The cold winds of winter didn't affect Arthor as much as they did his southron companions.
Robin Ryger was virtually frozen, and could barely guide his horse straight he was quivering so much. The Maester was bundled up in thick winter clothes, and still his teeth endlessly chattered together. He had considered gutting him right here and now just for him testing his patience.
Marlon Manderly also didn't look very happy about the journey. It was warmer down in White Harbour, even during winter, and the Manderlys were southrons at heart. Not like the Karstarks. They were practically born of winter.
The only ones who seemed to be enjoying this journey were Aegor Stane and the bard that Wyman Manderly had sent with them. He was clearly of the north, although he barely spoke with Arthor, which was fine with him. He hated singers.
It was Aegor that he rode alongside. The boy was of Skagos, which meant that Arthor had mistrusted him at first, but he was the only one of these men that he didn't think was working for Wyman.
Plus, he didn't expect Arthor to do too much of the talking.
"How can this be affecting them so badly? Back home on Skagos we call this a slight chill. Nothing more than a cold wind coming in from sea. Is this what all you mainlanders are like? I've never really met that many of you."
"What about those that get stranded on your home?"
Aegor shrugged.
"They don't tend to want to talk much. Most of them die when they crash. Others die fighting us. Some settle, but they are few and far between."
They rode on in silence for a while. Arthor wondered whether Aegor had met Marlon Manderly when he rescued Rickon Stark from the island. Probably not. There was little purpose asking.
"D-D-Do we grow nearer, Ser Karstark?"
That was Robin Ryger, who had pulled up next to him.
Ryger was a friend of Desmond Grell, and a man who had spent most of his life in service to the Tullys of Riverrun. Arthor had little doubt that he was now in service to House Manderly. He was just as bad as Desmond Grell.
"We grow nearer every stride our horses take, Ser Robin. If you mean when we will get there, then I would suggest that we make camp soon and journey the rest of the way on foot tomorrow."
He dismounted his horse, and walked it to underneath a tree, before handing it over to Tybald, the maester that Stannis had sent with them. He wasn't much use at setting up camp, so Arthor had left him to look after the horses each night. It was all he was good for, really.
He had been sent so that Arthor could report back news from Karhold without relying on the Wildlings. The old maester for the castle had joined the Boltons in Winterfell, and so they needed to bring their own. Tybald was the old Bolton maester. Arthor didn't trust him.
"Let me sing you all some songs of great heroes and their journeys, my friends."
Arthor turned, and found Abel had taken out his lute and was starting to pluck at the strings. Aegor enjoyed listening to the man, as did Ryger and Manderly. Arthor found himself somewhere to rest and cleared out the snow, before laying down his blanket. It didn't take him long to get to sleep.
He was woken up the next morning by the sound of voices. He kept his eyes closed, so as not to alert possible foes to the fact that he was awake.
"Not even a guard. If we were worser men then we coulda killed them in their sleep and taken all their riches."
"We still could."
He heard the sound of one of them spitting on the ground.
"Bollocks to that. Sigorn wants to talk with these southerners. He reckons we need their support, and I reckon I agree with that, even if the thought does make me member shrivel up."
So, these were men from the wildling that held Karhold then. Maybe that meant they were friends, and they could afford to confront them.
"Look at this one. His beard is bigger than his cock, I suspect. Not me, though. My member stretches out longer than any beard known to man."
That was it. He rolled over, and went for his sword. No sooner had he got to it, however, but he found a knife at his throat. He dropped his weapon, and looked up at his assailant.
It was an old man. He was short, but with a large chest and brought shoulders. His beard was the same colour as snow, and fell down to his waist. He wore great bands of gold or bronze on his arms, which were inscribed with runes.
"So, you are awake, ay? It's rude not to announce yourself, southerner. My name is Tormund Giantsbane, Tall-talker, Horn-blower, and Breaker of Ice. Also, Tormund Thunderfist, Husband to Bears, the Mead-king of Ruddy Hall, Speaker to Gods and Father of Hosts. This is my son, Toregg, who they call the Tall. He is yet to get any other titles."
