

said. "Do you hear me?"

"Yes. But if I'm not to be queen, what will become of me?"

"That will need to be determined. For the moment, you shall remain here at court, as our

ward."

"I want to go home."

The queen was irritated by that. "You should have learned by now, none of us get the

things we want."

I have, though, Sansa thought. I am free of Joffrey. I will not have to kiss him, nor give

him my maidenhood, nor bear him children. Let Margaery Tyrell have all that, poor girl.

By the time the outburst died down, the Lord of Highgarden had been seated at the

council table, and his sons had joined the other knights and lordlings beneath the windows.

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Sansa tried to look forlorn and abandoned as other heroes of the Battle of the Blackwater were

summoned forth to receive their rewards.

Paxter Redwyne, Lord of the Arbor, marched down the length of the hall flanked by his

twin sons Horror and Slobber, the former limping from a wound taken in the battle. After

them followed Lord Mathis Rowan in a snowy doublet with a great tree worked upon the

breast in gold thread; Lord Randyll Tarly, lean and balding, a greatsword across his back in a

jeweled scabbard; Ser Kevan Lannister, a thickset balding man with a close-trimmed beard;

Ser Addam Marbrand, coppery hair streaming to his shoulders; the great western lords

Lydden, Crakehall, and Brax.

Next came four of lesser birth who had distinguished themselves in the fighting: the oneeyed knight Ser Philip Foote, who had slain Lord Bryce Caron in single combat; the freerider

Lothor Brune, who'd cut his way through half a hundred Fossoway men-at-arms to capture

Ser Jon of the green apple and kill Ser Bryan and Ser Edwyd of the red, thereby winning

himself the name Lothor Apple-Eater; Willit, a grizzled man-at-arms in the service of Ser

Harys Swyft, who'd pulled his master from beneath his dying horse and defended him against

a dozen attackers; and a downy-cheeked squire named Josmyn Peckledon, who had killed two

knights, wounded a third, and captured two more, though he could not have been more than

fourteen. Willit was borne in on a litter, so grievous were his wounds.

Ser Kevan had taken a seat beside his brother Lord Tywin. When the heralds had finished

telling of each hero's deeds, he rose. "It is His Grace's wish that these good men be rewarded

for their valor. By his decree, Ser Philip shall henceforth be Lord Philip of House Foote, and

to him shall go all the lands, rights, and incomes of House Caron. Lothor Brune to be raised to

the estate of knighthood, and granted land and keep in the riverlands at war's end. To Josmyn

Peckledon, a sword and suit of plate, his choice of any warhorse in the royal stables, and

knighthood as soon as he shall come of age. And lastly, for Goodman Willit, a spear with a

silver-banded haft, a hauberk of new-forged ringmail, and a full helm with visor. Further, the

goodman's sons shall be taken into the service of House Lannister at Casterly Rock, the elder

as a squire and the younger as a page, with the chance to advance to knighthood if they serve

loyally and well. To all this, the King's Hand and the small council consent."

The captains of the king's warships Wildwind, Prince Aemon, and River Arrow were

honored next, along with some under-officers from Godsgrace, Lance, Lady of Silk, and

Ramshead. As near as Sansa could tell, their chief accomplishment had been surviving the

battle on the river, a feat that few enough could boast. Hallyne the Pyromancer and the

masters of the Alchemists' Guild received the king's thanks as well, and Hallyne was raised

to the style of lord, though Sansa noted that neither lands nor castle accompanied the title,

which made the alchemist no more a true lord than Varys was. A more significant lordship by

far was granted to Ser Lancel Lannister. Joffrey awarded him the lands, castle, and rights of

House Darry, whose last child lord had perished during the fighting in the riverlands, "leaving

no trueborn heirs of lawful Darry blood, but only a bastard cousin."

Ser Lancel did not appear to accept the title; the talk was, his wound might cost him his

arm or even his life. The Imp was said to be dying as well, from a terrible cut to the head.

When the herald called, "Lord Petyr Baelish," he came forth dressed all in shades of rose

and plum, his cloak patterned with mockingbirds. She could see him smiling as he knelt

before the Iron Throne. He looks so pleased. Sansa had not heard of Littlefinger doing

anything especially heroic during the battle, but it seemed he was to be rewarded all the same.

Ser Kevan got back to his feet. "It is the wish of the King's Grace that his loyal councilor

Petyr Baelish be rewarded for faithful service to crown and realm. Be it known that Lord

Baelish is granted the castle of Harrenhal with all its attendant lands and incomes, there to

482

make his seat and rule henceforth as Lord Paramount of the Trident. Petyr Baelish and his

sons and grandsons shall hold and enjoy these honors until the end of time, and all the lords of

the Trident shall do him homage as their rightful liege. The King's Hand and the small

council consent."

