CHAPTER VI: SOMETHING OLD .˚⋆ ༄ (TW: Alcoholic parent, mentions of sexual assault)
THE window was veiled in a curtain of frost when Pate awoke that morning; leaf-shaped white crystal wrought by winter's frigid hand, encasing the glass in a thousand icy spirals. His sister called them frost flowers, for their intricate, fernlike pattern. They were the only sort of flowers Pate knew to melt. By sunup, they would run in rivulets down the panes, and by noon, it would appear the frost had never been there at all.
The same could not be said for the crops. Autumn meant harvest; grain in the bin. Yet it also meant summer had given its yield, and winter was coming. The previous one had only lasted a year, but this time around would be different; the gods had granted them ten bountiful years of summer, and they were like to get a winter just as long in exchange.
If luck would have it, he wouldn't be home by then.
A messenger had ridden in through the fog of morning three days ago, heralding news that Lord Bolton would arrive within the week, accompanied by a host of four thousand strong. Speculations arose at once. The village headman, Darry, surmised that Bolton's return north had something to do with his bastard son, who had forced the Lady of Hornwood to marry him not six months past. She was an old woman — well beyond her childbearing years, and of no use in furthering the Bolton line — yet that black-hearted Ramsay had raped her all the same, then locked her away in a tower to starve. According to rumour, she'd been found with her mouth covered in blood, and each finger chewed off to the knuckle.
Old Osmund, the tavern keeper who was oft more drunk than his patrons, was not quite convinced by Darry's verdict. "You lot are fools," he'd slurred at those gossiping in the square the day before, already well in his cups when the morning was still crisp and grey. "Bolton's returnin' north because th' damned war's lost an' th' king's dead!"
Once word spread of his statement, everyone refused to speak to him, nor would they step foot in his tavern, the Wagon and Hook. It was common knowledge King Robb had won every battle he'd ever fought, and besides, you weren't supposed to say anything that wasn't in his favour, otherwise you might cause it to come true.
Since business at the Wagon and Hook was suffering, the barmaid Palla began saying often and loudly that Lord Bolton had simply withdrawn to round up more recruits for the northern army, in hopes of strengthening the king's cause. Her opinion fared much better amongst the townsfolk than Osmund's had, and quickly hunch was accepted as truth.
Pate hoped that she was right. He was sixteen now, a man grown — the age required of a recruit.
Naturally, Pate was the second youngest of five children, and the very youngest of the boys, securing him a nice warm spot at the bottom of the family pecking order. He had two elder brothers: Willum, who was charming and handsome, and would someday be next village head, and Owen, who was heir to the farm by law of inheritance. His sister Sera was set to marry the innkeep's son and become mistress of his household, and the babe of the family, Mylla — his half sister, in truth — would most like do something akin.
Pate had spent what must have been a hundred nights debating on if he should enlist, lying wide awake on his back while Owen and Willum slept beside him. There was little left for him in the village of Oldcod... But war was waging in Westeros, and with it came laurels to reach, and glories to gain. Even the lowest of lowborn scum like himself could rise to become a hero, and be rewarded with lands and titles and coin for their brave deeds.
Besides, there was great honour in being a soldier; all the songs and stories said so.
He'd fallen back to sleep with a smile on his face, picturing himself in a suit of mail and plate armour, with his very own sword of castle-forged steel, polished to perfection... Then woke once more to Willum yanking the furs and blankets off him, and the faint smell of pottage simmering in the hearth room. "Come on, Pate, up an' at 'em. Sera'll be fumin' if you're late t' breakfast again." He bundled up the coverings and threw them to the floor.
Pate sat up on his pallet, groaning as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "Seven's sake, Will! Give those back! It's cold enough t' freeze your nuts off in 'ere, an' there's a leak in the roof, 'member? You're gon' get my beddin' all mucked up by puttin' it on the ground!" Shivering, he leaned over the edge of the straw-stuffed mattress, gathered the blankets into his arms, and tucked himself back in.
Owen poked his curly blond head through the doorway behind Will. "I'd get up if I was you," he warned, smirking in that cocksure way he had. "She just told me she'd whoop your lazy fookin' arse if your food got cold 'fore you ate."
"An' I meant it!" Sera called from the other room.
Will was bitching at Owen now, just as he did every morning. "You're the dead last person who should speak on lazy fookin' arses, you are."
Owen rolled his eyes. "My arse ain't lazy," he replied as he turned away. "It's preservin' my strength; tha's why it's so big."
Will went after him, leaving Pate alone in their bed quarters. "Aye, preservin' it t' walk t' the whorehouse, might be, since tha's the only bloody time you get off it t' do anythin' 'round 'ere!"
It was always like that between Will and Owen. They were constantly at each other's throats about something stupid — yesterday it was that someone had eaten the last strip of bacon when it wasn't their turn, and the day before it was because one was on the shit hole riiight when the other needed to have a crap. Other times, just Owen's existence was enough to set Will off.
They were the closest in age of all the siblings, but you would never know it from how they acted. Will kept everyone in order; managed the household earnings, doled out chores, ensured the land taxes had been paid on time. When he wasn't off training to become next village head with Darry, he would also tend the farm, or give Sera an extra pair of hands around the cottage.
Owen was as unruly as they came; a drunken lecher by the age of five and ten, who loved nothing more than mingling at the tavern with what Will called his fellowship of "good for nothin' wastrels".
A few years back, he made off with Sera's dowry jar and emptied it at the expensive brothel in White Harbour, so he and all his friends could take turns with some whore the butcher had spun them a tempting tale of. Pate had never seen Will more furious than the day he found out Owen had gone and done that. He'd threatened to make him leave the cottage, but by some miracle Sera managed to calm the storm between them, and in the end they were able to scrounge up enough coin for the innkeep to still agree on the match between her and his son.
"What's the point in bein' with a girl if you got t' pay her t' pretend like she wants it?" Pate had asked Sera of the matter.
She'd laughed at that. "I pray you think like tha' forever," was the answer she gave, though it was hardly an answer at all. "It'll save us some coin anyhow."