Arthor looked to Tormund's companion, and saw that he was indeed a tall, giant of a man. He didn't see the family resemblance. Maybe the wildling's wife had been unfaithful to her boorish husband. Or, more likely when north of the wall, she had been raped, and this Toregg was the product of that. He wondered if Tormund knew. It was probably best not to broach the subject with the man whilst he had a knife to his throat.
"You should lower the knife, father. Sigorn wants this lot alive."
"Aye, that he does, son. You have the wits of your mother, for sure."
Tormund lowered the blade, which Arthor noticed was made of a curious black, glasslike stone, and then moved on to rouse the other members of Arthor's party. The maester refused to get up, until Tormund buried a boot in his chest.
"Right, boys. I don't know you, and you don't know me. I don't trust you. I won't take your weapons, but you should know that it isn't just me and my son out here with you buggers. You're surrounded, so best not try anything, ay?"
Arthor was reluctant to follow the man. He couldn't help but feel that Tormund Giantsbane was threatening them when he mentioned the troops around them. Maybe there was more to their presence than what the old man was saying.
"Let us go. I have a fire in my room, and I don't want to be out here freezing my member off all morning."
Tormund started to walk then, with his son taking up the rear. The maester was slow, as you would expect, and Arthor could hear Toregg kicking him up the backside every now and again. Ryger wasn't much faster, though Abel seemed more at home walking through the snow. He went at the head of their party, walking alongside Tormund.
Arthor walked in silence. He knew these woods. He had hunted here with Harrion, Torrhen and Eddard. He had taken girls out here and felt their sweet kisses, and then their sweet breasts. He had laid in the grass here and had maesters give him lessons on heraldry and houses. These were his home.
He glared at the back of Tormund's head.
Him and his wildling rapers and raiders had taken what belonged to House Karstark. They had taken little Alys, and now they had taken his home and the castle where he had grown up, as well as the forests that had seen so much of his childhood.
Then, as if out of nowhere, Karhold rose above them.
It was a mighty castle. It was smaller than Winterfell, but held more than Castle Cerwyn, Deepwood Motte or Last Hearth. The Karstarks had been fourth only to the Stark of Winterfell, the Manderlys of White Harbour, and the Boltons of the Dreadfort in terms of power before this war. Now they had been reduced to nothing.
Well, almost nothing.
Arthor couldn't help but smile as he saw Alys amongst the party waiting for them at the gate. She rushed forward, away from her group, and wrapped her thin arms around him in an embrace. He picked her up, and spun her gently, as he had always done when they had been younger. This was home.
There wasn't just Alys waiting for him. He shook hands with the Thenn boy, who looked to be unintelligent and brash, and saw his father, the senior Arthor Karstark, though he could not make his gaze. He knew why his father would hate him. He had betrayed his name, and murdered his brothers, cousins and grandfather for Stannis Baratheon.
There wasn't a night that went by that he didn't dream of their screams and their protests. They haunted him. That was the price that he paid for supporting the one true king.
Sigorn came up to him after the meeting, with Tormund stood just behind him.
"My wife tells me you grew up here. Your name is Arthor, of the Karstark house. I would be honoured if you and your companions dine with us tonight, so that we may discuss our common enemy."
"Roose Bolton has threatened you, too?"
Sigorn looked taken aback, and looked to Tormund quizzically. The old wilding shrugged his shoulders, and Sigorn turned back to him.
"I have no problems with this Roose Bolton that you speak of. I mean the army of the dead that walk beyond your Wall. They come for us all, and we must unite to stop them. That is what King Crow told us. I believe that your king knew him."
Arthor had heard Stannis talk about the army of the dead, and how Jon Snow had told him repeatedly that all the people of Westeros would have to unite together to fight them, whether they be wildling and northman, or Marcher Lord and Dornishman.
