Theon
Three days of relentless winds and snows had all but buried Winterfell. The castle was little more than a tall white hill standing proudly over the Northern fields. The Bolton camp had fared no better. Tents collapsed, horses and men froze to death, and the day was just as dark as night. But still, the dead did not come. No tide of dead flesh and glowing blue eyes came out of the darkness, only more snow. Snow for days and days, blanketing the world and isolating everyone.
Reek was sleeping in the kennels with the hounds. Huddling among the many hounds while inside the wooden cages with their heavy curtains, blankets, and straw bedding was as warm as any tent. Which meant Reek still feared he would wake to find his fingers and toes numb and blackened with frostbite, but that was better than what many endured.
He woke suddenly as the kennel doors were ripped open. Colder air flooded inside, and the dogs started to howl. Outside, men were screaming, and Reek heard his master shouting.
"Get the dogs! Get the bitches! Hurry, you useless whoresons!" Ramsay was mounted on a dark stallion, a heavy cloak wrapped around his shoulders and his fleshy face red from the cold.
Reek rushed to his knees as the dogs ran to their calling master. He ran as well. Grunting as flailing paws battered his limbs and body. Reek pushed his way outside with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He rushed toward his master but was shoved to the ground by Ben Bones as the old kennel master leashed the howling dogs and took them in hand. The dogs clambered over Reek again, their claws cut him, and then he heard the scream. Men screaming, horses screaming, and Others screaming. Fear threatened to freeze him if the cold did not, and when Reek pulled himself up, his master was gone, and the dead were coming.
Reek ran and didn't stop running. He joined a flood of Bolton soldiers and servants running into the night. Lords and knights desperately tried to keep order, but the wind stole their words. The cold wind from the north echoed with the sound of the wailing dead and the shrieking Others. A sudden howl was his only warning, and Reek threw himself at the ground as a dozen chariots pulled by ice spiders rode past. Others in the seats hurled javelins of ice into the crowd of routing men even as the ice spiders ripped men apart with their fangs, those that lived were crushed beneath the wheels and eight-legged monsters. A wedge of Others on dead horses and elks followed with crystal swords, and then the endless ranks of wights followed their masters, tearing into the survivors with cold black hands.
Tears froze on Reek's cheeks as he pulled himself to his knees and crawled in the snow. It felt like he crawled for hours, but it could have been only minutes. He didn't know why he lived, why the wights he heard all around spared him. He knew only that he was suddenly alone. Alone save for the wind. Reek stopped crawling next to the body of a warhorse. He used its dead flesh to break the wind as he pulled his cloak and blanket around himself. He was so cold, but at least he still felt cold. There was a memory from a different life of an old knight named Rodrik Cassel telling a young man named Theon that so long as you could feel the cold, there was still hope. If one couldn't feel the cold, that was where the danger was. That you had to keep moving. That to stay still was to accept death.
He sat, his back leaned against the horse's frozen body. He stayed still, waiting and growing colder. He waited long enough for the wind to cease blowing and the snow to stop falling. He waited until he could see Winterfell. The castle was a ruin. He'd left it a ruin. Winterfell had burned the same day Theon had died. But the stones remained, the great towers filled with water piped from the hot springs. The North's warm heart.
Those stones were broken now. The water inside the pipes that ran through so much of the castle had frozen and expanded. And now, the stones were cracked, broken, and out of place. Some of the towers, old and in disrepair, had lost pieces of themselves already. Others only missed a few stones here or there. But it was only a matter of time before they all fell.
"There must always be a Stark in Winterfell," he murmured. "But what if there's no Winterfell?" No one answered. He didn't cry. He had no tears left. He was just a ghost. Instead, he stood up and started to walk.
One foot after another. He walked without feeling or thinking away from his home. Night or day made no difference. The clouds were too thick and dark for the sun to shine. He walked until the wind began to blow again, and the snow started to fall. He found a dead Wildling and stole his heavy brown fur cloak. He walked and walked until his feet went numb. He walked until he stumbled and fell. The ferocious winds caught his cloak and ripped it out of his trembling and frozen fingers. The wind cut through leather and fur like a hot knife through butter. He couldn't feel his feet and was grateful for that because they'd been an ocean of pain when he had. Worse than being flayed and salted, the cold worked inward, lighting up nerves like fire until it reached the bone. But that was done, and now Reek felt nothing as he stood up and continued to take step after mindless step forward. Forward to nothing but the hope of continuing a life he wasn't sure he wanted.
He wandered alone in the snow. Blinded by the whiteness, he slowly lost all feeling in his limbs and fell again. A minute passed, and then he pushed himself to his knees, but he didn't stand up this time. He sighed, let his chin drop to his chest, and let the snow pile around him. He closed his eyes.
He felt someone holding him and lifting him up. "No," he muttered. "Leave me."
Then, as if from a great distance, a voice shouted. "Your Grace! This one still lives!"
Two pairs of hands and arms lifted him to his feet, and he found himself walking mechanically, like a millstone propelled by a waterwheel, grinding on and on. Step by step, the two men took him through a crowd of warriors. The feeble heat of their flickering torches felt like the afternoon sun on his skin, and they took him to a man on a horse. He looked up and stared into Robb's warm blue eyes.
"No," he said. "No, no, no."
"This is Theon Greyjoy," Robb said.
"No, not my name. I can't use that name," Reek said.
"Should we gut him, Your Grace?"
"Please," Reek said. "Please." He wasn't sure if he was pleading for his life or begging them to do it.
"Let him go," Robb commanded.
The soldiers let go, and Reek dropped to his knees and sank into the snow. He slowly lifted his eyes to meet Robb's once again. The wind blew, the snow fell, and the dark clouds swirled high above with glimmers of northern lights somehow piercing them where moon and starlight couldn't.
"I'm sorry, Robb," Reek croaked. "I'm sorry it came to this. That it should end like this."
"End?" Robb asked, his tone light and strangely fearless. "This is not the end. There are more battles to come."
"I'm sorry," Reek cried. "I'm sorry," tears flowed from his eyes and froze on his cheeks. "I'm sorry I-"
"Theon," Robb said.
No! His mind shrieked. No, not that name. It's not my name!
Robb's one hand reached down and grasped his straw-like hair with iron fingers and pulled to make Reek face him. "Theon, I cannot forget what you did, and I cannot forgive you." The fingers dug deeper as if, with his grip alone, Robb could force the words into Theon's mind. "But Bran told me he has."
"No," he trembled. "He's," he gasped. "He's dead." He has to be dead. Ramsay told me to say he was dead.
"Not dead," Robb said. "Gone, but not dead."
"Where?" Theon asked. "Bran? Rickon? Where are they?"
"I can't say where Bran is, and I don't know where Rickon is, only that he is safe."