On his knees, Littlefinger raised his eyes to King Joffrey. "I thank you humbly, Your

Grace. I suppose this means I'll need to see about getting some sons and grandsons."

Joffrey laughed, and the court with him. Lord Paramount of the Trident, Sansa thought,

and Lord of Harrenhal as well. She did not understand why that should make him so happy;

the honors were as empty as the title granted to Hallyne the Pyromancer. Harrenhal was

cursed, everyone knew that, and the Lannisters did not even hold it at present. Besides, the

lords of the Trident were sworn to Riverrun and House Tully, and to the King in the North;

they would never accept Littlefinger as their liege. Unless they are made to. Unless my

brother and my uncle and my grandfather are all cast down and killed. The thought made

Sansa anxious, but she told herself she was being silly. Robb has beaten them every time.

He'll beat Lord Baelish too, if he must.

More than six hundred new knights were made that day. They had held their vigil in the

Great Sept of Baelor all through the night and crossed the city barefoot that morning to prove

their humble hearts. Now they came forward dressed in shifts of undyed wool to receive their

knighthoods from the Kingsguard. It took a long time, since only three of the Brothers of the

White Sword were on hand to dub them. Mandon Moore had perished in the battle, the Hound

had vanished, Aerys Oakheart was in Dorne with Princess Myrcella, and Jaime Lannister was

Robb's captive, so the Kingsguard had been reduced to Balon Swann, Meryn Trant, and

Osmund Kettleblack. Once knighted, each man rose, buckled on his swordbelt, and stood

beneath the windows. Some had bloody feet from their walk through the city, but they stood

tall and proud all the same, it seemed to Sansa.

By the time all the new knights had been given their sers the hall was growing restive,

and none more so than Joffrey. Some of those in the gallery had begun to slip quietly away,

but the notables on the floor were trapped, unable to depart without the king's leave. Judging

by the way he was fidgeting atop the Iron Throne, Joff would willingly have granted it, but

the day's work was far from done. For now the coin was turned over, and the captives were

ushered in.

There were great lords and noble knights in that company too: sour old Lord Celtigar, the

Red Crab; Ser Bonifer the Good; Lord Estermont, more ancient even than Celtigar; Lord

Varner, who hobbled the length of the hall on a shattered knee, but would accept no help; Ser

Mark Mullendore, grey-faced, his left arm gone to the elbow; fierce Red Ronnet of Griffin

Roost; Ser Dermot of the Rainwood; Lord Willurn and his sons Josua and Elyas; Ser Jon

Fossoway; Ser Timon the Scrapesword; Aurane, the bastard of Driftmark; Lord Staedmon,

called Pennylover; hundreds of others.

Those who had changed their allegiance during the battle needed only to swear fealty to

Joffrey, but the ones who had fought for Stannis until the bitter end were compelled to speak.

Their words decided their fate. If they begged forgiveness for their treasons and promised to

serve loyally henceforth, Joffrey welcomed them back into the king's peace and restored them

to all their lands and rights. A handful remained defiant, however. "Do not imagine this is

done, boy," warned one, the bastard son of some Florent or other. "The Lord of Light protects

King Stannis, now and always. All your swords and all your scheming shall not save you

when his hour comes."

"Your hour is come right now." Joffrey beckoned to Ser Ilyn Payne to take the man out

and strike his head off.

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But no sooner had that one been dragged away than a knight of solemn mien with a fiery

heart on his surcoat shouted out, "Stannis is the true king! A monster sits the Iron Throne, an

abomination born of incest!"

"Be silent," Ser Kevan Lannister bellowed.

The knight raised his voice instead. "Joffrey is the black worm eating the heart of the

realm! Darkness was his father, and death his mother! Destroy him before he corrupts you all!

Destroy them all, queen whore and king worm, vile dwarf and whispering spider, the false

flowers. Save yourselves!" One of the gold cloaks knocked the man off his feet, but he

continued to shout. "The scouring fire will come! King Stannis will return!"

Joffrey lurched to his feet. "I'm king! Kill him! Kill him now! I command it." He

chopped down with his hand, a furious, angry gesture . . . and screeched in pain when his arm

brushed against one of the sharp metal fangs that surrounded him. The bright crimson samite

of his sleeve turned a darker shade of red as his blood soaked through it. "Mother!" he wailed.

With every eye on the king, somehow the man on the floor wrested a spear away from

one of the gold cloaks, and used it to push himself back to his feet. "The throne denies him!"

he cried. "He is no king!"

