Chapter 25

House Pevensie's Encampment

Peter sat in his tent in the new Encampment, utterly miserable. It had taken him and the members of House Pevensie a while to find their feet, no longer living in Winterfell, and having to fend for themselves. Peter realised that he had taken everything in the castle for granted, down to the pots and pans that hung in the kitchens. Now, he had to tap into a mode of survival he never thought he would need.

During the siege, those who lived through the horrific ordeal had all left the castle with nothing except their weapons and the clothes on their backs. A few had taken some supplies when the alarm sounded, but generally, they were without necessities. Running a household outside of a house was one of the hardest things Peter had ever had to adjust to. How he wished he could go back to Winterfell, not just because he longed for creature comforts but also because that castle was his home. Of course, living in a tent was not ideal by any means, but he supposed that if he and Edmund had gone to war as they had once planned, then this would have been exactly how they would have lived. It would be better with Edmund here though. It always was.

Sitting on his rock, Peter looked down at the letters that were in a pile at his feet. All of them were from Eustace begging him to return. A tear glided down his nose and fell onto the topmost envelope. How Peter wished he could go home. He would love nothing more than to run to Eustace and give him a great big hug, telling him that if it were true about what happened with the Scrubb men then all would be forgiven. But he couldn't do that. He wouldn't let himself do that. What kind of lesson would that teach his men? Loyalty and bravery were of the utmost value. If Peter wanted to be a good leader, he had to show them so.

One of his men entered the tent, the same man that had comforted him when they had first arrived. Peter had decided to keep him close, knowing the only reason was that he reminded him of Edmund. The man looked down at his King and forced a weak smile.

"Is there anything I can get you, your Majesty?" he asked.

Peter nodded. "Yes, actually. I'd like to write a letter, so I'll need some parchment and a quill and ink if you can find it. And something to write on."

"The carpenter has been crafting since we arrived, your Majesty. He should be able to offer you a table and chair soon, as all good Kings must have," said the man.

"Thank you," said Peter, as the man left. He returned a while later with some parchment, slightly sodden by the rain, and a piece of wood that looked like it had been filed down with a knife into a nib shape. There was also a small leather pouch filled with dirt and moss which had been ground and mashed up into a paste. Peter wondered if the man had emptied his coin purse and sharpened the wood himself.

"What's your name?" Peter asked, eyeing the man.

"Rhince," he said. "I used to sail with King Caspian on the Dawn Treader, as his first mate. He deployed me into your service when the war began. I've been in your household ever since."

"You should have said," Peter replied. "Common work is far below a man of your station."

"It is not, your Majesty," said Rhince. "For a man to serve his King, he must serve in any way that is asked. Regardless of rank or station."

"You are a noble man, Rhince," replied Peter. "Thank you."

Rhince nodded. "I'll find something for you to lean on, your Majesty."

Peter flattened the parchment across his thigh, and Rhince returned with a small plank of wood. Peter thanked him again and placed the parchment on the plank, dipping the handmade quill into the moss and dirt, and poised his hand to write.

As he did so, Peter couldn't help but feel the hurt and betrayal bubble up again in his chest. He wanted to scream and curse Eustace for all he had caused. He had ruined any chance of security House Pevensie may have had against Miraz, any upper hand in any battle plans and yet underneath it all, all he wanted was to hold his cousin and cry. They were just victims of the life they had been dealt since they lost the battle. They had lost it and so much more.

Still, Peter strengthened his resolve.

Eustace, he began. Your letters have arrived to me at our Encampment. I have read them. This is my first and only reply to you.

You say I can return to Winterfell and the castle will be turned over to me. I respect that, but I cannot accept your offer. What kind of a message would that send to the remaining members of House Pevensie? That I can break and bend as easily as a stick in the wood which we now reside? That I can be removed from my seat as Warden of the North, only to be reinstated by my aggressor of a lower status. For me to accept that would be to acknowledge your power over me, and to disregard the divine ruling of Aslan. No, that is not the way of a King. You have betrayed your Liege Lord. You have committed the ultimate treason, and so now I must issue an order for your execution as a result.