Theon nodded. He blinked and gasped for breath as he felt everything fall away. Theon Greyjoy took a breath and let gasps, cries, and tears pour forth anew. "I'm sorry, Robb. I'm sorry for everything. I shouldn't have… I mean, I didn't want to," he sobbed. "Everything just went wrong," words failed him. "I'm sorry."
"Winter has come," Robb said quietly. "And I cannot afford to delay. Some things must yet be done, and there are battles to be fought."
Theon realized that Robb wasn't looking at him. He turned around and looked over his shoulder. The Other stepped closer, walking over the snow as if it were solid stone. Still at least a hundred paces distant, the Other was flicking the tip of his crystal blade this way and that like a viper eager to strike. The black scar on the Other's face stood out strongly against his pale face and the snow. A bolt of terrible darkness amongst the blizzard's hateful white.
Theon, Reek, Theon pulled himself upright, using Robb's saddle and stirrups as handholds.
Northmen pressed around them, locking their shields and brandishing long torches like spears. A few carried clubs and staves fixed with dragonglass.
The Scarred Other came closer. The twitching sword tip skimmed the snow, sending flakes flying in the wind.
"Run," he said. "Run, please, let me do this, please," he begged.
Robb was already turning to ride his horse away but slipped him something from his belt, a dagger of dragonglass.
"Goodbye, Theon," he said and dropped the black blade into the snow.
Theon grasped the dagger with his maimed hands and stared up at his old friend as the shieldwall of torch-bearing Northmen surrounded Robb and cut him off from Theon. Then, he saw Robb turn his horse and ride away.
The Scarred Other started to walk past Theon but stopped when Theon took a step to block him. The Scarred Other looked past Theon at the retreating Northmen. Theon saw past the Scarred Other and saw her. She was mounted on a magnificent chariot seemingly constructed from ice as pure as pearls and polished ivory and pulled by six colossal ice spiders. She must have been the Corpse Queen, white-skinned with eyes like blue stars. A figure from the stories of the treacherous Night's King given life. Theon had never understood why a man would so easily give away his life for a woman, but now he did. Compared to her, all other women were but pale imitations. Corpse Queen was an insult. She was the Queen of Night.
She looked at him, and he couldn't look away. Her eyes were the whole world, blue, perfect, and shining. Theon should have felt afraid, but he didn't. He felt nothing. He was too tired for fear. Robb was alive, Bran and Rickon lived, and if something Theon had done in these last moments helped them, that was enough. Theon took his dragonglass and stabbed at the Scarred Other. His foe moved so fast he blurred. The Scarred Other was all inhuman grace, speed, and strength. He knocked Theon to the ground with a single blow, and pain seized Theon's chest as he tried to breathe. Half his ribs must have been broken, and he could hardly move an inch. The Queen's eyes met his again, and his heart froze. The blue eyes consumed him such that Theon didn't see the strike that felled him, only that the world went white, and then, at last, darkness took him.
Tyrion
What fools we were, Tyrion thought, to think that mere courage and fire could defeat the horror of winter's wrath in open battle. The battle, if it could even be called that, had been a disaster. Despite the plans and clever tricks, the endless councils of Northern lords and Wildling chiefs had no doubt devised. Despite the palisades and Winterfell's tall stone walls. Despite everything, there was no defence that men could muster against the snow that fell like arrows, a wind that cut like a knife, the terrible cold that killed with insidious ease, and the screaming. The screams of the Others were so sharp they could shatter glass and hope with equal ease.
Maybe it could never have been enough. The was not a war suited to volleys of arrows or with the thunderous charge of the Northern cavalry to meet the hordes of the dead. Tyrion couldn't help but doubt that this was even a war. The living were only rats and mice, and the cats were loose in the barn. And like vermin, the living were running away. Running from winter's fury that shattered armies like a hammer on glass. From a cold wind that made even the greatest bonfire flicker and quake beneath it.
Tyrion's foot slipped out from under him, and a gust of wind threatened to fill his cloak like a sail and send him flying. But instead, he was saved by the rope that tied him to Jon and Grenn. A rope that wound its way through the belts of the deserters and Wildlings. Their little band of the living. They were the last living things in the world for all they knew. The rope held him steady long enough for Lancel to help Tyrion regain his footing.
Tyrion grimaced and kept moving. He had to keep moving. To stand still meant death, be it by the cold, a wight's black hands, or an Other's crystal sword. To stand still meant death. It was getting hard to remember that, for the past week, sleep had come in but snatches, a moment here, a minute there. Barely enough to let Tyrion keep putting one foot in front of another. For food, there'd been naught but dried meat and hard tack, both so hard that they could be gnawed upon for hours without softening.
Tyrion forced his feet to keep moving. He relied on the feel of the rope for direction. With the driving snow, he could hardly see. A pair of long scarves were wrapped under his cloak's hood and around his face leaving only the tiniest slit possible for his eyes. Anything more would risk frostbite, but the scarves were their own brand of hell. They trapped the moisture of his breath and turned it to ice, freezing themselves to Tyrion's face, beard, and eyebrows. It was like being both slowly smothered and drowned at once, but it was better than freezing to death. Maybe. They walked onward. Step after step. Minute after minute. Hour after hour. Day after, Gods knew how many days.
Tyrion felt the rope around his waist go taunt. He turned and saw the Wildling called Grigg the Goat lying in the snow. Another Wildling, a greybeard named Leathers, pulled the rope, hoping to prompt Grigg to stand up, but the raider didn't move. Then, despite the wind, Tyrion heard something, maybe a scream, but distant, or was the wind playing tricks? Jarl struggled against the wind trying to reach Grigg and help him up.
Then the Other appeared out of the wind and falling snow. The creature's dappled armour turned as black as night as he revealed himself and made a perfect thrust into Jarl's heart. The crystal blade passed through armour, furs, and flesh as effortlessly as it moved through the air. Jarl fell and his blood staining the snow, while the Other ripped the blade free from him and stepped over the dying man. It walked over the snow as if it was solid ground, and it moved like the wind wasn't there.
"Fuck!" Tyrion cursed and fumbled with his crossbow. His double layer of gloves and mittens made it a worthless endeavour. Even if the bolt could have been of any use in this wind.
The band of survivors struggled, some turning to retreat while others tried to rush to fight the approaching Other. The rope left them hamstrung. The young Wildling Quort attempted to charge the Other with a dragonglass spear but was pulled up short by the rope tying him to Ygritte, who was readying an arrow on her horn-and-sinew bow. The Other darted around the spearpoint and cut Quort's belly open with a single slash. Wights were coming out of the snow as well. The stumbling blue-eyed creatures were ugly and bumbling compared to their master but near as deadly in their own way.
Tyrion dropped his crossbow and drew his dagger. He sawed at the rope, desperate and thinking only of how to get out of the way. The Other tossed Quort's corpse aside and stepped past it. Armour as delicate as glass.l now stained with steaming red blood. Wights surrounded them, their black hands reaching out with murderous intent. Panic welled inside as the frozen rope resisted his dull dagger blade.
