Chapter 33 Mathis, Catelyn, Reek, Tyrion, Asha
Mathis
No one could remember the last time it had snowed this far south. The flakes had settled in a layer barely thicker than frost and had all melted away before the first hour of sunlight had passed. Nevertheless, it was a chilling reminder that the long summer was over and that winter had come at last.
Their horses stepped through wet grass as Mathis and Gunthor joined the vanguard leading the way across the vast fields north of Oldtown. Two hundred mounted knights approaching the mouth of madness itself and hoping the scouts were right when they said the second-largest city in Westeros was abandoned. A mile or so behind them were eight hundred more men followed Mathis' vanguard. Eight hundred men split between Targaryen and Baratheon warriors to guard the two kings. Though Mathis commanded the van, there were just as many Stormlanders in it as there were Reachmen.
The battlefield outside the city looked to have been scarcely touched by looters and thieves. The arms, armour, and treasures of the dead laid where they'd fallen alongside their former owners. Even the scavengers dared not to touch the dead. Birds and beasts alike stayed away from the slain. Mathis felt his new horse tremble slightly under the ghost of so much hate that hung like storm clouds over the fields.
Mathis halted the march a few hundred yards from the gates to send more scouts inside the city. So much closer, he could now see that the gates were undamaged. Mathis felt a twisting in his guts as he watched the gates swing slightly in the wind. They were simply hanging open, forlorn and abandoned like the city they sheltered. Before such a sad sight, Mathis waited for the kings to arrive.
"Your Graces," Mathis called out and spurred his horse toward the two crowned figures as they approached. He bowed in his saddle. "Oldtown is yours."
"It was as the scouts said?" Stannis Baratheon asked.
"Yes, Your Grace, no Ironmen and no sight of the city folk either." Or beasts, or birds, not even a rat. Mathis repressed a shiver. The silence over Oldtown grew only more disturbing over time. It was as unnatural as the storm that had preceded it.
"Let's not waste time," King Aegon said. "Ravens from Dorne say Euron is progressing quickly along their southern coast, so we must march soon."
"Lead on Lord Mathis," Jon Connington said from behind the kings.
"Your Graces, Lord Hand," Mathis bowed again and pulled his horse around to lead the vanguard into Oldtown.
Mathis peered around as he entered the city and kept one hand on the hilt of his sword, with the other wrapped in the reins in case he needed to ride quickly. Inside the gate was a scattering of corpses. On a different battlefield, the slain would have been so picked at by the crows, ravens, vultures, and feral dogs so as to be unrecognizable but for a few scraps tabard and cloth. But here, it was clear to all that the City Watch of Oldtown had fought to the last man.
Ser Alekyne Florent covered his nose with a cloth as the stench reached him. Mathis struggled not to let his nausea show as they travelled deeper into the city. The signs of destruction were many. Corpses by the hundred were scattered, fires had raged and burned hundreds of buildings. Many buildings had crumbled, and their blackened and burned timbers, bricks, and stones now turned the once wide and clean streets of Oldtown into a wasteland.
"There should be some sign of life," Mathis said to Arianne Martell.
The Princess of Dorne was trying to seem impassive. "This… if this were a natural devastation, then maybe there would."
"No sign of any Ironmen," Ser Alekyne shouted for everyone's benefit.
"If there were a trap, it'd have been sprung by now," Jon Connington said in a rare moment of agreement with Stannis' followers.
"What more is there to gain here?" Mathis asked.
"Search the Citadel," Lady Melisandre said. "We must know what it is the sorcerer took." Mathis tried not to look surprised. Those were the first words Mathis had heard the Red Woman say in days, ever since she'd collapsed tending her bonfire. Collapsed for reasons no one knew yet, though the thought of what could frighten the Red Woman put ice in his gut.
Stannis nodded, for of late, he'd been even more attentive of the Red Woman than before. Mathis thought perhaps that was to be expected. Apparently, she was the Baratheon claimant's Master of Whispers, and if ever there was a time to fear plots, it was when Varys the Spider was sleeping in the same camp. Still, something seemed strange between the two lately.
Mathis pushed such thoughts away as the column turned through the maze of streets that led toward the Citadel. The maester's home had been damaged by fire. The scorched and blackened stone was evident from outside, and the interior must have been gutted.
"I doubt there'll be anything left for the Witch to look at," he said to Arianne.
The Princess of Dorne hummed in agreement, clearly distracted by something her younger eyes saw in the distance.