Frankly, Arthor thought there was more chance of a Lannister giving their wealth to charitable causes than the men of the North willingly fighting alongside the wildlings, and the notion had done Jon Snow little good either. The boy was dead.
"We will dine with you to discuss your surrender to Stannis Baratheon, King on the Iron Throne, and nothing else. You will help us defeat Roose Bolton, and then whatever wars you think you have to fight will be discussed after. Have somebody show me to my chambers."
He walked away from the man who called himself the Lord of Karhold. It was unlawful. He disliked both Sigorn and Tormund. Neither of them were worthy of his home. The world would have been served better if both of them died beyond the Wall.
Then the crowd of gathered people threw him in front of his father.
They looked very little alike. His father was squat, with a bald head and chin, a large stomach, and had a round, fat face. Arthor was tall with a mighty beard. The only thing they had in common was their name.
"Greetings, father."
"Do not call me that. You are no son to me. Your brothers. They were my sons. The same brothers that you burned alive on the orders of your heretic king. You have become a monster, and I will have no part in that wicked transformation."
Arthor hanged his head as his father moved away, and then made his way into the castle, shown the way to his chambers by a young wildling. He was chunky with thick arms and legs. There was the beginnings of a beard on his chin. It didn't take him long to realise that this one was one of Tormund's sons also. He took note of where Tormund went when he went inside, so that he knew where his chambers were.
Alys had seen fit to give him the same room that he had grown up in. He was glad of that, as he would have been haunted by the memories of his brothers even more had he been forced to sleep in their beds. There was a small fireplace, but he didn't want warmth tonight. He wanted to feel at home.
Just then there was a knock on the door. He opened it, and the maester bumbled in.
Tybald was red headed, with round shoulders and eyes that were too close together. His nose was small, and his eyes shimmered green, although they were no emeralds. They were dull, and shimmered only because of the water in his eyes.
"I- I received a raven from Castle Cerwyn, my lord. King Stannis asks for a report on the state of Karhold the moment that you arrive. Should- Should I send something back to him?"
Arthor held out his hand.
"Show me the letter, maester. I would read my king's words myself."
Tybald hesitated then, and put his hand into the pockets of his grey cloak. He wore the chain around his neck, but it looked like it was weighing him down. Why wasn't he handing over the letter?
"I- I left it in my chambers, my lord. I am sorry. I thought my words would be enough. Would you have me fetch it?"
"I would have you show me whatever it is that you're hiding, maester. In fact, I would demand that you, in the name of the king that we both hold, show me what you're holding in your pocket!"
He grabbed the maester by the throat, and pushed him against the wall of the room. He forced his other hand into the man's pocket, and pulled out a scroll of parchment. It was small, and the letter was short.
"My Lord."
He started to read, putting more and more pressure onto the man's throat.
"This is your trusted servant, Tybald Lannister. I write to you from Karhold, where the Magnar of Thenn, who calls himself the new Lord Thenn has taken the castle, and taken the Karstark daughter as his bride. Arnolf is dead. His sons are missing or have bent the knee to the wildling. The party sent by the traitor Stannis Baratheon will travel past the Dreadfort in approximately five days' time. I implore you to come save me and kill my companions."
"I am your servant and your servant alone, Lord Bolton. Tybald."
He threw the paper into the ashes of the fire, and turned his attention back onto Tybald, the maester. He had not known he had been of House Lannister originally. Stannis can't have known either, otherwise he would never have trusted him on a mission of this importance.
"You're a traitor. I thought as much. I knew I couldn't trust you, Tybald. I knew that Stannis was wrong in sending you with us. He should have sent Rhodry."
Arthor dropped Tybald to the floor, and then picked his longsword up from the bed. Tybald was cowering against the wall as he took steps towards him. He raised his sword, and thrust it through his stomach, dragging it along, and allowing the man's guts to spill onto the floor. He stood over his body and looked down on him as he died. The man stank of piss and shit. He was a craven. Arthor had always thought that, but now he knew. The man was nothing.
He walked his way up to the Lord's Solar, where Sigorn was holding a small gathering. When he got there, he found only wildlings, as well as the bard, Abel.