Tyrion suppressed a yelp as a sword cut through the ropes on either side of him. Jon swung Longclaw in two swift moments, and the Valyrian steel cut through the frozen ropes like a knife through butter.
Grenn, who had freed himself, turned toward the Other with a roar. The castleforged steel of his sword caught the light of their torches in the moment before it clashed with the Other's crystalline blade with a baleful shriek, and frost covered it. Lancel and Longspear Ryk also rushed forward to add their blades to the fray.
Tyrion snatched his crossbow from the ground and stumbled backward. He pulled his hand free of the mitten, and his numb fingers struggled with his sheaf of crossbow bolts as he searched for the correct bolt. He watched as Jon's bastard sword took off a wight's head, and the corpse stumbled to the ground.
Old Leathers, an aged Wildling, passed torches to Arron, Emrick, and the rest. The Other fighting three on one against Grenn, Lancel, and Longspear Ryk was still advancing. As the wights came from every direction, Tyrion hurried to the circle of spears and torches the living were forming. A schiltron born of fear and instinct by those who knew there was nowhere to run.
Tyrion watched as the Other, battling against Lancel, Grenn, and Ryk, pushed them back. Tyrion had seen men move so fast or gracefully only once, during a lazy morning in the Red Keep when he'd watched Jaime and Barristan Selmy spar against each other. Only the two best knights in the Seven Kingdoms could have hoped to match this creature's elegant sword. Fighting three men at once and winning.
Tyrion hid behind Arron and Emrick's blazing torches and continued to fumble with his crossbow bolts. I have it somewhere, he thought. The Fair Isle twins used their torches like spears, thrusting at the wights with the flames and knocking them back with the shafts. Ygritte had stowed her bow in favour of a short stone-tipped spear. Leathers and three more Wildlings were fearlessly hacking at wights with axes.
Grenn screamed suddenly as his sword broke just above the hilt, and the Other's blade whipped back to slash him but was met by Longclaw's dark Valyrian steel blade. Jon took Grenn's place in the line while the big man picked up a torch and covered his friend's back.
A horrible screech filled the air every time Longclaw and the crystal sword traded blows. It soon became apparent that Longclaw resisted the frost and ice that covered the rest of the other swords.
At last, Tyrion found what he was looking for. A crossbow bolt, one whose iron head had been replaced by a shard of dragonglass sharper than any razor. He snatched it up, tried to put it in the groove, and then cursed. The damned crossbow had loosed when he'd dropped it. Tyrion shoved the bolt between his teeth and set to work resetting the crossbow.
The Other now seemed matched by the four men surrounding him but still fared better than any human would have. It focused wholly on Jon and parrying the Valyrian steel sword, Lancel and Ryk did their best, but wights continued to mob them, throwing their dead bodies onto the living to shield their master.
The nut finally clicked and fixed the heavy bowstring in place. Tyrion spat out the bolt and slipped it into the groove. He hefted the crossbow and ran forward as best he could in the deep snow.
Arron fell as a huge wight tackled him. Emrick started beating at the creature's back with his torch. A bear with only a few scraps of fur remaining over its skeleton pushed through Leathers, and the axe-armed Wildlings and a dozen more wights followed it. Tyrion ran through the gap in the lines. He went past the wights and around the flank to where he had a clean shot at the Other.
Tyrion raised the crossbow to his shoulder. He paused for a moment as he waited for the gap between gusts of wind and squeezed the trigger. The bolt flew straight and true at the Other's back. But the foe span on his heel and snatched the bolt out of thin air. Jon brought his sword up to block but was too slow, and the Other slammed the bolt into Jon's shoulder. Longclaw slipped from Jon's grasp, and the Bastard of Winterfell fell heavily into the snow as the force of the blow knocked him down.
"No!" Ygritte screamed, and she charged with her spear at the Other, heedless of it lacking a dragonglass point. The Other's sword flicked out and cut the spear in half and then again to cut at her neck. Ygritte lost locks of her red hair as she ducked but kept her head.
Tyrion cursed, his hands darted to the axe at his belt, for all the good that its sharp steel blade would do. He looked up in time to watch as Lancel slashed overhand with his sword and struck hard against the reflective armour. The Other stumbled but the castleforged steel shattered. Flecks of frost-covered steel went flying in all directions. Lancel screamed as shards buried themselves into his arms. Snake quick the Other turned, sword raised to stab and kill Lancel.
Jon roared in pain as he grabbed hold of Longclaw and spun on his hip. The distracted Other was a fraction of a second too slow. The dark Valyrian steel blade struck it across the upper back. Armour crumpled, and the Other released an ear-piercing shriek as Jon's sword tore into the milky white flesh.
The Other's armour ran down its body in rivulets as pale blue blood hissed and steamed around the steaming wound below the neck. Bone-white hands dropped the crystalline sword into the snow and shook as the Other's whole body shrank and puddled, dissolving away. In twenty heartbeats, its flesh was gone, swirling away in a fine white mist. Beneath were bones like milkglass, pale and shiny, and they were melting too. Before long, nothing remained but an icy puddle.
Wights began to fall, one by one, like puppets with cut strings, and their blue eyes faded. Not all fell, only about half, but the rest began to run back into the blizzard and out of sight. Not fleeing, Tyrion thought. "Just retreating," he muttered.
Lancel groaned and fell to his knees as Tyrion approached. The steel shards had missed his cousin's eyes but had peppered his face and arms.
"I'll live," Lancel said. "But now it's certain I'll never be as handsome as Jaime."
"Some women like a roguish scar or two," or nine or ten, Tyrion thought.
Jon was also getting up. The bastard's shoulder was dark with frozen blood, but Ygritte was comforting him.
"Leave the bolt in until we make camp," she said. "The cold's frozen the blood and helped staunch the bleeding."
Longspear Ryk picked up a wight's hand and flipped the body over.
"A friend of yours?" Tyrion asked.
"Not a friend, halfman, but I knew him."
Tyrion grimaced and pulled his cloak around himself. Did the wind seem less cold, or was it just his imagination?
"Let's move while we still can!" Leathers shouted. "The White Walkers won't take the death of one of their own kindly."
Tyrion took care to rearm his crossbow, and their march began anew.
It wasn't just his imagination. As they walked and the day progressed, the wind did become less cold, not warmer, just less cold. Enough that Tyrion's teeth no longer ached. The clouds became thinner in some places, enough for a figment of sunlight to pass through.
Asha
The bulk of mammoths and giants was the only warmth Asha had known for days. The band of giants she'd joined cared a little for the differences between Wildlings and Northmen, but they had no dislike for Ironborn. So when Asha's little crew had joined the six hairy beasts and their even hairier mounts, they hadn't protested.