A scout hurried back, hooves clapping on the cobblestones. "My lord," he shouted as he pulled up next to Mathis. "Ironmen in the harbour."
"How many?"
"Just one ship."
Mathis pursed his lips. Just one ship was no threat to the force in Oldtown. "Gunthor," he called to his son. "Send a message to Lord Crane in the rear to watch for a force trying to trap us."
"My lord," Arianne Martell spoke. "I'll inform the kings."
"Thank you."
Mathis took the rest of the time to form the vanguard in an empty market square facing the harbour. It was the best ground for a charge one was likely to get in Oldtown. Behind the van massed the bulk of several hundred more knights. Both kings had pushed their way to the fore to join Mathis as they watched the Ironmen arrive.
"Who goes there!" Ser Richard Horpe of Stannis' kingsguard shouted.
A party of men rounded a corner and entered the square. The first of them carried a rainbow banner, yet Mathis didn't let himself relax as he saw the sign of truce, for he also recognized the sigil upon his tunic, the scythe of Harlaw. Other Ironmen houses came behind the first, the skeletal hand of House Drumm, the grey tree of Stonetree, the horn of Goodbrother, and more Mathis didn't recognize. The Ironmen houses were many, but most were poor and of little importance, but even without recognition, one was always wise to be cautious.
"Come back to take more of the spoils!" King Aegon shouted.
The man in the front, brown-haired and grey-bearded, shook his head and shouted. "Those of us here have taken nothing from this city, and few are those who partook in it's taking."
"Name yourself," Ser Alekyne shouted.
The greybeard stood tall, displaying the white scythe across his chest. "I am Lord Rodrik Harlaw, Lord of Ten Towers and the Isle of Harlaw," he swept his hand behind him. "We here are the Ironborn who have broken our oaths to Euron Greyjoy," Rodrik Harlaw began. "We have broken them not for glory or gold or power, but rather in the name of peace and sanity, for any man who follows the Crow's Eye is a godless man."
Stannis said nothing, and neither did Aegon.
"Your Graces," Lord Rodrik continued. "We ask not for favours or rewards, but a chance to set right what Euron the Godless has done."
"He is not your king then?" Lord Mathis Rowan asked.
"Aeron Damphair had the right of it," Lord Dunstan Drumm said. "No godless man may sit the Seastone Chair."
Aegon spoke. "If Targaryen," he glanced at Stannis. "And Baratheon can stand together. Then I think a place for the Ironmen can be found."
After a moment, Stannis slowly nodded his agreement.
Lord Rodrik Harlaw rose to his feet. "Thank you, Your Graces."
"Where did he go?" Stannis Baratheon asked.
"To the east," Lord Rodrik replied. "From the point beyond Blackcrown, we watched as his fleet, swollen by the ships of this harbour, stole away in the dawn and took to the open sea."
"Where are the people?" Arianne asked. "We have seen little sign of smallfolk fleeing the city, and surely not everyone died in the taking of Oldtown?"
"My princess, I fear Euron the Godless has taken them."
"For what purpose?" King Aegon asked.
"His powers come from death," Lord Dunstan Drumm spoke up. "Blood and death."
"He killed the Hightowers and all their servants to bring the storm. Everyone in the tower fueled his spell, and prisoners from Silence," a gruff man with serpents on his coat said.
"You were there?" Melisandre of Asshai asked. "Your name?" The Red Woman pushed her steed forward.
"Lord Donnor Saltcliffe, and aye I was in the tower, I did not see him kill them, but I saw their ruins fall upon the rocks."
"My lady?" Stannis asked of his witch.
"As you know, Your Grace, power has a price, blood and sacrifice indeed. With so many deaths, I shudder to think what could happen next."
A sharp crack cut the Red Woman off as everyone, including Mathis, jumped, fearing it to be the presage of another storm, but no lighting fell from the sky. More cracks and pops and a low grinding sound filled the air, loud enough to make his teeth rattle in his skull. He searched for the source of the sounds and found it quickly.
There was silence as men watched the Hightower fall. The upper hundred or so feet began to peel away, stones coming undone and falling to the island below. A crack formed near the blackstone foundation, and the whole building began to tilt to one side. It slowly spun on this axis, like a tree about to fall, as some parts stood firm even as others failed. As the lean grew more severe, larger and larger pieces fell free from the tower and landed in the harbour below. Some were so large that the splashes rose back up to lick the underside of the falling tower. A final crack filled the air as the stones failed and the whole building crashed into the harbour. A great wave went out, crashing into the wharves and piers and sending the ocean into the city streets. The water didn't stop there. It pushed inland, over the cobblestone streets and into buildings. It reached far enough that Mathis felt the spray on his face carried by the wind even halfway up the hill.