Cersei was running toward the throne, but Lord Tywin remained still as stone. He had

only to raise a finger, and Ser Meryn Trant moved forward with drawn sword. The end was

quick and brutal. The gold cloaks seized the knight by the arms. "No king!" he cried again as

Ser Meryn drove the point of his longsword through his chest.

Joff fell into his mother's arms. Three maesters came hurrying forward, to bundle him

out through the king's door. Then everyone began talking at once. When the gold cloaks

dragged off the dead man, he left a trail of bright blood across the stone floor. Lord Baelish

stroked his beard while Varys whispered in his ear. Will they dismiss us now? Sansa

wondered. A score of captives still waited, though whether to pledge fealty or shout curses,

who could say?

Lord Tywin rose to his feet. "We continue," he said in a clear strong voice that silenced

the murmurs. "Those who wish to ask pardon for their treasons may do so. We will have no

more follies." He moved to the Iron Throne and there seated himself on a step, a mere three

feet off the floor.

The light outside the windows was fading by the time the session drew to a close. Sansa

felt limp with exhaustion as she made her way down from the gallery. She wondered how

badly Joffrey had cut himself. They say the Iron Throne can be perilous cruel to those who

were not meant to sit it.

Back in the safety of her own chambers, she hugged a pillow to her face to muffle a

squeal of joy. Oh, gods be good, he did it, he put me aside in front of everyone. When a

serving girl brought her supper, she almost kissed her. There was hot bread and fresh-churned

butter, a thick beef soup, capon and carrots, and peaches in honey. Even the food tastes

sweeter, she thought.

Come dark, she slipped into a cloak and left for the godswood. Ser Osmund Kettleblack

was guarding the drawbridge in his white armor. Sansa tried her best to sound miserable as

she bid him a good evening. From the way he leered at her, she was not sure she had been

wholly convincing.

Dontos waited in the leafy moonlight. "Why so sad-faced?" Sansa asked him gaily. "You

were there, you heard. Joff put me aside, he's done with me, he's . . ."

He took her hand. "Oh, Jonquil, my poor Jonquil, you do not understand. Done with you?

They've scarcely begun."

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Her heart sank. "What do you mean?"

"The queen will never let you go, never. You are too valuable a hostage. And

Joffrey . . . sweetling, he is still king. If he wants you in his bed, he will have you, only now it

will be bastards he plants in your womb instead of trueborn sons."

"No," Sansa said, shocked. "He let me go, he . . ."

Ser Dontos planted a slobbery kiss on her ear. "Be brave. I swore to see you home, and

now I can. The day has been chosen."

"When?" Sansa asked. "When will we go?"

"The night of Joffrey's wedding. After the feast. All the necessary arrangements have

been made. The Red Keep will be full of strangers. Half the court will be drunk and the other

half will be helping Joffrey bed his bride. For a little while, you will be forgotten, and the

confusion will be our friend."

"The wedding won't be for a moon's turn yet. Margaery Tyrell is at Highgarden, they've

only now sent for her."

"You've waited so long, be patient a while longer. Here, I have something for you." Ser

Dontos fumbled in his pouch and drew out a silvery spider-web, dangling it between his thick

fingers. It was a hair net of fine-spun silver, the strands so thin and delicate the net seemed to

weigh no more than a breath of air when Sansa took it in her fingers. Small gems were set

wherever two strands crossed, so dark they drank the moonlight. "What stones are these?"

"Black amethysts from Asshai. The rarest kind, a deep true purple by daylight."

"It's very lovely," Sansa said, thinking, It is a ship I need, not a net for my hair.

"Lovelier than you know, sweet child. It's magic, you see. It's justice you hold. It's

vengeance for your father." Dontos leaned close and kissed her again. "It's home."

CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

THEON

Maester Luwin came to him when the first scouts were seen outside the walls. "My lord

prince," he said, "you must yield."

Theon stared at the platter of oakcakes, honey, and blood sausage they'd brought him to

break his fast. Another sleepless night had left his nerves raw, and the very sight of food

sickened him. "There has been no reply from my uncle?"

"None," the maester said. "Nor from your father on Pyke."

"Send more birds."

"It will not serve. By the time the birds reach—"

"Send them!" Knocking the platter of food aside with a swipe of his arm, he pushed off

the blankets and rose from Ned Stark's bed naked and angry. "Or do you want me dead? Is

that it, Luwin? The truth now."

The small grey man was unafraid. "My order serves."

"Yes, but whom?"