The bard was deep in song, singing of the King Beyond The Wall known as Bael the Bard, who snatched the daughter of a past Lord Stark and impregnated her. The wildlings liked to say that the bastard of that union had later gone on to become Lord Benjen Stark, the grandfather of the famous Lord Cregan. That was all a lie, of course.
The Stark bloodline was pure. Most Starks would marry into other Northern houses, or, at the very least, Old God loyalist houses from the south, like the Blackwoods or the Royces.
Tormund was the first of the wildlings to turn to him when he entered. The old wildling clapped his hands.
"Ser Karstark, you join us at last. Young Sigorn was unsure as to whether you would show today. You do not want to acknowledge the true enemy. I understand that. I wish that I hadn't seen them myself. I have, and I know that you would be as scared to the bones as I am by what is coming."
"If you wanted the support of King Stannis Baratheon to fight this imaginary foe that you have created, then you will have to commit men to fight Roose Bolton, the usurper who calls himself the Lord of Winterfell."
Tormund thought for a few seconds. He mused, and his face was one of contemplation.
"Bolton… I know the name. Jon Snow talked to me of a bastard of Bolton. He claimed to have killed some of my people. I say we send men to aid this Stannis Baratheon."
Sigorn stepped forward then, and the other wildlings moved away from him.
"My father supported Mance Rayder, who this Stannis Baratheon burned alive. Why should I believe that he will not do the same with me, or my friends and allies? Why should I risk my men fighting this Roose Bolton who offers no threat to me, when I will need all those men for the war to come?"
"Because the rightful king has called on your support. You were wed to my cousin by Jon Snow, correct? He was a friend to my king. You should be friends, too."
Tormund spoke up then.
"If Stannis Baratheon the southerner was so friendly with Lord Snow, then why did he not ride north when the boy was murdered? Or send some sort of envoy to bring justice down on the treacherous Bowen Marsh? He cared little for the boy. It was I that saw him avenged, no king of the south."
"You have been given the terms of your surrender. That was all I was instructed to do. Come, Abel. I would talk with you in private."
Arthor left, but as he did, he saw Abel meet eyes with Tormund. That was a suspicious sign, but maybe the two had bonded over their love of song. He had already found the traitor in their group. He didn't suspect another one.
"Go tell Aegor and Robin to ready the horses. Make sure that Manderly is awake and ready to leave. We must make our return to Castle Cerwyn. Our job here is done, and our lives are all in danger."
Abel had a thin smile playing on his lips, and there were laughter marks in the corners. Could he be trusted? He had thought the maester untrustworthy, but Abel had no history. He was a Manderly man, and he had no reason to be loyal to Stannis Baratheon.
When Abel was gone, he returned to his rooms, where the maester's body was still laid on the floor, slumped in the corner. Arthor pushed his guts back inside of him, getting his hands bloody in the process, and then picked him up.
Karhold was dark now, and he managed to find his way to Tormund's rooms without too much trouble. He laid the maester down outside the door, before heading back down to the gates of the castle. He found Aegor, Robin, Marlon and Abel waiting with their horses. They had found the maester's horse, too.
"Where is Tybald? Why have we been brought her? Abel says you want us to leave. Why should we?"
That was Marlon Manderly. He was a brash man, and another of his party that he didn't trust. Maybe he was reporting everything that happened to them back to Wyman Manderly, just as Tybald had been doing with Roose Bolton.
"Tybald has been killed, my friends. He was murdered by one of those wildling bastards. I saw it happen. The one called Tormund. He gutted him for no reason. We aren't safe her. We aren't safe from them. We have to go and report their treachery to King Stannis."
Aegor, Robin and Marlon then mounted their horses with no more objection, but Arthor could see Abel's eyes on him. He still had the playful smile, and his eyes suggested he knew that he was lying. He could be dealt with later, though. He was no soldier, and he did not fear the bard. What could he do to him? He was the king of nothing, and had no men at his back.