They could communicate after a fashion. One of the giants, a female called Lun Dar Lun Da Lug, or Lun Lug for short, understood a little of the Common Tongue, though she could only speak two words, yes and no. Nevertheless, it was enough to convey to the giant's leader, Wun Wun, that Asha meant no threat, that she wanted only to reach a safe place, and that she could lead them there. So the giants had taken them aboard their mammoths. The hair and bulk of mammoth and giant alike were as warm as any blanket or cottage.
In the shadow of the hairy titans, Asha and her crew walked through the snowstorms that, day after day, swept in from the north. The storms were broken only briefly for a few hours or sometimes only minutes each day. Enough for her crew to pause for rest without fear of never moving again.
Then one day, the storms began to fade, the wind ceased to howl as fiercely, the snow fell less thickly, and the air no longer burned her lungs. The day after was the same, but on the third day, there were patches of blue sky among the grey clouds.
Asha found the first Northman on the day the skies finally cleared. A broken stone axe was still buried in his skull. All his armour, weapons, and clothes down to his boots had been stolen save a single broken pin shaped like the Ryswell horse that showed his allegiance. How he'd found himself here, Asha knew not, but the dozens of wounds made the end of his story clear enough. A lone Northman attacked and killed by vengeful Wildlings. Asha pulled the axe free and rubbed her gloved hand over the sharp edge, suddenly conscious of how little difference a Wildling would see between a Northman and an Ironborn. Asha dropped the stone onto the ground and was once again grateful for the presence of the giants.
Scouts found them the day after. They'd made camp inside a tumbledown cottage, long abandoned, but the walls still gave some shelter. The grumbling of giants and mammoths outside warned Asha that someone was coming. She left the walls and saw a dozen Wildlings mounted on shaggy ponies, wearing shaggy furs, and armed with longspears with stone tips riding over the crest of the hill and coming for them.
Asha's crew joined her, forming a line in the snow, those with shields locked them, and they hefted their weapons. Qarl stifled up beside Asha, one hand resting lazily on his sword's hilt. Asha gently caressed the head of her axe as she watched the Wildling riders grow close.
At twenty paces, the riders halted, and one hefted the spear at Asha and shouted at the giants in the Old Tongue. Wun Wun's growled reply made Asha's bones shake, and her teeth rattle.
The scout appeared a little chastened but still scowled at the Ironborn from beneath his hood.
"Mance wants you kneeler," he pointed the spear at Qarl the Maid. "A lordling."
Qarl laughed. "You take me for a boy? A little lordling? Mayhaps I will dance the finger dance with you, but not today."
Asha stepped forward. "These are my men," she announced. "What does Mance want of them?"
"To carry a branch to the castle."
"What the fuck does that mean?" Qarl wondered.
"You will come!" The Wildling shouted again. The other riders hefted their spears and growled like angry hounds.
"NO!" Bellowed Lun Lag. "NO!" She roared again and charged at the Wildlings, who scattered before she was within twenty paces.
Asha smiled at the backs of the retreating riders. She walked up to Lun Lag and raised her hand to pat her hairy arm. "Thank you."
The giantess looked down at Asha with her beady eyes that almost disappeared into her wrinkly face.
Lun Lag pointed at the tracks the scouts had left in the snow. "Yes," she pointed in the direction the scouts had come from. "Yes."
"You can track them?"
"Yes!"
"Then lead on," Asha pointed at the horizon.
Asha's crew followed the giants onto the mammoths, using their hairy coats like a ship's rigging, and within the hour, they were on the move. They sat in front of the giants like young children on a horse with their parents, the body heat alone was enough to make Asha sweat. As Lun Lag promised, she could follow the trail, sniffing like a hound at times and rubbing the mammoth's head with a giant hand to guide it in different directions. They found the Wildling camp an hour after the setting sun touched the horizon. The days were so short this far north and growing shorter.
The Wildlings were a chaotic assembly, as it seemed they always were. Tents and shelters were set up in clumps that signalled tribe and clan but no more organization than that. Totems and banners picked out chiefs and warriors of status. Asha sat upright as she searched for where Mance Rayder might be. There, she spotted the great tent of snow bear fur. Lun Lag rode right past it and headed toward the other giants.
"Stop!" Asha shouted. "No. No. Stop here."
"No?" Lun Lag asked. She pointed at the giants. "Yes!"
Asha pointed at herself. "Me," and then at the white tent. "Yes." She repeated the gesture.
After a moment, Lun Lag nodded and pulled her mammoth to a halt. The big giant, Wun Wun, growled what sounded like a question in the Old Tongue, which Lun Lag answered. All the giants eventually stopped and let the Ironborn dismount, but not before Lun Lag patted Asha's head like a child's. She ignored the grin Qarl sported and led her crew back to the raven banner.
Mance had lost giant elk antlers that had topped the tent, and the flight from it had aged the King-Beyond-the-Wall by years, if not a decade. His hair and beard, which before had held a little brown, were almost all grey and white now. His sharp face was worn down by hunger to a narrow, blade-keen edge. But his brown eyes still held a spark of cleverness and ambition that Asha remembered her father had had before his first rebellion.
"Lord King," Asha bowed her head slightly as Mance Rayder pulled back his hood.
"Greyjoy," he said stiffly.
"Your scouts mentioned you were looking for a lordling. Will a princess suffice?"
Mance chuckled. "There is a banner at Barrowton I do not know," he said. "A banner that doesn't belong to Northmen, I think. You will tell me of them."
Asha stiffened at his tone, but she was in no position to argue, so she nodded. "Describe it."
"A silver scythe on black."
Asha's heart leaped into her throat, and her breathing quickened. "House Harlaw of Harlaw," she said quickly. "My uncle's house."
Mance smiled, and Asha decided that he'd known the answer before he'd asked the question. Wanted to make sure I could be trusted, she thought. She ignored the half-excited mutterings of her crew behind her.
"You will be my envoy then," Mance said.
By dawn on the next day, Asha was mounted bareback on a shaggy pony. The beast was an ill-tempered little thing that had already tried to bite her twice. The reins were tight around her left hand as she kept the animal under control. She carried a bough cut from a weirwood tree in her right hand to show she'd come in peace.
Barrowton sat around a tall hill. The Great Barrow, the Northmen called it. Supposedly it was the grave of some ancient king. Asha shook her head. What kind of fool would want to be buried instead of given to the sea? And what kind of fools would build their keep on top of a grave? Barrow Hall itself, the seat of House Dustin, stood on the heights of the Great Barrow. Wooden walls, wooden towers, and a longhall fit for kings. The Dustin crown and axes still proudly flew on the walls and towers. The silver scythe of Harlaw flew from the masts of a handful of ships on the frozen river. Curious, Asha diverted from the road enough to look more closely at the longships.