"The realm," Maester Luwin said, "and Winterfell. Theon, once I taught you sums and

letters, history and warcraft. And might have taught you more, had you wished to learn. I will

not claim to bear you any great love, no, but I cannot hate you either. Even if I did, so long as

you hold Winterfell I am bound by oath to give you counsel. So now I counsel you to yield."

485

Theon stooped to scoop a puddled cloak off the floor, shook off the rushes, and draped it

over his shoulders. A fire, I'll have a fire, and clean garb. Where's Wex? I'll not go to my

grave in dirty clothes.

"You have no hope of holding here," the maester went on. "If your lord father meant to

send you aid, he would have done so by now. It is the Neck that concerns him. The battle for

the north will be fought amidst the ruins of Moat Cailin."

"That may be so," said Theon. "And so long as I hold Winterfell, Ser Rodrik and Stark's

lords bannermen cannot march south to take my uncle in the rear." I am not so innocent of

warcraft as you think, old man. "I have food enough to stand a year's siege, if need be."

"There will be no siege. Perhaps they will spend a day or two fashioning ladders and

tying grapnels to the ends of ropes. But soon enough they will come over your walls in a

hundred places at once. You may be able to hold the keep for a time, but the castle will fall

within the hour. You would do better to open your gates and ask for—"

"—mercy? I know what kind of mercy they have for me."

"There is a way."

"I am ironborn," Theon reminded him. "I have my own way. What choice have they left

me? No, don't answer, I've heard enough of your counsel. Go and send those birds as I

commanded, and tell Lorren I want to see him. And Wex as well. I'll have my mail scoured

clean, and my garrison assembled in the yard."

For a moment he thought the maester was going to defy him. But finally Luwin bowed

stiffly. "As you command."

They made a pitifully small assembly; the ironmen were few, the yard large. "The

northmen will be on us before nightfall," he told them. "Ser Rodrik Cassel and all the lords

who have come to his call. I will not run from them. I took this castle and I mean to hold it, to

live or die as Prince of Winterfell. But I will not command any man to die with me. If you

leave now, before Ser Rodrik's main force is upon us, there's still a chance you may win

free." He unsheathed his longsword and drew a line in the dirt. "Those who would stay and

fight, step forward."

No one spoke. The men stood in their mail and fur and boiled leather, as still as if they

were made of stone. A few exchanged looks. Urzen shuffled his feet. Dykk Harlaw hawked

and spat. A finger of wind ruffled Endehar's long fair hair.

Theon felt as though he were drowning. Why am I surprised? he thought bleakly. His

father had forsaken him, his uncles, his sister, even that wretched creature Reek. Why should

his men prove any more loyal? There was nothing to say, nothing to do. He could only stand

there beneath the great grey walls and the hard white sky, sword in hand, waiting, waiting . . .

Wex was the first to cross the line. Three quick steps and he stood at Theon's side,

slouching. Shamed by the boy, Black Lorren followed, all scowls. "Who else?" he demanded.

Red Rolfe came forward. Kromm. Werlag. Tymor and his brothers. Ulf the Ill. Harrag

Sheepstealer. Four Harlaws and two Botleys. Kenned the Whale was the last. Seventeen in all.

Urzen was among those who did not move, and Stygg, and every man of the ten that

Asha had brought from Deepwood Motte. "Go, then," Theon told them. "Run to my sister.

She'll give you all a warm welcome, I have no doubt."

Stygg had the grace at least to look ashamed. The rest moved off without a word. Theon

turned to the seventeen who remained. "Back to the walls. If the gods should spare us, I shall

remember every man of you."

486

Black Lorren stayed when the others had gone. "The castle folk will turn on us soon as

the fight begins."

"I know that. What would you have me do?"

"Put them out," said Lorren. "Every one."

Theon shook his head. "Is the noose ready?"

"It is. You mean to use it?"

"Do you know a better way?"

"Aye. I'll take my axe and stand on that drawbridge, and let them come try me. One at a

time, two, three, it makes no matter. None will pass the moat while I still draw breath."

He means to die, thought Theon. It's not victory he wants, it's an end worthy of a song.

"We'll use the noose."

"As you say," Lorren replied, contempt in his eyes.

Wex helped garb him for battle. Beneath his black surcoat and golden mantle was a shirt

of well-oiled ringmail, and under that a layer of stiff boiled leather. Once armed and armored,

Theon climbed the watchtower at the angle where the eastern and southern walls came

together to have a look at his doom. The northmen were spreading out to encircle the castle. It

was hard to judge their numbers. A thousand at least; perhaps twice that many. Against

seventeen. They'd brought catapults and scorpions. He saw no siege towers rumbling up the

kingsroad, but there was timber enough in the wolfswood to build as many as were required.