The island itself was ruined, masses of rock and stone lay strewn across its surface, the foundation itself still stood, and here and there, a few pieces of the tower still stood among the rubble, looking like the remains of a hundred mutilated fingers.
Stunned silence ruled the lords and kings of Westeros.
Rodrik Harlaw spoke first. "Euron the Godless leaves nothing but flotsam in his wake," he looked back to the kings. "Your Graces, if you would have us, we would be yours."
"And what would you ask in return?" Stannis asked suspiciously.
"Little and less," the Lord of Harlaw said for all who followed him. "I beg you to accept our oaths and let us atone for serving a Godless King. The Drowned God demands it."
Stannis looked at Aegon and nodded imperceptibly. Aegon wavered for a moment and glanced at Lord Jon and Princess Arianne for support. After a few seconds, King Aegon pressed his steed forward, Stannis followed immediately, coming to ride beside Mathis' king.
"We will accept your oaths," King Aegon said.
"Bend the knee," King Stannis commanded.
Catelyn
Robb had changed since his night in the Godswood. Much of his melancholy was gone, he laughed and smiled freely like he once had. It was all Catelyn had prayed for, and yet she feared still. It was too sudden, and even the gods rarely worked so quickly. In part, she cursed herself for her concern. She should be happy that Robb had placed his worries away for a time and focussed on greater things.
Robb commanded the Northern host to march to the west, a forced march to the White Knife where barges from White Harbour would bring reinforcements and fresh supplies.
"And from there," Robb said. "We march on Winterfell and meet the wildling host."
"How can we know they'll be there?" Maege Mormont asked.
"Because Mance Rayder wants the North for his people, and as Winterfell goes, so goes the North."
"And what of Bolton?"
"I expect we will see signs of him as well."
"And your bastard brother?" Galbart Glover asked. Word of Jon had spread quickly through the lords and their army. Robb had not attempted to hide or deny it.
"I will deal with my brother," Robb promised. "You have been with me for many moons, Lord Galbart. You know I could have had no contact with him."
"Yes, Your Grace," Lord Galbart bowed and made his way to his bannermen.
That had been five days ago. The pace Robb demanded had been brutal. Those who'd fallen behind were left behind to find their own way to villages and holdfasts. Catelyn's wagon was often one of the last to drive past the stragglers. More than a few seemed too well-rested or well-armed to be stragglers. Deserters, Catelyn thought, men who believed Roose Bolton's lies about Robb and the Wildlings. The land seemed to fly past, and on the evening of the fifth day, Robb declared a day of rest would come tomorrow once the army reached the large village the scouts had reported.
They made camp was early in the day when the army came upon a large village, perhaps two thousand people lived there. The master of the town, a grizzled greybeard with a limp, greeted his king in the small square.
He awkwardly knelt as Robb rode closer. "Your Grace, Emond's Field welcomes you. Please take our hall as if it was your own."
Robb dismounted. "Rise, please," he said. "What's your name?" He asked.
"Beron," the greybeard said. "If it pleases you to know I fought in the Rebellion for your lord father."
Robb smiled. "Is that where you were injured?"
Beron shook his head. "I left the Trident and every other battle with nary a scratch," he patted his bad leg. "A bloody stubborn ox did this."
Robb smiled. "Bad luck that."
"I made it home when many did not. I lived to sire sons and daughters of my own. I used more than a life's worth of fair luck and used it well. Please, Your Grace, my old bones sense a cold wind is brewing."
Beron of Emond's Field stood aside and allowed his king to enter the hall first.
Two soldiers lifted Catelyn out of her wagon and into her chair and wheeled her inside the long hall. It was a two-storied building with a floor of hard-packed earth and straw, and tapestries hung from the thick timber walls. It was warm and homely inside, and the hall appeared to be well lived in by many generations of Northerners.
"Bread and salt, Your Grace," a woman Catelyn took to be Beron's wife approached with a bowl of salt and a torn-up loaf of bread.
Robb ate. "Thank you," he said as he waited for his lords and Catelyn to do the same.