The fields surrounding Barrowton's wooden walls were awash with the makeshift shanties and shelters thousands of Northmen had made. No doubt all the beds inside the town were already sleeping double or triple. Northmen shied away as Asha rode through their midst anyone armed, armoured, and ahorse was someone for the smallfolk and thralls to be wary of. Even if she's a woman, Asha thought as a sneer marred her features.
She pushed the pony to a canter over the field. Up close, she saw that the light ships favoured by reavers across the Isles had been mounted on a hide and timber frame with skates.
Men on the nearest ship pointed as she rode close. At this distance, Asha couldn't recognize any of them even if she knew them, so she rode onward. She went toward the town gates, where a pair of yellow Dustin banners flew above the towers flanking the entrance. They hung almost limp in the morning air. Only the occasional gust of wind made them stir. A north wind, of course, Asha thought, but then was there any other in these dark days?
A gust of wind made the banners stir, and one banner Asha had taken for Dustin yellow shifted with the wind and instead of the crown and axes was a crowned stag. Not yellow but gold, not Dustin but Baratheon. Asha ground her teeth. Mance had failed to mention that.
Asha rode onward, thinking about what those banners meant. That the Dustin's had sworn themselves to the Boltons and thus to Stannis was not news, but the crowned stag banner meant an envoy from Stannis had arrived. That the only signs of visitors were the Harlaw sled-ships on the river gave Asha cause for hope and concern. Perhaps it meant that Asha's uncle had turned his cloak against Euron, but at the same time, what would it have taken for Rodrik Harlaw to turn his back on the Iron King? Even if that King was Euron Crow's Eye.
She entered the wall's shadow and brought the pony to heel ten paces from the gates.
"Name yourself!" The watchman, a grizzled greybeard, shouted from the gatehouse.
Asha considered a moment. "I am Asha of House Greyjoy, princess of the Iron Islands, and rightful Lady Reaper of Pyke! Come as an envoy from Mance Rayder, the King-Beyond-the-Wall."
The watchman looked upward as if expecting to see a Wildling horde racing across the horizon.
"I would treat with Lady Dustin!" Asha shouted to regain the watchman's attention.
"I will send word to the keep!" The watchman shouted down before shouldering his spear and marching out of sight.
Asha shifted in her saddle, sure that she would have a long wait in the chilly air before the gates opened.
Nearly half an hour later, the gates opened, and a pair of armoured barrow knights on brown geldings rode through.
The more handsome of the two barrow knights bowed in his saddle. "Lady Asha, please come with us. Lady Barbrey would see you."
Asha flicked the reins, and the irritable horse took a few slow steps before Asha applied her spurs, and the beast began to pick up the pace. She followed the barrow knights through the gate and into Barrowton's broad straight streets. The street led straight from the gate to the inner walls that separated Barrow Hall from the town. Up the street, she rode as quiet smallfolk peered out from doors, windows, and smaller side streets at Asha and her escort as they rode up the hill.
At the hill's summit, the inner gate opened to accept them and the three riders slowed only once they were in the courtyard. Servants were quick to approach to take charge of the horses and aid in dismounting. Asha shoved the weirwood branch at a man before he could do anything else and swung herself out of the saddle. She took the pony's reins and gave them to a stablehand, who quickly swallowed a curse as the ill-tempered creature tried to bite him.
"Lady Asha?" An old serving woman in a yellow dress curtsied. "M'lady offers you bread and salt." Another servant came forward with a small wooden bowl.
Asha picked a piece of salted bread without hesitation and ate it. The bread was stale and hard to chew
The old woman bowed again. "If you would please come with me, m'lady bids your presence in her chambers."
Asha slipped her thumbs behind her belt, putting them close to her dagger, and followed the servant into Barrow Hall's wooden keep. The halls were abuzz with servants. Asha saw kitchen girls stashing their pans, knives and rolling pins inside large black iron pots and cauldrons. Two servant men loaded a folded tapestry onto a pile of other tapestries on a handcart. She saw the armour and weapons being emptied from the armoury as well. House Dustin was making ready for a swift flight from their home.
The servant led Asha to a cozy chamber with a single tiny window, a large and burning hearth, tapestries that showed House Dustin's old glories blanketed the walls, and a thick carpet kept the cold at bay beneath Asha's feet. More important than all of that was the man seated inside already. Lord Rodrik Harlaw of Ten Towers. Her uncle wore thick robes of fine black wool with silver scythes that marched up and down the sleeves.
"Asha," he said warmly.
"Uncle," Asha returned warmly. "What are you doing here?" She asked more coldly.
Rodrik slipped a marker into his book and closed it. "That is a long story," he sighed. "Please sit, and I will explain."
Asha swiftly took one of the cushioned seats and swung a leg over one knee. "I'm listening."
"Euron called us to arms and led an attack on Lannisport and Casterly Rock," Rodrik began.
As Asha listened, she leaned forward and unswung her leg, planting both boots firmly on the ground as her uncle's story of madness and sorcery continued. With every passing minute, the weight of Euron's atrocities grew heavier. Blood and sacrifice had won him victory after victory but had cost him ships by the dozens and hundreds, at least after the Arbour.
"Lord Dunstan Drumm and I were among the first," Rodrik said. "We could no longer support him. Aeron was right. No godless man can sit the Seastone Chair."
"Where is Damphair?"
Rodrik shrugged. "He disappeared, something of Euron's doing, I believe, though there is no proof. I fear he is dead."
Asha nodded. "So what then, you sailed back to the Iron Islands under Stannis' or Aegon's banner and took them?"
"Erik Ironmaker's grip was so weak I hardly had to whisper tales of Euron's fell deeds, and the Isles turned against him."
"So my lord husband is dead?" Asha asked hopefully.
"He is, but not by my hand or any hand I command. When I neared, Pyke Erik had his grandsons carry him to the shore, where he gave himself to the sea and joined Drowned God's watery halls."
"Alas," Asha laughed. "What is a poor widow such as me to do? So nuncle, what brings you to the North then?"
Rodrik sighed. "You saw the banner?"
"The crowned stag? I did. You serve Stannis now?"
"Everyone kneels to someone. Even kings have oaths that bind them."
"My father's dream is dead then. You have killed it."
"Balon killed it himself when he attacked the North instead of allying with Robb Stark. Even then, with the new weapons in the south, we would have been crushed given time."
"New weapons? These dragons, right?"
"Aye, I have seen a little of their grisly work. But, between Stannis and Aegon, whoever ends their war sitting on the Iron Throne will have a reason not to punish the Iron Isles too harshly. We can have peace and victory or more war and more defeat."
Asha grimaced. Her uncle was right, and he was throwing her own words back at her.
"Besides, I had to see what's been happening for myself and ensure your safety if I could."
"You could have sent a raven," Asha japed, but her smile quickly faded. "But then again, they no longer fly north, do they?"