Theon studied their banners through Maester Luwin's Myrish lens tube. The Cerwyn

battle-axe flapped bravely wherever he looked, and there were Tallhart trees as well, and

mermen from White Harbor. Less common were the sigils of Flint and Karstark. Here and

there he even saw the bull moose of the Hornwoods. But no Glovers, Asha saw to them, no

Boltons from the Dreadfort, no Umbers come down from the shadow of the Wall. Not that

they were needed. Soon enough the boy Cley Cerwyn appeared before the gates carrying a

peace banner on a tall staff, to announce that Ser Rodrik Cassel wished to parley with Theon

Turncloak.

Turncloak. The name was bitter as bile. He had gone to Pyke to lead his father's

longships against Lannisport, he remembered. "I shall be out shortly," he shouted down.

"Alone."

Black Lorren disapproved. "Only blood can wash out blood," he declared. "Knights may

keep their truces with other knights, but they are not so careful of their honor when dealing

with those they deem outlaw."

Theon bristled. "I am the Prince of Winterfell and heir to the Iron Islands. Now go find

the girl and do as I told you."

Black Lorren gave him a murderous look. "Aye, Prince."

He's turned against me too, Theon realized. Of late it seemed to him as if the very stones

of Winterfell had turned against him. If I die, I die friendless and abandoned. What choice did

that leave him, but to live?

He rode to the gatehouse with his crown on his head. A woman was drawing water from

the well, and Gage the cook stood in the door of the kitchens. They hid their hatred behind

sullen looks and faces blank as slate, yet he could feel it all the same.

When the drawbridge was lowered, a chill wind sighed across the moat. The touch of it

made him shiver. It is the cold, nothing more, Theon told himself, a shiver, not a tremble.

Even brave men shiver. Into the teeth of that wind he rode, under the portcullis, over the

487

drawbridge. The outer gates swung open to let him pass. As he emerged beneath the walls, he

could sense the boys watching from the empty sockets where their eyes had been.

Ser Rodrik waited in the market astride his dappled gelding. Beside him, the direwolf of

Stark flapped from a staff borne by young Cley Cerwyn. They were alone in the square,

though Theon could see archers on the roofs of surrounding houses, spearmen to his right, and

to his left a line of mounted knights beneath the merman-and-trident of House Manderly.

Every one of them wants me dead. Some were boys he'd drunk with, diced with, even

wenched with, but that would not save him if he fell into their hands.

"Ser Rodrik." Theon reined to a halt. "It grieves me that we must meet as foes."

"My own grief is that I must wait a while to hang you." The old knight spat onto the

muddy ground. "Theon Turncloak."

"I am a Greyjoy of Pyke," Theon reminded him. "The cloak my father swaddled me in

bore a kraken, not a direwolf."

"For ten years you have been a ward of Stark."

"Hostage and prisoner, I call it."

"Then perhaps Lord Eddard should have kept you chained to a dungeon wall. Instead he

raised you among his own sons, the sweet boys you have butchered, and to my undying

shame I trained you in the arts of war. Would that I had thrust a sword through your belly

instead of placing one in your hand."

"I came out to parley, not to suffer your insults. Say what you have to say, old man. What

would you have of me?"

"Two things," the old man said. "Winterfell, and your life. Command your men to open

the gates and lay down their arms. Those who murdered no children shall be free to walk

away, but you shall be held for King Robb's justice. May the gods take pity on you when he

returns."

"Robb will never look on Winterfell again," Theon promised. "He will break himself on

Moat Cailin, as every southron army has done for ten thousand years. We hold the north now,

ser."

"You hold three castles," replied Ser Rodrik, "and this one I mean to take back,

Turncloak."

Theon ignored that. "Here are my terms. You have until evenfall to disperse. Those who

swear fealty to Balon Greyjoy as their king and to myself as Prince of Winterfell will be

confirmed in their rights and properties and suffer no harm. Those who defy us will be

destroyed."

Young Cerwyn was incredulous. "Are you mad, Greyjoy?"

Ser Rodrik shook his head. "Only vain, lad. Theon has always had too lofty an opinion of

himself, I fear." The old man jabbed a finger at him. "Do not imagine that I need wait for

Robb to fight his way up the Neck to deal with the likes of you. I have near two thousand men

with me . . . and if the tales be true, you have no more than fifty."

Seventeen, in truth. Theon made himself smile. "I have something better than men." And

he raised a fist over his head, the signal Black Lorren had been told to watch for.