I do not want to do this, Eustace, but you have given me no choice. If you are to ever enter the parameters of my Encampment, you will be executed for treason. If we are ever to attempt to reclaim Winterfell, my first act as Warden will be to carry out your death. He who passes the sentence shall swing the sword. That is all I can promise you.

It is for this reason, I pray our paths will not cross and urge you to seek asylum across the Bight of Calormen.

Peter sat back and looked up at Rhince, who was waiting patiently for his King to finish.

"Shall I fetch the raven, your Majesty?" he asked.

Peter disregarded Rhince's question. "You said the King in the North."

Rhince nodded slowly. "I did, your Majesty."

Peter looked down at the parchment, the edge of the nib about to drip with wet soil. "I am no longer Lord of Winterfell, and I am no longer the Warden of the North. But I can be something else, can't I, Rhince?" he asked, turning to his friend again. "I am something else."

Outside the tent, the wind howled in a faint echo, almost like the call of a direwolf far off in the distance. Peter signed his name at the bottom of the letter, and then, without hesitation, titled himself, Peter, the Magnificent, the King in the North.

The Wild Lands of the North

Edmund dared not look up from his horse. The blizzard that whipped around them stung their faces if they dared look up for a moment, and even if they did, they could see nothing beyond the great white that stretched out in front of them. Edmund knew he just had to lead his horse straight, and the sooner they got to Harfang the better. There should be some kind of shelter there, even if the place was in ruins. At least that's what he was telling himself.

"It won't be long now!" called Puddleglum, who rode alongside Edmund. The Marshwiggle's face had almost frozen over entirely on account of his moist skin. Icicles had started to cling to Edmund's beard too. The men returned to their stances, heads down, battling against the wind. Minutes felt like hours, hours felt like days. Edmund couldn't remember the last time he had slept. Perhaps he could just curl up on the back of his horse and close his eyes for a few minutes. He trusted the horse would lead them the right way, and besides, he didn't even feel cold anymore. Then, Puddleglum called over to Edmund again. "I see something up ahead!" he cried.

Edmund thought the Marshwiggle was going mad, seeing a mirage in the distance that played tricks on his mind, but as Edmund dared to glance a look, he saw that Puddleglum was right.

"Hold up!" bellowed Edmund over his shoulder, hoping that his men would hear him over the roar of the wind. He then swung his leg over his saddled and slid down to the ground. As his feet plonked into the snow, the height of it went almost all the way up Edmund's calves.

He waded ahead, gesturing for Puddleglum to follow him. The Marshwiggle caught up with him as Edmund approached what lay ahead. Through the haze of the snow, Edmund could see a severed horse's head. He gulped down the bile that rose in his throat and then realised that it just wasn't one head that lay before him, but more, rows and rows of heads. Edmund and Puddleglum stepped through them, and Edmund tried to make a mental note of just how many. He lost count, forgetting where one row ended, and another began. After a moment, he realised they weren't in rows at all.

"Look," said Edmund, pointing downwards. "It's a pattern." Edmund cocked and bent his head, trying to get some clarity on the shape. "Some kind of spiral," he realised.

"Is that intentional, do you think?" asked Puddleglum.

Edmund shrugged. "Must be. Is it some kind of message?"

"No," Puddleglum shook his head. "I've never seen it before. Besides, it's only horses," he said, putting a hand on Edmund's shoulder for comfort. "No men."

Edmund turned to the Marshwiggle; the blizzard lessened now. "Puddleglum, who do you think were riding the horses?"

Edmund couldn't tell whether or not Puddleglum had gone white, or whether it was just the frost. "How many do you reckon?" he asked, finally.

"About thirty," said Edmund, looking around. "I can only imagine where these men are now."

"You're right Edmund," said Puddleglum, solemnly. "I think perhaps it is a message. And if this is the White Walkers doing, then it's clear. We're all the same to them. Just meat for their army."

"I don't think it's just a message," replied Edmund, studying the spirals. "I think it's a warning."

"Perhaps it's both," added Puddleglum gravely.

Edmund looked up at the snowy landscape, trying to make sense of what was before them.

"Do you think anyone got away?" Edmund asked, looking around.

"It's not impossible," sighed Puddleglum, who turned to the rest of the men who were dismounting their horses and coming to have a look. "But dead or alive, they took a big gamble coming North. And they lost."