Pate supposed the reason must have been pretty good, because Owen did it several times more after that first incident. Recently Will had buried their savings in the yard where Owen wasn't like to come across it, but it wouldn't be long before stock began disappearing around the farm. Where there was an Owen, there was a way.
"Seven hells, Pate!" Will shouted. "Last chance, or your servin's mine!"
His empty belly gave a long, loud growl. There was no choice but to get up.
He garbed himself for the day in roughspun linen breeches and a pair of well-worn boots, and an old tunic that had once been white, but was now a parchment sort of colour from years of wear. Everything he owned had first belonged to his older brothers, but thankfully since Sera could sew, they weren't full of holes like the clothes the other youngest sons of the village wore.
That didn't stop Gavyn and Brenett from teasing him. Perhaps it even spurred them on further. By the look of them, no one was sewing their clothes at home.
"Took you long enough," Will said when at last he entered the hearth room. "What were you doin' in there?"
Owen snorted. "Friggin' 'imself off, I'll bet." He made an obscene gesture with his hands.
Pate flushed. "I wasn't!"
"Liar." Owen tipped his head back, slurping what was left of his meal up from the bowl, then carried on talking with his mouth full. "Caught 'im red-handed last week. Or sausage-handed, more like." He laughed, and a half-chewed lump of food fell onto the table.
Pate ignored him. That may well have been true last week, but he hadn't been doing that today.
Sera thrust a steaming bowl of pottage into his hands. "Can you run this up t' Mum for me?" Without waiting for an answer, she turned back to the hearth, where two wide black pots were brewing their breakfast.
The task of bringing Mum her food always seemed to fall to Pate, since no one else wanted to do it and he could never seem to say no. Wordless, he took his mother's serving and bounded up the stairs, two and three at a time. The faster he went, the faster it would be over with.
The second floor was cramped and stuffy. In truth, it was hardly even a floor at all; it was more a raised platform, intended for storage. Apart from the beds, there was no room for furnishings, and Pate had to duck down low so he didn't hit his head on the rafters.
Sera and Mylla shared a straw pallet, same as Pate and the boys, but their mother had her own woollen mattress. She was passed out in it now. A stinking bottle of ale with a shallow puddle left at the bottom sat on the floor beneath her; her choice of drink the night before.
As quiet as he could, Pate set the pottage down next to it. He'd learned not to wake his mother after a night of drinking. She would eat her meals on her own terms... Which was usually whenever she'd finished retching.
There was one less person in the hearth room when Pate trudged back downstairs. "Where's Owen?" he asked as he settled into the seat next to Mylla.
"Gone already," Sera replied. She set Pate's bowl down on the table in front of him. "Said yesterday he had plans t' get t' this mornin'."
"When doesn't he?" Willum said. "'Plans' is just his excuse not t' have t' do any work like the rest o' us."
Pate lowered his head and wolfed down his breakfast in silence. Once he'd finished, it was time to feed the pigs — the first of many in a day's duties.
He ladled the leftover pottage into a pail, then topped it off with acorns, stale bread, and moldy grain. Afterward he grabbed a second pail, only that one he kept empty.
"Can I come?" Mylla asked before he could escape out the door.
Pate looked to Sera for reprieve.
"Not today, Myl," Sera told her. "I'm goin' t' market, an' I'm gon' need your help. 'Sides, you know the rules. You want the fun o' feedin' the pigs, then you got t' shovel up their shit, too. You want t' come back smellin' all like Pate?"
Mylla's nose crinkled up. "No. Pate's stinky."
Pate sagged with relief. 'Thanks,' he mouthed.
Since his hands were occupied holding the pails, he had to push the door open with a boot. It caught the wind as he was stepping through, and swung back against the wall with a harsh slam. The old wooden hinges groaned as it fell shut once more behind him.
The morning had dawned grey and dismal. A curtain of mist had drifted in the night before, so thick Pate could scarce see more than five yards ahead in any direction. The cold white ghost of winter had crept upon them in the night.
The trees were mostly bare now, turning the ground below into a dense leaven carpet that crunched underfoot. Nature's blanket, he thought. Each one was a different hue: rust-brown, yellow, crimson, gold, a mosaic of autumnal colours varnished in frost. They made a dry swishing sound as he waded through them.
He stopped outside the sty, where a dozen oaken barrels were lined up. Some were filled with dirt and gravel, to sprinkle on the paths when they got too icy for their liking. Others had water in them, that way Pate didn't have to walk to the river each time he filled the pigs' drinking trough.
A layer of ice had formed on top of the water overnight; cat ice, they called it, since it was strong enough to hold up a cat, but not a person. Pate broke through it using the bottom of the pail, then dunked it under the freezing cold water and filled it to the brim.
Will and Owen didn't like tending the pigs, but Pate had never minded it. He found the animals to be clever, and he even taught them tricks, like "sit," and "shake hoof." All he had to do was fill the troughs twice a day — once in the morning, and again come evenfall — and sometimes go into the sparse brush of wood outside the village to collect acorns and wildberries for their feed. The rest of the slop was surmised of their leftovers, or rejects from the latest harvest; whatever hadn't made the cut to be sold in the marketplace by his sister, Sera.
They'd had other animals on the farm once — horses, cattle, sheep — but that had been when his father was alive. Pate didn't like to think of him. No one said anything, but they didn't have to; he knew in his heart of hearts that it was his fault Pa died. If only he'd complained a bit less, or just caught a bigger fish...
Pate, his father, and his brothers used to go ice fishing in the wintertime when he was littler — so little he could scarce remember it. He remembered this day, however, though he wished he could forget it.
They held tourneys amongst themselves over who could catch the biggest fish, and the rule was whoever caught the smallest had to dip themselves into the ice cold river water before they left. The day it happened, Pate had lost, only he complained a whole lot — so much so his father went and did it with him, to take some sting out of the loss. At the time it had been fun, all japes and laughter... But once they got home, Pa caught a chill, and just three days later they put him in the ground behind the cottage.