"Aye, they don't," Rodrik agreed. "I knew something was amiss. Even sea life has been moving south, but… is it true, Asha? Have the Others returned?"
Asha suppressed a shiver at the memories of oceans of blue-eyed wights, of armour that shifted colours to hide in plain sight, and crystal swords that made common steel scream.
"Yes, uncle, it's true."
The chamber door opened, and Rodrik quickly stood to greet the woman entering. She was tall, unbent, and handsome. Wrinkles lined her mouth and dark eyes, and her hair was equal parts brown and grey and tied behind her head in a widow's knot.
"Lady Barbrey," Rodrik bowed his head.
Asha deliberately waited a moment before rising and offering her own greeting, a stiff and shallow nod of her head. "Lady Barbrey Dustin."
Lady Barbrey Dustin raised one of her greying brows but continued without pause. "Lady Asha, welcome to Barrow Hall. Now, what does Mance Rayder want?"
Asha snorted and returned to her seat. "Quick to the point."
"I see no point in wasting time on idle courtesies neither of us means," Lady Barbrey said.
Asha chuckled. "Mance Rayder wants peace between you and he and to gain passage for his people through your lands to the coast."
"Pah!" Barbrey laughed. "The King-Beyond-the-Wall doesn't lack for boldness, does he? Why would I ever let savages travel near Barrowton."
Asha shrugged. "It seems like you'll have no need of it for much longer. That is what you're doing, isn't it? Leaving?"
Barbrey's already stern features became sterner. "I've heard what happened at Winterfell, the disaster. I plan to live. That's why your uncle's ships rest here. He has kindly offered to escort me and mine to warmer lands."
"Mance will be glad to hear it," Asha mused. "It will make his work much easier, knowing you've fled."
"If I may," Rodrik interjected. "It is my offer to Lady Dustin and the Ryswells to take them south, not for flight, but to join the host massing at Ten Towers. If the idea of Mance Rayder and his Wildlings wandering free in your lands is too much to bear, perhaps, he should join us on the passage south. Something he no doubt wants regardless. You said that Rayder wanted to go to the coast, did you not?"
"Yes," Asha nodded. "Yes, he wants to get as far south as south goes."
"Without their king, the Wildlings will scatter across half the North," Barbrey sniffed.
Asha snorted. "They already have. Most travelled into the Wolfswood and to the Stoney Shore many moons ago. More scattered after Winterfell. Take their king, and at least they'll be leaderless."
"You think he'll abandon some of his people?" Lady Barbrey asked.
"I think he's trying to save as many as he can," Asha quietly answered. "If you'd seen what I've seen… Well, you'd have left for the Summer Islands already."
"They are my ships, my lady," Rodrik said quietly. "I decide who they do and do not carry."
"Very well," Lady Barbrey said. "I can accept those terms. So long as these raiders keep to themselves, my barrow knights will not trouble them."
Catelyn
The White Knife was flowing again, not with water, for it was still frozen as solid as Catelyn had ever seen. No. The White Knife flowed with men. Northmen sworn to every house in the North. So the grey direwolf of Stark rubbed shoulders with the flayed man of Bolton, Ryswell horses with Manderly merman, Mormont bear with Karstark sunburst, and Dustin crown and axes with the armoured fist of House Glover.
They did not come in chaos but in some semblance of order, provisioned by the supplies Catelyn had convinced Lady Wynafryd to arrange. The White Knife bustled with people, animals, and wagons from bank to bank. Not just soldiers but more smallfolk as well. All would want food, and there was little and less of that to spare. The Vale was still sending what little it could spare. Had Wynafryd not taken Catelyn's advice of sending people onward, the whole city would have starved already. As it was, White Harbour's winter stores that should have lasted years were being tested as tens of thousands of fleeing smallfolk crowded around White Harbour.
They were being sent away, some by ship to the Vale, others forced onward by land through the Neck to the Riverlands or east to Oldcastle or Ramsgate. But for each one sent away by ship or road from White Harbour, two more arrived. The streets and alleys were overcrowded, and there was hardly even a rat to be found. Oxen and cattle had disappeared first, then horses, mules, donkeys, goats, and sheep. Animals ate too much to care for, and their meat was worth more to feed the empty bellies.
Day after day and the river of Northmen never seemed to slow. Every village and crofter's cottage in the North had been emptied of people. Most were women and children. Their husbands and fathers had gone hunting and left their families to travel without them. Food was growing scarce, even in the New Castle, as they rationed what they could. Catelyn found her suppers with her gooddaughter Wylla and Lady Wynafryd shrinking until they were only thin fish soups and hard old bread. It was still better than what half of White Harbour was eating.
The crowds brought more than simply desperation. They also had news. News of the Battle at Winterfell and the disaster that had befallen the allied armies of the North.
"Is it true what they say?" Wynafryd asked Ser Marlon Manderly.
"I cannot say for sure, m'lady," the knight replied. "Only that it is what everyone I've interrogated says, even the Wildlings."
Catelyn looked up from her needlework, a half-finished image of the Mother. "Wildlings?"
"Yes, my queen. Hundreds of them, at least, caught up in the flight south with all the others."
"We should kill them," Wylla said savagely while tugging her green braid.
"The smallfolk are a step ahead of you, m'lady. They've been hanging every savage they can catch," Ser Marlon shrugged. "Those that aren't ripped apart at first sight, at least."
"Better that our anger turn on the Wildlings than each other," Catelyn said mildly. "How many men in Karstark, Ryswell, Dustin, or even Bolton colours are outside these walls? How many are from lands ruled by those houses for centuries?"
Ser Marlon shook his head. "I couldn't even count high enough."
"I understand your point, Catelyn," Lady Wynafryd said. "Ser Marlon, do your best to round up these Wildlings, and make a show of it."
"Yes, m'lady," Ser Marlon bowed and promptly turned on his heel and left the three ladies alone.
"Is this right?" Wynafryd asked. "These Wildlings, what have they done to us?"
"They're savages," Wylla answered. "Raiders and rapers who've harried the North for countless generations. They betrayed Robb more likely than not."
Catelyn sighed. "I know not if we can blame these Wildlings rightly or wrongly. It's doubtful any have ever seen White Harbour before, but they will die either way. One way or another, the North will find an enemy to fight, better these outsiders than ourselves."
Wylla raised her glass. "Well said, goodmother!"
Wynafryd reluctantly raised her glass of sour wine. A moment later, Catelyn joined the toast.
More snowy days passed her by, and then suddenly, there was a break in the storms. The air grew a little warmer, and the snow ceased to fall. Clear blue skies stretched to the horizon, and from her room's window in the New Castle, Catelyn could see that an organized camp had sprung up from the sea of refugees surrounding White Harbour's walls. Pink and red banners abounded. The flayed man of Bolton was joined by the Karstark sunburst, Dustin crown and axes, and the Ryswell horses, among other lesser houses.