The walls of Winterfell were behind him, but Ser Rodrik faced them squarely and could

not fail to see. Theon watched his face. When his chin quivered under those stiff white

whiskers, he knew just what the old man was seeing. He is not surprised, he thought with

sadness, but the fear is there.

488

"This is craven," Ser Rodrik said. "To use a child so . . . this is despicable."

"Oh, I know," said Theon. "It's a dish I tasted myself, or have you forgotten? I was ten

when I was taken from my father's house, to make certain he would raise no more rebellions."

"It is not the same!"

Theon's face was impassive. "The noose I wore was not made of hempen rope, that's

true enough, but I felt it all the same. And it chafed, Ser Rodrik. It chafed me raw." He had

never quite realized that until now, but as the words came spilling out he saw the truth of

them.

"No harm was ever done you."

"And no harm will be done your Beth, so long as you—"

Ser Rodrik never gave him the chance to finish. "Viper," the knight declared, his face red

with rage beneath those white whiskers. "I gave you the chance to save your men and die with

some small shred of honor, Turncloak. I should have known that was too much to ask of a

childkiller." His hand went to the hilt of his sword. "I ought cut you down here and now and

put an end to your lies and deceits. By the gods, I should."

Theon did not fear a doddering old man, but those watching archers and that line of

knights were a different matter. If the swords came out his chances of getting back to the

castle alive were small to none. "Forswear your oath and murder me, and you will watch your

little Beth strangle at the end of a rope."

Ser Rodrik's knuckles had gone white, but after a moment he took his hand off the

swordhilt. "Truly, I have lived too long."

"I will not disagree, ser. Will you accept my terms?"

"I have a duty to Lady Catelyn and House Stark."

"And your own House? Beth is the last of your blood."

The old knight drew himself up straight. "I offer myself in my daughter's place. Release

her, and take me as your hostage. Surely the castellan of Winterfell is worth more than a

child."

"Not to me." A valiant gesture, old man, but I am not that great a fool. "Not to Lord

Manderly or Leobald Tallhart either, I'd wager." Your sorry old skin is worth no more to them

than any other man's. "No, I'll keep the girl . . . and keep her safe, so long as you do as I've

commanded you. Her life is in your hands."

"Gods be good, Theon, how can you do this? You know I must attack, have sworn . . ."

"If this host is still in arms before my gate when the sun sets, Beth will hang," said

Theon. "Another hostage will follow her to the grave at first light, and another at sunset.

Every dawn and every dusk will mean a death, until you are gone. I have no lack of hostages."

He did not wait for a reply, but wheeled Smiler around and rode back toward the castle. He

went slowly at first, but the thought of those archers at his back soon drove him to a canter.

The small heads watched him come from their spikes, their tarred and flayed faces looming

larger with every yard; between them stood little Beth Cassel, noosed and crying. Theon put

his heel into Smiler and broke into a hard gallop. Smiler's hooves clattered on the drawbridge,

like drumbeats.

In the yard he dismounted and handed his reins to Wex. "It may stay them," he told

Black Lorren. "We'll know by sunset. Take the girl in till then, and keep her somewhere

safe." Under the layers of leather, steel, and wool, he was slick with sweat. "I need a cup of

wine. A vat of wine would do even better."

489

A fire had been laid in Ned Stark's bedchamber. Theon sat beside it and filled a cup with

a heavy-bodied red from the castle vaults, a wine as sour as his mood. They will attack, he

thought gloomily, staring at the flames. Ser Rodrik loves his daughter, but he is still castellan,

and most of all a knight. Had it been Theon with a noose around his neck and Lord Balon

commanding the army without, the warhorns would already have sounded the attack, he had

no doubt. He should thank the gods that Ser Rodrik was not ironborn. The men of the green

lands were made of softer stuff, though he was not certain they would prove soft enough.

If not, if the old man gave the command to storm the castle regardless, Winterfell would

fall; Theon entertained no delusions on that count. His seventeen might kill three, four, five

times their own number, but in the end they would be overwhelmed.

Theon stared at the flames over the rim of his wine goblet, brooding on the injustice of it

all. "I rode beside Robb Stark in the Whispering Wood," he muttered. He had been frightened

that night, but not like this. It was one thing to go into battle surrounded by friends, and

another to perish alone and despised. Mercy, he thought miserably.

When the wine brought no solace, Theon sent Wex to fetch his bow and took himself to

the old inner ward. There he stood, loosing shaft after shaft at the archery butts until his

shoulders ached and his fingers were bloody, pausing only long enough to pull the arrows

from the targets for another round. I saved Bran's life with this bow, he reminded himself.

Would that I could save my own. Women came to the well, but did not linger; whatever they

saw on Theon's face sent them away quickly.