Pa had owned a tannery; that was how they'd been able to afford all those other animals, and how their house was two-storied and windowed, made of wood and stone. Neither Pate nor his brothers were capable enough in the trade to take over the business, so after his death, it was passed on to one of his workers, and their family's main source of coin along with it.
Things got tough for his mum then. It was Pa who had done all the fieldwork before; she liked to sew, and made dresses and aprons and hose to sell in the village marketplace. Sometimes, when his father was good for it, he gave her nice fabrics, and she'd go up to White Harbour and sell her makings to all the fancy ladies. Nothing ever made her so happy as that... But after Pa was gone, she had had to set down her needles and thread and start tending the land with Will and Owen, and Pate too when he was old enough to be of help. Pa had done the selling for their harvests, too, but Mum didn't like to go to the marketplace anymore, so the responsibility fell to Sera instead. Eventually Mum turned to the bottle, and stopped helping them at all.
Pate made a vow to himself to always be cheerful after his father's death. He'd learned first hand that complaining didn't solve problems — it attracted them. He would be grateful for what he had, work hard for what he didn't, and make a life for himself he could be proud of. And that Pa can be proud of, too, wherever he is.
After filling the sty's long wooden troughs, Pate set to work gathering the manure. It was hard as rock, and there were no flies — a sure sign of winter's fast approach.
He was pushing the manure cart to the fertiliser shed when Audrik drew up, Sven following shortly after. Both boys were red-faced and breathless, their hair windswept messes from running.
"Tha' smells like shit," Audrik complained with a wrinkle of his freckled nose. He was a lanky youth of six and ten like Pate himself, and the son of a tanner that had worked for Pate's father. Since Audrik's pa hadn't died, he'd never had to work a day on the field in his life, and was accustomed to the smell of tanned hides rather than pig dung.
Pate shrugged. "It is shit." He upended the wheelbarrow inside the shed, then left it leaning against a wall and wiped his palms clean on his breeches.
"We can see the march from tha' hill beyond the gate now," Sven was saying behind him. "Darry reckons they'll be 'ere soon."
Pate felt a rush of excitement. "For true?" he asked as he turned around.
"For true!" Sven exclaimed, his blue eyes wide with anticipation. "You ought t' come see — there's thousands o' them, Pate, a whole army! Race you t' the gate?"
Audrik groaned. "Gods, not a race."
Pate took off running. "Last one there has t' join the Night's Watch an' be celibate for life!" he shouted.
Sven was quick off the mark. Audrik cursed and followed. After that, the three of them made a war of it, dashing headlong across the yard, past the cottages and the market stalls and the inn, the Bannered Mare, a tall structure of timber and plaster, overgrown with red and yellow ivy. Pate had been in the lead when someone intervened; they stuck a leg out to trip him as he passed them by on the road, sending him careening into the muck face first.
"Looks like yeh'll be joinin' the Watch, piglet," a sneering voice above him said.
Gavyn. Pate sighed.
His big brute of an accomplice was there, too. "Not tha' he needs t' join th' Watch," Brenett was saying between snickers. "I'm sure th' runt'll be celibate fer life anyhow."
Pate had landed awkwardly on his arm, and it was sore some when he stood. Still, he would not give those two oafs the satisfaction of showing his pain. His face as impassive a mask as he could manage, he turned and promptly walked off.
Brenett was yelling after him. "Look a' th' craven, runnin' off with 'is li'l piggy tail tucked between 'is legs! Oi, careful yeh don't piss yerself!"
"Too late, already have!" Pate shouted back over his shoulder. "My pecker's so tiny; it's the only way I can keep it warm!"
The frustration that swept over their faces was marvelous.
He was bound to come in last, even if he sprinted, so Pate walked the rest of the way to the gates. Nearly the whole of the village had lined up on either side of the main road, the way they did when Lord Manderly would visit. Pate spotted Sven and Audrik among the crowd and shouldered his way through to join them.
Sven must have won; he had a gloating smile on his face when Pate drew up. It fell when he saw he was all covered in mud. "Gavyn and Brenett again?" he asked. Pate nodded.
"Why don't you tell Will?" Audrik urged him. "I'm sure he'd love t' put 'em in their place. I know I'd sure love t' see it."
"No need," Pate assured his friends. "S'all water off a duck's back t' me. 'Sides, it'll just make 'em right — tha' I really am a craven who needs t' go runnin' t' his big brother t' protect 'im. I can take care o' myself."
"Well, good news is you haven't missed much," Audrik said. "They're just comin' through now."
Beyond the log gate, Pate could see the swarming mass of soldiers cresting the valley, emerging into view like ants from their hill. Two dozen black banners whipped back and forth in the northern wind above their heads, emblazoned with the red man of House Bolton.
The foot soldiers came first, led by a greying commander in a coned half-helm and layers of boiled leather. After the march were the cavalry, dark and formidable atop their armoured warhorses. They were large, intimidating brutes, though the same could be said of their riders; garbed in heavy plate armour over their padded surcoats, they were the unfriendliest looking bunch Pate had ever chanced to look upon.
Between sections of the troops were the wagons and wheelhouses, shuddering precariously down the long dirt path behind muscled draft horses and squat pack mules. Some were caparisoned in saddlecloths of red and black, while others were left bare, revealing hairless patches on their flanks from old whipping scars.
In the centre of it all and protected on either side by a double column of outriders was Roose Bolton, cold and calculated atop a stallion black as jet. He was dressed as befit a lord in fine riding leathers and a heavy woollen cloak; flesh pink fabric slashed with red, trimmed with grey wolf fur.
The crowd had been murmuring quietly as the foot soldiers marched by... But when Roose entered the gates astride his horse, all that fell to silence. He glanced at everyone's faces one by one as he passed them, with a cold glimmer to his eye that gave Pate the feeling he could read your thoughts just by looking at you. That icy gaze swept over Pate, too, lingering only half a moment, but long enough to make his arms bristle with gooseflesh beneath his sleeves.
He knew better than to think all noblemen looked the part of the handsome high lord; their plump liege of Manderly had certainly proven that false. Yet still, there was something deeply unsettling about Roose Bolton that Pate could not quite place.