Within the hour, Catelyn had left the New Castle. A hundred trident-armed Manderly guardsmen accompanied her as she left the city. Swaddled like a babe in furs and cloaks, she rode high on the back of a small cart. Small and fancifully carved to be more like a chariot from the oldest days of men, before horses strong enough to bear a man on their back had been bred.
With her guards at her side, Catelyn rode through White Harbour's gates with her head held high. Frozen Wildling bodies hung from icy ropes on either side of the gate. They would hang until the weather turned and rot could set in. That would be many moons, at least, if not years.
The crowds outside the walls pulled back as Catelyn and her guards pushed a path to the camp. They watched her from tents and ramshackle shelters. Dirty faces peered out of crowded tents. Many wore extra scraps and layers of clothes that must have been taken from dead comrades. Women and children, for the most part, their fathers and husbands had long since disappeared on their hunting trips.
As the Bolton encampment rapidly approached, its shabby nature became apparent. In her mind, Catelyn compared the size of this camp to the one Roose Bolton had set up the last time his army had been at White Harbour. It was half the size at most.
No one challenged Catelyn or her guards as they entered the camp. The tired men in dirty armour only watched them with wary eyes. Signs of hunger were as evident here as they were in White Harbour. Gaunt features, hungry looks, and hardly a sign of horses or pack animals anywhere. They gathered attention as they rode further into the camp. Men watched and followed them, ordinary soldiers and lords alike. Simple curiosity, perhaps, or maybe some were regretting their choice of allegiance when they looked at the relatively well-fed Manderly guardsmen.
Many minutes passed before a man rode from the crowd. The horse was a thin but well-bred mare. It took Catelyn a moment to recognize the lord that rode her. Harrion Karstark was still bearded and fierce as ever, but he looked older now. Grey had started to creep into his brown beard, and his face was gaunt and wolfish.
"Lady Stark," he grumbled. "If you would follow me, Lord Roose will see you now."
Catelyn said nothing but nodded her head and motioned for her guards to follow Lord Harrion and his men.
The Lord of Karhold led Catelyn deeper into the camp. To where a tall white tent spotted with pink and red stood on a hill. Arrayed outside was Lord Roose Bolton and his court. Harrion dismounted to join them, and Catelyn's guards formed a loose circle around her.
"Go on, Gilly," Harrion said as he passed a nervous serving girl with dark hair and big brown doe-eyes.
After a moment's hesitance, the serving girl came forward and offered Catelyn a bowl with bread and salt. Catelyn took her share and passed the bowl on to her nearest guardsman. The girl quickly retreated to stand as far out of the way as she could.
"You are a guest in my camp," Roose said. "No harm will come to you."
As the bowl made its rounds, Cately studied Lord Roose. Stannis' Warden of the North seemed as cold and pale as ever. But the men by his side, even the pale-eyed fleshy man who might have been the Bastard of the Dreadfort, looked tired and wane. Of his household, the only other besides Roose's bastard that Catelyn took notice of was one young man who looked like Robert Baratheon in his youth come again. Catelyn's eyes lingered on him for a moment, noting the black hair, blue eyes, and bull's head helm then refocused on Lord Bolton.
If Lord Roose noted Catelyn's notice of the probable Baratheon bastard, he said nothing and gave no sign.
"Why have you returned alone to White Harbour?" Catelyn asked.
"The battle went poorly," Lord Roose said simply.
"Your camp seems smaller," Catelyn said.
"It is," Roose's eyes betrayed no hint of nervousness, nor did his hands shake. For all Catelyn could tell, he might as well have been talking about the weather.
"Where is the king?"
"Your son elected to lead the rearguard and command the fighting with the enemy," Roose said quietly. "I chose not to disagree."
"We left him for the Others!" Roose's bastard shouted suddenly.
Catelyn ignored him. "Lady Wynafryd has decided that you and yours may remain in your camp but are not to enter the city in groups larger than ten and then only when escorted by guards. I trust you will abide by these terms."
"You should bend the knee, you old bitch, else I'll-"
"Gendry," Lord Roose quietly interrupted his son. "Take my bastard in hand."
"Yes, m'lord," the Baratheon bastard quickly crossed the mud and seized Ramsay Snow by his tunic at the back of his neck.
"Let me go!" Ramsay protested as the bigger man hefted him off his feet. "Release me!"
Two other Bolton guardsmen stepped forward to help Gendry drag Ramsay away.
"My apologies Lady Stark," Roose said. "I will agree to the terms Lady Wynafryd has proposed. Please send her my condolences for House Manderly's losses in these dark days."
"I'm sure Lady Wynafryd will be pleased to hear you've accepted her terms," Catelyn said coldly but not without courtesy.
Roose Bolton seemed suddenly tired, just for a moment, as his body relaxed, but it was gone just as quickly, and the same ice-eyed Lord of the Dreadfort Catelyn had known for years was back.
"When will the king arrive?" Catelyn asked.
"Perhaps in a few days," Roose answered.
"Then I will take my leave."
There was no offer for an escort back to White Harbour. Perhaps, Catelyn thought as she rode past the sea of hungry faces, he fears any soldiers that leave will not return.
The good weather lasted only a few days, and then the snow and winds returned, harsher and more powerful than before. The sea was whipped into a frenzy, and all of White Harbour's ships were forced to remain in the port.
It was during the storm that Robb returned to White Harbour. It was late in the evening, two hours at least since the sunset. Robb had returned in defeat, but neither he nor his men seemed dispirited. Robb entered White Harbour on a grey gelding at the head of thousands of men marching in good order with their heads held high. Their presence brought first curiosity from the people but slowly grew to genuine cheer. Robb, ungroomed and one-armed as he was, still carried the weight of the Stark legacy. With the bronze and iron crown of the Kings of Winter on his brow, his own place in that legacy was assured.
Robb had little time for ceremony when he entered the New Castle, and within the hour, Catelyn found herself ensconced in a snug hall warmed by three hearths and thick tapestries along with all of Robb's lords and ladies. Bowls of fish and seaweed soup and freshly baked bread with only a little sawdust made for the welcome feast.
"Are we ready to move south?" Robb asked once all had arrived.
"We've prepared ships," Lady Wynafryd said. "When this weather clears, they can take as many south as possible."
"The weather won't clear," Robb said. "This storm is unnatural. Can you not feel it?" He asked the table. "It has followed us from Winterfell. It has waxed and waned, aye, but never gone. A little clearer today, but the north wind will blow again tomorrow, and when it does, the cold and furious weather will come with it. We will have to travel by land."
The table was quiet. None more so than Catelyn, who quietly watched her son. Robb ignored the silence, speared a piece of fish on the point of his dagger, and ate it.