Behind him the broken tower stood, its summit as jagged as a crown where fire had

collapsed the upper stories long ago. As the sun moved, the shadow of the tower moved as

well, gradually lengthening, a black arm reaching out for Theon Greyjoy. By the time the sun

touched the wall, he was in its grasp. If I hang the girl, the northmen will attack at once, he

thought as he loosed a shaft. If I do not hang her, they will know my threats are empty. He

knocked another arrow to his bow. There is no way out, none.

"If you had a hundred archers as good as yourself, you might have a chance to hold the

castle," a voice said softly.

When he turned, Maester Luwin was behind him. "Go away," Theon told him. "I have

had enough of your counsel."

"And life? Have you had enough of that, my lord prince?"

He raised the bow. "One more word and I'll put this shaft through your heart."

"You won't."

Theon bent the bow, drawing the grey goose feathers back to his cheek. "Care to make a

wager?"

"I am your last hope, Theon."

I have no hope, he thought. Yet he lowered the bow half an inch and said, "I will not

run."

"I do not speak of running. Take the black."

"The Night's Watch?" Theon let the bow unbend slowly and pointed the arrow at the

ground.

"Ser Rodrik has served House Stark all his life, and House Stark has always been a friend

to the Watch. He will not deny you. Open your gates, lay down your arms, accept his terms,

and he must let you take the black."

A brother of the Night's Watch. It meant no crown, no sons, no wife . . . but it meant life,

and life with honor. Ned Stark's own brother had chosen the Watch, and Jon Snow as well.

490

I have black garb aplenty, once I tear the krakens off. Even my horse is black. I could

rise high in the Watch—chief of rangers, likely even Lord Commander. Let Asha keep the

bloody islands, they're as dreary as she is. If I served at Eastwatch, I could command my own

ship, and there's fine hunting beyond the Wall. As for women, what wildling woman wouldn't

want a prince in her bed? A slow smile crept across his face. A black cloak can't be turned.

I'd be as good as any man . . .

"PRINCE THEON!" The sudden shout shattered his daydream. Kromm was loping

across the ward. "The northmen—"

He felt a sudden sick sense of dread. "Is it the attack?"

Maester Luwin clutched his arm. "There's still time. Raise a peace banner—"

"They're fighting," Kromm said urgently. "More men came up, hundreds of them, and at

first they made to join the others. But now they've fallen on them!"

"Is it Asha?" Had she come to save him after all?

But Kromm gave a shake of his head. "No. These are northmen, I tell you. With a bloody

man on their banner."

The flayed man of the Dreadfort. Reek had belonged to the Bastard of Bolton before his

capture, Theon recalled. It was hard to believe that a vile creature like him could sway the

Boltons to change their allegiance, but nothing else made sense. "I'll see this for myself,"

Theon said.

Maester Luwin trailed after him. By the time they reached the battlements, dead men and

dying horses were strewn about the market square outside the gates. He saw no battle lines,

only a swirling chaos of banners and blades. Shouts and screams rang through the cold

autumn air. Ser Rodrik seemed to have the numbers, but the Dreadfort men were better led,

and had taken the others unawares. Theon watched them charge and wheel and charge again,

chopping the larger force to bloody pieces every time they tried to form up between the

houses. He could hear the crash of iron axeheads on oaken shields over the terrified

trumpeting of a maimed horse. The inn was burning, he saw.

Black Lorren appeared beside him and stood silently for a time. The sun was low in the

west, painting the fields and houses all a glowing red. A thin wavering cry of pain drifted over

the walls, and a warhorn sounded off beyond the burning houses. Theon watched a wounded

man drag himself painfully across the ground, smearing his life's blood in the dirt as he

struggled to reach the well that stood at the center of the market square. He died before he got

there. He wore a leather jerkin and conical half-helm, but no badge to tell which side he'd

fought on.

The crows came in the blue dust, with the evening stars. "The Dothraki believe the stars

are spirits of the valiant dead," Theon said. Maester Luwin had told him that, a long time ago.

"Dothraki?"

"The horselords across the narrow sea."

"Oh. Them." Black Lorren frowned through his beard. "Savages believe all manner of

foolish things."

As the night grew darker and the smoke spread it was harder to make out what was

happening below, but the din of steel gradually diminished to nothing, and the shouts and

warhorns gave way to moans and piteous wailing. Finally a column of mounted men rode out

of the drifting smoke. At their head was a knight in dark armor. His rounded helm gleamed a

sullen red, and a pale pink cloak streamed from his shoulders. Outside the main gate he reined

up, and one of his men shouted for the castle to open.