He dismounted from his stallion at the centre of the village square. Clumsily, everyone began to acknowledge their courtesies. Pate and Sven had both been kneeling when Audrik yanked them back up by the arms and whispered, "get up, you dolts, we're just s'posed t' bow our 'eads!" Pate hung his own, cheeks burning, hoping no one had noticed his mistake.
The village head, Darry, had stepped forward to speak to Roose. His name was Darrel, for true, but everyone called him Darry. He was an old, gentle man, with kind eyes and a forehead speckled with age spots. Everyone in Oldcod liked him; he kept in good favour with Lord Manderly, so their taxes stayed low, and the townsfolk never went without.
Darry had no children, but that didn't matter anyhow; becoming head didn't work by way of inheritance, it was decided by vote. Pate knew his brother Willum would be head when the time came. That was why Will stood behind Darry now, close to him as his shadow; watching, listening, learning.
Pate tried to listen himself, but he and his friends were too far away to hear much of what was being said. Soundlessly, Lord Bolton's lips would move, and Darry would answer with a hurried "yes, m'lord," or an "of course, m'lord," a frightened look upon his face, like he were speaking to a shadowcat. Pate supposed he could see the resemblance. Roose had a certain cunning observantness to him that echoed a predator stalking its prey, pale eyes watching for any misstep.
The pair spoke at length before Bolton turned that piercing gaze on his men and said, "retrieve my ward and my wife; I want them escorted to the inn."
Two of the dozen bowed their heads dutifully and turned back the way they'd come, striding beyond the gates to where the wagons and wheelhouses had been left. Lord Bolton went ahead with Darry and a very sweaty-looking Will to the inn.
Audrik nudged Pate in the ribs. "Did you see your brother's face? I thought he was gon' shit 'imself!"
Sven looked like he might retch. "I don't blame 'im," he admitted. Neither did Pate.
"Whaddaya s'pose his wife looks like, anyhow?" Audrik went on.
"I bet she's right ugly, for him t' be as miserable a wretch as he is," said Sven. Then he glanced about fervently, as though afraid someone in Lord Bolton's entourage had overheard what he'd said.
After a few minutes a short, fat woman came waddling down the path, arm in arm with one of the men Lord Bolton had sent forth. She looked quite young — all wide-eyed and pink-cheeked — though her face was hidden partially beneath her sable hood, and Pate could not tell for certain. He supposed she was Bolton's wife; the flayed man of his House was embroidered in red thread on either breast of her cloak.
"Look, piglet, there's yeh a nice fat lady pig," Pate heard an all-too familiar voice jeer behind him. Gavyn, once again. He must have followed him through the crowd.
"Mayhaps yeh can take her t' the sty an' bend 'er o'er the trough," Brenett put in, then the two of them began to snort and moan obnoxiously.
"You gon' say somethin' this time?" Audrik asked.
"Words are wind," Pate said. "I've told you a 'undred times now — them two don't bother me none."
Audrik did not seem very convinced.
Pate glanced back to the path, where a second noblewoman had appeared. Bolton's ward, he presumed, since there was no flayed man on her raiment, nor did she walk arm in arm with her escort.
She was dressed in a black gown with long dagged sleeves, her hands hidden inside a muff of snow-white fur to keep them warm. He reflected that she must be cold. The dress was all some shiny, flimsy fabric — silk, mayhaps — yet it was late autumn, and the wind had a sharp bite to it. It was no time for silken skirts.
Her skin was very pale, as was her hair. Long and silver, it cascaded past both shoulders, falling in lazy waves to her waist. He had never seen anything like it. It wasn't a lifeless grey, as some old hag's might be; hers held the irradiance of a freshly-polished sword, or coal ash after a fire had gone out.
When she was closer, he realized the fur he'd mistaken for a muff really belonged to a little bunny; her pet, it seemed. Somehow that only served to make her more endearing. Pate had a mind to smile at her when she passed him, but she never met his eye. She never met anyone's. Her face was tilted toward the ground in front of her, eyes downcast. Head hung like that, she had the look of a wilted flower — beautiful, but in a sad, delicate sort of way.
"Tha's Bolton's daughter?" Sven said once the maid was well out of earshot.
"Does she look like a Bolton t' you?" asked Audrik. "She's his ward, you stupid."
"How d'you know?"
"Bolton said so t' his guard when he told 'im t' go fetch 'em. 'Escort my ward an' my wife t' the inn,' he said, all lordly-like an' wha'not."
"All freakly like if you ask me," said Sven with a shiver. "He makes my flesh crawl. Wha' is a ward, anyhow?"
Now that Roose and his noble retinue were gone, Oldcod had begun returning to its usual hustle and bustle; the townsfolk that were gathered on either side of the road had gone back to their cottages and farms, and the merchants and shopkeepers to the tents, stalls, and carts they ran in the market square. Gavyn and Brenett appeared to have slunk off somewhere as well; when Pate turned around, they were gone.
"Still pretty early," Audrik said. He shielded his eyes with a hand and looked up at the sky. "Good conditions for fishin'. Either o' you's want t' join? We can sell our catchin's in the square an' get a bottle o' ale, like we did tha' one time."
Sven gave a wide smile, making his pointy snaggletooth jut out. "I'm in, long as you don't drink it all again, you selfish numpty."
"LIVIN' WAGES!" a soldier shouted as he passed, startling the three of them. "One 'undred an' twenty coppeh stars fer a month's work, one gold dragon fer a year's! Takin' men-a'-arms an' servin' wenches!"
Pate watched him walk off in disbelief. A gold dragon, he thought. He'd never even seen a gold dragon before.
"You comin', Pate?" Sven nudged him. When he didn't answer, he added, "don't tell me you're thinkin' about enlistin'..."
The disapproval in his tone took Pate aback. "O' course I am," he said defensively. "It's what I always wanted — you know tha'."
"Just thought you'd wait a few years is all," said Sven. "An' for the Bolton army..." He shook his head.
"If I wait a few years it'll be winter," Pate told him. "War's bound t' be over by then. 'Sides, it's all the same at the end o' the day; if I fight for the Boltons, I fight for the Starks."