The silence was broken when the doors burst open, and a page ran in. The poor boy froze for a second when he saw everyone looking at him. The boy gathered his courage quickly and approached the table. He bowed and knelt at Robb's side.
"Your Grace," he said. "I bring news from Ser Marlon at the gates."
Robb nodded. "What is it?"
"Lord," the boy coughed and cleared his throat. "Lord Bolton is here."
Catelyn felt her heartbeat pick up, and her skin prickled.
"Excellent," Robb said.
Lady Wynafryd stood. "Why are the traitors to be welcomed in my halls?" She asked.
"Because I invited Lord Bolton," Robb answered brusquely. "To plan our next move."
"Your Grace-"
"My mind hasn't changed. Before the Battle at Winterfell, I knew we had to stand together. Now I am certain of it."
"Bring Lord Bolton here," Robb told the pageboy.
Minutes in silence passed until Roose Bolton, and the lords loyal to him filed inside one by one. Robb rose to his feet, and his other lords followed, leaving Catelyn the only one still sitting. Catelyn noted Roose had left his bastard behind in the camp.
Robb and Roose stood silently until Roose bowed first. "Lord Stark."
"Sit, my lord."
Roose sat, taking a seat near Catelyn. It was Harrion Karstark who took the seat that faced Robb. Pages laid out more goblets and filled them with wine from White Harbour's deep stores. Two servants quietly placed down a map of the North and weighed down the corners.
"My lords," Roose spoke once everyone was seated. "White Harbour's walls are strong, and the city can hold the whole of our combined armies," he sipped from his goblet. "King Stannis has been merciful already. I have no doubt he will continue to send supplies by sea. The population will need to be expelled, of course."
The lords sworn to Bolton nodded and quietly voiced their agreement, while Robb's lords remained quiet as if uncertain if they should disagree on principle.
Lady Wynafryd was the exception. "Expelling the smallfolk will condemn tens of thousands to death and simply swell the enemy host. Every dead Northman is another wight ready to march against us."
"I agree with Lady Wynafryd," Harrion Karstark said. "Are we lords to protect our people or masters from Slaver's Bay ready to throw them away like chattel?"
Catelyn shifted slightly to better look at dead Lord Rickard's son.
"Walls will not stop the Others," Robb said. "Wherever we go," Robb said. "Then the Others will come to us."
The table went silent, and Cat's son continued.
"I have been thinking, remembering really, the stories I was told about the Long Night. How darkness fell, and the Others came, with their wights and ice spiders, how they hunted men through the woods and forests like game. I have thought on this and wondered why this has not happened now."
Robb stretched his arm and spread his hand on the table.
"The old stories talk about hunts and quests, not great battles, but why? Why would great battles not be remembered?" Robb laughed. "They would make for a good story," mirth left him as he continued. "But what if there were no battles to be remembered? I think when the generation of winter and the Long Night came so long ago that the Others were… complacent. They were confident mankind would freeze and die. But not so now."
Robb stood suddenly and pointed at places on the map of the North. "The Last Hearth, Deepwood Motte, Winterfell, wherever men gathered in force, the Others followed. But Karhold and the Dreadfort, where we fled, the Others passed them by. There are still people in those lands, but the Others don't follow them. There's no word of Others in the Hornwood or either our western or eastern shores either. Why?"
Robb grinned and slapped the table.
"Because," Catelyn said. "The lords are gone. The leaders of those lands are gone."
"What happens to a pack of wolves when the leader dies?" Robb asked.
Lady Maege Mormont answered. "Sometimes another wolf takes over, but other times the pack splinters."
"And it becomes easier to hunt," Harrion Karstark finished.
"The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives," Catelyn repeated one of Eddard's favourite sayings.
Robb nodded. "Yes, exactly. The Others want to kill the leaders of men so that we're easier to hunt later. So that we can't organize," Robb put it all together.
"So, what do you have in mind?" Lord Harrion asked.
"We must lead the Others on a merry chase," Robb said. "We understand their strategy now and can use it against them." Robb placed his one hand on the map. "We will cross the Neck and into the Riverlands. The Others will follow," Robb's hand traced the table where the Riverlands would be and continued onward. "Where they will be met with all that the South can bring to bear." He tapped the table for emphasis.
Roose Bolton spoke, his quiet voice easily heard by everyone. You claim that to save the North, we must abandon it."
"Yes," Robb answered, even more quietly than Roose.
"Your plan," Lord Harrion Karstark said. "All the might of Westeros may not be enough."
"It will need to be enough," Robb said quickly. "If not," he shrugged. "All men must die."
The silence could have been cut with a knife.
Catelyn went to the godswood early the following day. White Harbour's godswood was always quiet. Along the White Knife and the lands of House Manderly alone did worshippers of the Seven outnumber those who held the Old Gods of the First Men. This was especially true in White Harbour. The snow had only deepened that silence.
"Leave me," Catelyn told Septa Gisella. "Wait for me for a while at the gate. I will call if I need anything."
"Yes, m'lady," Gisella said politely. She lifted her grey skirts to step through the snowbanks.
Catelyn waited, wrapped in furs and blankets with a thick hat lined with fox fur. She watched the snowflakes fall gently. Beneath the Godswood's trees and behind the walls, the wind could hardly be felt at all.
A snapping twig startled Catelyn, and she turned in her chair as much as possible.
She sighed a little in relief. It was Robb.
"I would have expected you to be in the sept mother," her son said.
"I wanted to speak to you," she said. "Speak to you alone."
Robb approached slowly. His fur-lined cloak swirled behind him. Snowflakes settled in his hair, reminding Catelyn of his boyhood years. Gods, Catelyn shook her head, his boyhood years should not yet be over. The war had made her son old before he'd finished being young.
"Speak of what?" Robb asked.
"The Others," Catelyn said. "And Winterfell."
Robb paused mid-step and almost fell. "What," he coughed into his shoulder. "What is there to speak of that?"
"What you said about the Others, what they want, what they plan. Did you know it, then? Know it when you gathered the lords of the North to Winterfell?"
Robb took a few more steps and leaned forward to rest his hand against the heart tree. He said nothing and closed his eyes.
"Robb!" Catelyn spoke sharply, her hands tightly gripping the arms of her chair. She forced them to relax and spoke more softly. "Robb, did you know?"
He sighed and leaned his forehead against the weirwood tree's white bark. "I suspected."
"How many died to prove your suspicions?" Catelyn asked.
"Less than what would have died had we stood divided!" Robb answered loudly. "Picked off one by one while we bickered and squabbled." Robb turned to face Catelyn. "These lords are afraid now," his hand rose to point toward the New Castle. "Afraid and easily led, what happens next will decide the fate of kingdoms and all men!"
Robb's words echoed in the silence of the godswood.
"You told me before that the Old Gods showed you something. What did you see?" Catelyn asked.
"A hope," Robb answered. "And a dream that there will be spring again."