491

"Are you friend or foe?" Black Lorren bellowed down.

"Would a foe bring such fine gifts?" Red Helm waved a hand, and three corpses were

dumped in front of the gates. A torch was waved above the bodies, so the defenders upon the

walls might see the faces of the dead.

"The old castellan," said Black Lorren.

"With Leobald Tallhart and Cley Cerwyn." The boy lord had taken an arrow in the eye,

and Ser Rodrik had lost his left arm at the elbow. Maester Luwin gave a wordless cry of

dismay, turned away from the battlements, and fell to his knees sick.

"The great pig Manderly was too craven to leave White Harbor, or we would have

brought him as well," shouted Red Helm.

I am saved, Theon thought. So why did he feel so empty? This was victory, sweet

victory, the deliverance he had prayed for. He glanced at Maester Luwin. To think how close I

came to yielding, and taking the black . . .

"Open the gates for our friends." Perhaps tonight Theon would sleep without fear of what

his dreams might bring.

The Dreadfort men made their way across the moat and through the inner gates. Theon

descended with Black Lorren and Maester Luwin to meet them in the yard. Pale red pennons

trailed from the ends of a few lances, but many more carried battle-axes and greatswords and

shields hacked half to splinters. "How many men did you lose?" Theon asked Red Helm as he

dismounted.

"Twenty or thirty." The torchlight glittered off the chipped enamel of his visor. His helm

and gorget were wrought in the shape of a man's face and shoulders, skinless and bloody,

mouth open in a silent howl of anguish.

"Ser Rodrik had you five-to-one."

"Aye, but he thought us friends. A common mistake. When the old fool gave me his

hand, I took half his arm instead. Then I let him see my face." The man put both hands to his

helm and lifted it off his head, holding it in the crook of his arm.

"Reek," Theon said, disquieted. How did a serving man get such fine armor?

The man laughed. "The wretch is dead." He stepped closer. "The girl's fault. If she had

not run so far, his horse would not have lamed, and we might have been able to flee. I gave

him mine when I saw the riders from the ridge. I was done with her by then, and he liked to

take his turn while they were still warm. I had to pull him off her and shove my clothes into

his hands—calfskin boots and velvet doublet, silver-chased swordbelt, even my sable cloak.

Ride for the Dreadfort, I told him, bring all the help you can. Take my horse, he's swifter, and

here, wear the ring my father gave me, so they'll know you came from me. He'd learned

better than to question me. By the time they put that arrow through his back, I'd smeared

myself with the girl's filth and dressed in his rags. They might have hanged me anyway, but it

was the only chance I saw." He rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth. "And now, my

sweet prince, there was a woman promised me, if I brought two hundred men. Well, I brought

three times as many, and no green boys nor field hands neither, but my father's own

garrison."

Theon had given his word. This was not the time to flinch. Pay him his pound of flesh

and deal with him later. "Harrag," he said, "go to the kennels and bring Palla out for . . . ?"

"Ramsay." There was a smile on his plump lips, but none in those pale pale eyes. "Snow,

my wife called me before she ate her fingers, but I say Bolton." His smile curdled. "So you'd

offer me a kennel girl for my good service, is that the way of it?"

492

There was a tone in his voice Theon did not like, no more than he liked the insolent way

the Dreadfort men were looking at him. "She was what was promised."

"She smells of dogshit. I've had enough of bad smells, as it happens. I think I'll have

your bed-warmer instead. What do you call her? Kyra?"

"Are you mad?" Theon said angrily. "I'll have you—"

The Bastard's backhand caught him square, and his cheekbone shattered with a sickening

crunch beneath the lobstered steel. The world vanished in a red roar of pain.

Sometime later, Theon found himself on the ground. He rolled onto his stomach and

swallowed a mouthful of blood. Close the gates! he tried to shout, but it was too late. The

Dreadfort men had cut down Red Rolfe and Kenned, and more were pouring through, a river

of mail and sharp swords. There was a ringing in his ears, and horror all around him. Black

Lorren had his sword out, but there were already four of them pressing in on him. He saw Ulf

go down with a crossbow bolt through the belly as he ran for the Great Hall. Maester Luwin

was trying to reach him when a knight on a warhorse planted a spear between his shoulders,

then swung back to ride over him. Another man whipped a torch round and round his head

and then lofted it toward the thatched roof of the stables. "Save me the Freys," the Bastard

was shouting as the flames roared upward, "and burn the rest. Burn it, burn it all."

The last thing Theon Greyjoy saw was Smiler, kicking free of the burning stables with

his mane ablaze, screaming, rearing . . .