"I s'pose..."
He gave his friends a reassuring smile. "Don't worry; I'll come back an' visit plenty. It's not like the Watch where I'm stuck up there wastin' away forever an' ever."
Audrik grinned back at him. "You'd better teach me how t' use a sword when you come back t' visit, if you don't go an' get yourself killed on us."
"Me too," Sven added.
"Done," Pate agreed, and with some pats of encouragement on the back, he was off.
He jogged to catch up with the soldier, who directed him beyond the gate where all the troops and carts were. As he told it, a pair of men named Hobb and Dake were taking recruits there, by some wagon filled with weapons and armour. Pate was assured he'd know them when he saw them; Dake had a nasty scar on his left cheek. "But don't stare a' it," the soldier warned. "He don't like tha'."
It did not take Pate long to find them. They were sitting on the edge of a canvas-covered wagon, playing at cards and dice. Behind them were heaps of swords and shields and plate, just as the soldier had described.
He knew which was Dake straight away. The scar was an ugly bit of twisted flesh the colour of a bruise, where the coarse black hair on his face stopped growing. Pate took care not to stare at it as he approached them — he did not want to find out what "he don't like tha'" entailed.
"Is this where I'm t' enlist?" he asked, to make his presence known.
Dake glared up at him. "No. Bugger off yeh li'l twat."
"Shut yer hole," said the other man, who Pate assumed was Hobb. He looked to be at least forty, with a jowly face, bushy grey brows, and an even bushier grey beard. "Aye, this is the place. Come, lad. Don't let tha' big oaf scare yeh."
Cautiously, Pate moved nearer.
"Name?" Dake said in a grunt.
"Pate," he blurted. "Well — Patrek, for true."
"Haven't got all day, boy. Which is it?"
"Patrek," he said, without stammering this time.
Hobb smoothed a sheet of parchment out on an empty spot in the wagon, then scribbled down what Pate supposed was his name with a long black quill. "An' how old are yeh, Patrek?"
"Six an' ten. Beg pardons, but... How soon after I enlist will I be goin' into battle?"
Hobb pulled the cork from a small black jar and dipped his quill inside it. "Not anytime soon," he said as he made another scribble on the page. "War's over."
Pate frowned. "Over? But... How can it be over?" It felt like it had just begun.
"It's over 'cause Robb Stark is dead," Dake grumbled. "Finally; now we can all go fookin' home."
"Oh..." He went quiet, blinking as he took the news in. "... How'd it happen?"
Dake slapped himself on the chest. "Dagger t' the heart."
Pate was tempted to ask for more details, but he didn't want to push his luck; Dake was not very friendly. "Well... If the war's over, what's Lord Bolton need recruits for?" he asked instead.
"You know 'ow's it is with these noble lords an' their squabblin'," answered Hobb. "One war ends an' another's just beginned. I've 'eard it said tha' Stannis Baratheon sails north as we speak on wha' remains o' his Lysene pirate's fleet, with his knight o' onions an' tha' beloved red witch o' his."
"Stannis Baratheon?" Pate furrowed his brows. "What's he got t' do with Lord Bolton?"
"Tha's no concern o' yers, green boy," Dake sneered.
Hobb looked like he'd had enough of his grumpy companion. "Quiet, Dake," he snapped. "If it was yer opinion I wanted, I'd ask fer it." After muttering something under his breath, he continued, "it ain't just war tha's comin', lad. If th' grey men at th' Citadel 'ave th' right o' it, winter'll be upon us soon. There's a great deal o' work t' be done yet, an' Lord Bolton'll be needin' some strong hands t' do it."
"I'm strong," Pate said, eager to prove himself.
Hobb smiled. His teeth were yellow and crooked. "Good t' hear. Yeh'll be wantin' one o' these then, I reckon; a fella o' yer rearin' ain't like t' have one o' yer own." He sifted through the chestplates behind him, then took one out of the pile and hung it over the edge of the wagon. "There, tha' one looks 'bout yer size."
Pate reached out to grab it. Dake stopped him with a hand. His fingers were short and thick, crusted with dirt around the nails. "Wha' d'you think this is, boy? Some handout?" he snarled. "Yeh want it, yeh pay fer it."
"Er, sorry." Pate bit his lip. "How much do I owe you?"
"Ten silver stags after everythin'," Hobb told him. "Yeh wantin' it cut outta yer wages, or d'yeh got tha' on yeh?"
Ten? he thought, incredulous. He didn't even have one silver stag to his name, let alone that many. "Um... Out o' my wages, please."
Hobb recorded that on his parchment. "Go on, then; make sure tha' fits nice an' snug. It's yers."
Dake threw him the chestplate. Pate went to shrug it on... And stopped before he'd even put an arm in.
"What're yeh waitin' fer, boy? The stars t' fall out o' the sky?" Dake was demanding. "Yeh gon' put it on, or are yeh just gon' stare at it?"
"It's just... Well... I thought soldiers wore armour is all," Pate said at last. The dingy scrap of hide he was holding looked as though it would hardly cover his torso, and it was all tattered and musty-smelling, and worse, there was a dark red stain on it that looked like it might be blood.
Dake guffawed. "Tha' is armour, an' it's plenty more than a common li'l runt like yeh'd normally make off with. Nicked it off one o' them corpses from tha' night — Lord Bolton ain't one t' let things go t' waste, an' frankly neither am I."
Suddenly Pate felt very light-headed.
"How's about yeh go on n' see 'ow it fits yeh, an' I'll get yeh yer sword an' shield," Hobb encouraged him. "Tha' oughta lift yer spirits."
His heart skipped a beat. My sword and shield, Pate thought gleefully. My very own. It was almost too good to be true.
He pulled the leathern tunic on over his head in a rush after that, ignoring the coppery smell emanating from it. Once he'd done up the belts in the front, Hobb handed him his sword. It was all Pate could do to stare down at it in awe.
This was it; his first sword, castle-forged and sharp to kill. Growing up, he'd played at stick swords with his brothers — still did with Audrik and Sven from time to time, admittedly — but never before had he held true steel in his hands. Mine, he told himself. It felt so strange to think it, like he'd just woken from a vivid dream and wasn't sure what was real and what was fantasy.
Before it could really sink in, Hobb was handing him his shield and sheath. The shield was plain and wooden, but all rough on the surface, and looked like it would give him splinters if he ran his hand along it. It didn't matter. Neither did the grimy chestplate. He had a sword. Pate could not stop smiling.
"Yeh'll be a soldier on call, but yer gonna need another job 'til conflict comes about, if yer wantin' wages now," Hobb said as Pate was holding his sword up to the sunlight, admiring the way the rays glanced off the steel.
He let his arm drop to his side. "Uh... What's there t' offer?"
"Let's see..." Hobb unfurled a piece of yellowed parchment and looked it over. "We're hirin' builders t' help prepare Winterfell fer livin' in, an' men fer choppin' down trees in th' Hornwood; soldiers t' man the battlements at the Dreadfort, too, though they're wantin' archery experience fer tha' one..." He looked up at him from behind the list. "... Yeh don't 'appen t' 'ave any archery experience, do yeh?"
Pate shook his head.
"Didn't think so. Wha' else do we got 'ere..." His watery brown eyes moved back to the parchment. "... Someone t' empty the shit 'ole? Seven 'ells, do I e'er pity th' sorry soul tha's desperate enough t' do tha' one... Ah, an' last, they're lookin' fer someone t' guard m'lord's highborn ward."
That was the maid he'd seen earlier. "I'll do tha' last one," Pate said quickly.
"Didn't take yeh long t' come t' tha' decision," Hobb observed.
Dake was smirking. "I'll bet the lowborn runt is droolin' at th' chance t' be 'round a pretty girl an' get paid fer it."
Pate felt his face flush. "No, tha's not it, I swear it! I mean — she's comely an' all, but there's great honour in protectin' a woman from harm."
"Yeh ain't protectin' her, boy," Dake told him. "Yer stoppin' her from escapin'. An' yeh'd best not blush 'round her like tha' at th' Dreadfort; m'lord Ramsay won't like tha' much."
"Ramsay Snow?"
"Yeh'd best not say Snow at th' Dreadfort, neither — seen him skin men livin' fer less. Now tha' he likes." Dake gave a loud laugh, even though he hadn't said anything particularly funny. "He prefers Bolton, but aye, tha's th' one. The maid's some southern lordlin's whelp; she's t' be his bride."
"Ramsay's bride?" Pate felt his stomach turn to mush. All he could think about was Lady Hornwood and her fingers. "But... Why would her parents give her away t' someone like him?"
"They didn't," Hobb told him. "Her parents're dead, same as King Robb."
"Traitor Robb," Dake corrected.
"Anyhow, yer first duty is t' walk m'lady Maerwynn from her wheelhouse t' th' inn tomorrow fer breakfast," Hobb said. "Think yeh can manage tha'?"
Pate felt a nervousness swell up in his stomach. He had known he would be guarding her, but he had not realized that included walking her places, too. "Uh . . . I s'pose so."
"Yeh s'pose, or yeh can?" Dake questioned.
Pate stood up a little taller. "I can," he insisted, firmer this time. "Which one is her wheelhouse?"
Hobb lifted a gloved hand and pointed to a huge white and silver carriage ten yards off.
Silver carriage and silver hair, Pate thought. He could remember that.
With his enlistment sorted he set off for home, feeling ever the man grown with his sword in his hand. Even Gavyn and Brenett did not bother him for once; he gave them a huge grin as he passed them on the road, and all they did was stare.
He hesitated before walking by the inn. Through the diamond-shaped panes of the window, he could see the lady Maerwynn sitting with Lord Bolton and his wife, the meal in front of her untouched.
He'd looked for a heartbeat too long — Maerwynn's gaze lifted from the table and met his own. Recruiting must have sparked a confidence in him. Instead of scurrying off, Pate found himself lifting an arm to wave at her... But just as quickly as she'd taken notice of him, her attention moved on, leaving him standing outside the window with his hand up in the air like a clod.
Once he'd made it back to the cottage, he stowed his gear away in he and his brother's bed quarters, then set to work in the fields for what remained of the day, pulling turnips and radishes. His hands were cracked, calloused, and red, and the sky had faded to a dark slate by the time Will gave the whistle signalling it was time for supper.
Pate braced himself; he would have to tell his family he'd enlisted.
When he got inside, he realized with a sinking stomach that they already knew. All his things had been laid out on the table: his tunic, his sword, and the shield. Sera strode across the hearth room and smacked him on the back of the head. "The Bolton army? What were you thinkin'?" she demanded, her face flush with anger.
"Same as he's always thinkin'," said Owen. "Nothin'."
"This ain't a jape," she snapped. "Those Boltons are monsters. They'll eat your flesh an' drink your blood, then they'll wear your skin as a cloak 'round their shoulders."
"Crock o' shit," Pate said. "Tha's just some tale made up t' spook children."
"Shit," Mylla repeated. She began to giggle. "Shit, shit, shit."
"Don't use tha' word unless you want t' get some o' the spoon," Sera warned her. Then she put her hands on her aproned hips, and her focus back on Pate. "What about the Lady of Hornwood? Was she just some tale, too?"
"Tha' Hornwood business was the bastard's doin', not Lord Bolton's."
"Well, the apple don't usually fall far from the tree." She sucked a breath in through her teeth and turned away, rubbing at her temples so hard the ends of her fingers went white. "Gods, you don't know a single bloody thin' about what you're gettin' yourself mixed up in, Pate!"
"Yes I do! I'll be workin' a castle job, so I'll get t' bed in the barracks an' eat in the hall, an' I'll be gettin' one whole gold dragon for a year's work; that's plenty more'n we make!" He gave her a reassuring smile.
"No it ain't, you oaf! We make two gold dragons a year —" she held a pair of fingers up in his face, as if he weren't sure what 'two' meant "—three if it's a good one!"
"How come I ain't never seen one then?"
"Because half o' it goes t' payin' bills, an' the other half goes t' whatever whores this lout has paid t' take t' bed," Will explained, with a quick glare at Owen. "You aren't gon' get a gold dragon all at once, Pate — your pay adds up t' one if you don't go spendin' any o' it."
He supposed that did make sense.
"Point is, Sera's right," Will went on. "You need t' take tha' sword an' shield an' armour back t' whoever gave it t' you. 'Sides, we need you 'round here."
"You don't," he insisted. "I already thought everythin' through — the pigs'll be slaughtered come winter, an' you won't need me tendin' t' the sty no more. The three o' you are more'n capable o' takin' care o' Mylla an' the cottage. I'll just be another mouth t' feed."
"You are not just another mouth t' feed," said Sera. Her voice was grave. "I don't ever want t' hear you say tha' again."
"You're our brother," Will added.
"An' I'm gon' be your burden," Pate said. "I already made up my mind, so don't bother tryin' t' talk me outta this. I'm not just gon' stick 'round here an' be dead weight; I'm gon' make somethin' o' myself, whether I've got your blessin's or no." And without so much as touching his dinner, he stormed off to his bed quarters and threw himself onto the pallet.
Sleep took forever to find him, even after his anger had ebbed away. Pate could not stop thinking about the new life awaiting him . . . and Lady Maerwynn. Her name alone made his stomach get all tensed up. He would have to introduce himself to her on the morrow, and accompany her to the inn for breakfast.
He remembered how Bolton's wife had walked arm in arm with her escort, and wondered, with a sudden nervousness, if they would do that too. She probably smelled really good; noble ladies took baths all the time and had their clothes cleaned in perfumed soaps made of oils and spices.
Now he was worried. He'd had a bath a few days ago, fortunately, but he wasn't sure when his clothes had been done last, and he didn't know how washing would work once they got to the Dreadfort either. He hoped he wouldn't have to do it himself; last time he'd been trusted to do the washing, he tore Sera's small clothes on the board, and she beat his buttocks so bad it hurt to sit for a week.
He was so nervous with anticipation that he got out of bed the next morning without having to be scolded or dragged. Sera slipped through the curtain hanging over the doorway as he was shrugging his undershirt on, her arms crossed over her chest in that defensive way she did when she was about to give him an "apology".
"I'm sorry about supper," she said stiffly. "I just worry is all. I don't want you throwin' yourself into somethin' you're not ready for."
"But I am ready." He pulled a tattered leather jerkin on — the closest thing to dress clothes he had — and buttoned it up at the front. "I've been six an' ten for a month now, Sera. I'm every inch a man as Will."
Sera stared at him blankly. "You are not a man at six an' ten, Pate. You can't even do your buttons up right; you've got 'em all in the wrong holes." She smacked his hands away and began doing his buttons up for him.
"Well, lawfully I'm a man, anyhow," he said dismissively. "'Sides, Bran the Builder built the Wall an' Winterfell when he was fourteen; that's two whole years younger'n I am."
"Bran the Builder ain't real. Can't use someone who ain't real t' make a point."
"Why? 'Cause some borin' old men with chains 'round their necks say it so?"
"Those borin' old men know a lot more about the ways o' the world than we do." She straightened the collar of his jerkin, then stood on the tips of her toes to muss his hair. "'Specially more'n you. You've never even been t' White Harbour, an' now you're—"
"It's as I said last night," Pate interrupted. "You're not gon' talk me down from this."
"I'm not tryin' t' talk you down from anythin'." She took his hand and squeezed it. "If the Bolton army is what you want, then so be it. I just don't want you makin' a fool o' yourself. The world's a dangerous place as is, without gettin' mixed up in the happenin's o' the high lords an' their power games."
She held her arms open. Pate stepped into them and hugged her tight.
"I made a special breakfast, since it's our last one as a family," she said into his shoulder.
"Breakfast?" His responsibilities came back to him in a rush. He was supposed to walk Lady Maerwynn to the inn, then once she and Lord Bolton were done eating, the march was moving on from Oldcod. "I forgot — my first duty... I'm t' escort Lord Bolton's highborn ward t' the Bannered Mare t' eat."
Disappointment spread across his sister's face, but she quickly hid it with a smile. "In tha' case... I s'pose I'll have t' give you your present now."
"You've got me a present?" he asked, wondering how she had found the time to do such a thing. He'd only told her about his enlistment last night.
"Somethin' old," she answered slyly. "Come out t' the hearth room while I grab it."
He packed what few belongings he had into his satchel, then paused to take one final look at his bed quarters. Pate and his brothers had not always had their own place to sleep; they used to bunk down on the dirt floor of the hearth room, huddled around the fire for warmth. Once the leaves had begun to fall off the trees, Sera had them put up a wall of wattle and daub, with a doorless entryway in the centre for them to get inside...
... Or it was supposed to be in the centre, rather, but Pate had messed up a little, so it was a shade too close to the left. Enough for Sera to notice. That had earned him a red arse and no second helpings at meals for a fortnight.
Once he was ready, he exited into the hearth room. Mylla dropped the straw doll she had been playing with and ran to him. "I don't wan' you t' go," she wailed as she clutched onto his leg.
"Don't worry, Myl." He reached down and brushed her curly black hair out of her face with a hand. "I'll be back t' visit in a few moon turns."
That only made her cry harder.
Pate scanned the room hopefully, but only Will and Owen were sitting at the table. "Where's Mum?" he asked.
Will set his mouth in a line. Pate knew what that line meant; their mother hadn't returned from the tavern she'd gone to last night.
"Passed out in some ditch, most like," Owen said dryly. "Or in someone else's bed again, slaggin' off so she can afford her next bottle." He was opening his mouth to say more when Will silenced him with a look; the kind that said 'not-in-front-of-Mylla'.
Just on time, Pate thought. Sera was coming downstairs now, with something red and woollen folded across her arms. When she reached the bottom stair, she held it up and let it unfurl before her like a sail.
He sucked in his breath. Embroidered on the fabric was an elm tree, strong and noble, with a falling star streaking by on top. When worn, it would sit on your left breast, right where your heart was.
"Pa's cloak..." He fell silent, taken aback. "You sure? Shouldn't Will get it?"
"Tha' crest was Great-great-great-pa's," Will told him. "He was a hedge knight. Tha' sounds a lot more like your path than mine. It belongs with you."
Unbidden, tears welled in his eyes. Pate turned away and dried them on his shirt before they could fall. "Could you help me get it on?" He'd meant to sound like he wasn't holding himself back from crying, but his voice was all weak and shaky, betraying his composure.
Sera helped him bring it about his shoulders, then Will fastened it for him at the front. "Now you look like a soldier," his brother said, "but there's just one more thing you need 'fore you can be one proper... Open your hand." Pate did as he was bid, and Will set something small and cold and shiny in his palm. "There. You don't have t' walk all the way t' the Dreadfort now."
"A s-silver stag?" Pate stammered. "You're buyin' me a horse? For true?"
Will shrugged, as if it were no big deal. "It's not like you haven't earned tha' coin over the years anyhow. 'Sides, every good soldier needs a mount."
Pate could no longer hold back the tears. A blubbery mess, he hugged his siblings one by one, bestowing each of them with a wet kiss on the cheek; even Owen.
Afterward it was time to say his goodbyes. Sera gave him some bacon and a handful of roasted acorns — that way he could eat on the way to the wheelhouse — and promised that when the march left Oldcod, they would see him off from the path, all four of them.
He was giddy with excitement when he left the cottage... But once Pate drew up at the wheelhouse, that excitement turned to a nervousness so fierce he thought he might be sick. Go on, you lunk, it can't be tha' bad, he told himself as he paced. All's you have t' do is tell her your name an' walk her t' the inn. You'll be worse off if you're late than if you mess up. Before his courage could waver, he made himself ascend the wooden steps and give the door three sharp knocks.
The seconds that followed seemed more like minutes. Just when he was beginning to think she had ignored his knocks entirely, he heard the sound of a bolt sliding out of place, then the door opened inward, just a sliver.
"Good day," Pate said awkwardly.
Silence.
A warmth prickled to his cheeks. He had already managed to forget all those courtesies he was supposed to do. "Fuck, I can't believe I've just done tha'," he heard himself blurt. Then, before he could stop himself, "fuck, I can't believe I've just said fuck! Oh, piss sakes, now I've gone an' said it twice."
"Three times," said a hoarse voice, and the door opened a bit more; enough that Pate could see an eye staring back at him through the crack.
He was so embarrassed that it took a long moment before he found his words. "Beg pardons, m'lady, I... I only meant..." He paused; drew a deep breath while he gathered his senses. "It is an honour t' meet your ladyship." Then he bowed, the way his sister had taught him to whenever noble lords or ladies fair came around.
And this one was fair, there was no question of that. Pate had thought her beautiful when he saw her enter the inn yesterday morning, but up close it was almost like she was from another world. Her eyes were purple as the flowers that grew along the riverbank but brighter, and her skin was pale, but not the sickly sort, as Lord Bolton's had been; hers was smooth and white and delicate, like fine porcelain.
She looked just as fragile. She was lithe and small — a hair short of being aheight with his shoulders — and a faded yellow-green bruise stained her left cheek. He wondered, with a sinking heart, if Ramsay had done that to her.
"The name is Patrek," he went on. "Pate, they call me, after Spotted Pate." Spotted Pate was the hero of a thousand stories, a good-natured but empty-headed village boy who always managed to best the evil lordlings and haughty knights who beset him. Somehow by the end of each tale, his stupidity would turn out to be an accidental cunning: the conclusion was always Spotted Pate sitting on a lord's high seat, or bedding some knight's daughter. But those were only the real world, a pig boy like him could never dream of faring half so well.
He wiped his sweaty palms against his tunic. "Lord Bolton has anointed me t' be your guard," Pate continued, just as he had rehearsed the night before when he was struggling to fall asleep. "I'm t' escort you t' breakfast now." He had never spoken to anyone so fancifully before, but he decided he liked it; it made him feel proper, like the man grown he was.
Lady Maerwynn smiled. Her teeth were white and straight, just as lovely as everything else about her, and dimples bloomed on both her cheeks. Pate decided right then that there was no one more beautiful than her.
His knees must have decided the same thing, for suddenly they were all wobbly, like they were made of jelly. "It is appointed, ser," she corrected, soft and precise. "Not 'anointed'. And pray tell, who is this 'they' you speak of?"
She called me ser, he thought giddily. It didn't even matter that he'd made another mistake. "My friends," he answered, grinning helplessly. "An' my brothers an' sisters. Oh, an' I'm not no 'ser', m'lady — I'm just Pate." It pained him to correct her, but to go along with it would have been a lie, and Sera had always said you weren't supposed to lie to a girl.
"Well, 'just Pate'—" he felt a jarring flutter in his stomach; it was the first time she had said his name "— I am not your friend and I am not your sister. I don't care what they call you, and I'm not a stepping a single foot inside that dirty old inn ever again. You can tell Lord Bolton I said I'm not hungry."
Before he could even make sense of what was happening, the wheelhouse door shut with a slam.
Pate was open-mouthed with shock. Were all highborn ladies so confusing? She had just been smiling...
It must have been him forgetting his courtesies that had caused her to act that way, he decided. That and all the swearing — it could not have helped much either. What am I meant to do? Pate thought mournfully. He was her guard now; he reckoned he'd be seeing a lot more of her!
I could give her my apologies... But he would probably just find some way to muck that up too, and worse, make her hate him more than she did already.
He felt something nudge his leg and looked down. A rabbit stared back up at him — the same one he'd seen Lady Maerwynn holding yesterday. It looked rather like the weirwood tree at the centre of the village square, blood-red eyes carved in bone-white fur.
He knelt and reached for it. The rabbit went into his arms unrelenting. Must have escaped when she opened the wheelhouse door, he thought... Which could only mean one thing: he was going to have to knock again.
Fuck.