When the formalities were done, Beron saw them seated and began hosting a humble feast. Meat pies, dense and dark loaves of bread, cheeses, and vegetables taken in the last harvest, mostly turnips, carrots, and radishes. To drink, there were dark, and red ales served straight from the barrel.
As their lords and king feasted inside the hall, the army outside gathered into the town and had their own celebrations. Ale flowed freely, and hunters brought deer and birds from the woods for roasting. As far as the great feasts Catelyn has seen in the past went, it was a minor affair. The food was simple and not as plentiful as it could have been. But with winter approaching, Catelyn couldn't blame Berron of Emond's Field for doing the minimum for his king.
Catelyn only sipped at the ale she'd been given, she'd never liked the taste and had always preferred wine instead, but there was no wine. She noticed that Robb had barely touched his drink as well. That's good, she thought, Robb had been drinking too much for too long. What did worry her was that he only picked at his food as well.
When he wasn't picking at his food, Robb did seem more animated like he had on the ride from Hornwood. He jested with the lords of the Mountain Clans. He spoke with mourning but no misery to Lady Maege over the death of her daughter Daecy. He thanked Beron and lifted his ale to raise a cheer to the generosity of Emond's Field. Again she felt a tremor down her spine, the parts she could still feel at least. Robb seemed to have recovered too quickly from his old miasma, and she feared he was simply pretending, that he was putting on a mummer's farce that could collapse at any moment. Despite her worries, many hours passed in relative bliss. Catelyn sipped her ale, ate venison and black bread, and watched the festivities without participating.
She noticed the messenger slip inside first.
He was thin and wind-worn, a grey cloak hung limply from his shoulders, and his boots were muddy. Thin and wolfish was his face when he pulled back his hood. His eyes darted to and for before settling on Robb. He closed the door, made his way inside, and started pushing a path through the crowd.
Others quickly noticed him, Robb included, who had a guard escort the man to his table. The messenger bowed and offered him a few words and a letter from the pouch at his side. In turn, Robb spoke to him, and the messenger was taken away to a nook in the hall where he was served food and ale. Robb caught Catelyn looking at her but quickly averted his gaze and returned to his meal.
Once the feast had wound down, Robb left for a more private room and gathered Catelyn and his lords to him. Once they all crowded into the room, a more intimate dining area, Catelyn thought, and sat around the small table, Robb summoned the messenger again. "Say again what you said to me," he commanded when the man arrived.
"Your Grace," the messenger was balding, thin, and his ears and nose showed signs of frostbite. "Lady Wynafryd bade me bring the letter to you with all haste."
Robb picked up the letter from where he'd placed it on the table. Catelyn hardly had a chance to see the seal, but she saw that beside the light blue Manderly seal was a button of hard black wax. Robb read the letter in silence, and set it aside to take a small drink of ale when he was done. Catelyn had kept close watch of her son's features as he'd read, but they'd revealed nothing.
"What did it say?" Lord Glover asked. "That's the Night's Watch's seal on that."
Robb sighed. "This was written by Samwell Tarly of the Night's Watch. In it, he says that the Wall is under attack."
"Aye, the Wildlings."
"The Others," Robb corrected gently. A bitter silence fell over the whole hall. A jug of ale fell onto the table as it slipped from Helman Tallhart's fingers. The wind picked up, and everyone could hear it howling outside. Maege Mormont had turned so pale she looked like she was made from snow. Galbart Glover looked like he would be sick at any time. Catelyn felt her inside turn in knots as Robb kept speaking. "The Others are attacking the Wall," Robb made to continue but paused, then turned his attention back to the messenger. "How long did it take you to ride here from White Harbour?"
"Uh… I mean, a week, Your Grace."
"With the time for a raven to travel the length of the North, and however long it was before a letter from the fallen Night's Watch was read by the maester," Robb tapped his knuckles against his clay mug. "The Wall has likely fallen. Winter is here."
How can he be so calm? Catelyn thought. Did the gods answer my prayers with a curse?
"Then… then what…" Ser Marlon Manderly trailed off.
"This changes everything," Catelyn said, breaking the silence she usually kept during Robb's councils.
"Nothing changes," Robb said with absolute finality. "Winterfell remains our destination."
"Winterfell?" Marlon sputtered. "What of the Wildlings?"
"What are the Wildlings compared to this?" Helman Tallhart asked.
"Nothing," Robb answered. "They're nothing. Roose Bolton, Mance Rayder, both nothing the Others are everything."
"Wildlings," Hugo Wull growled. "They're killers, thieves, and rapers,"
"The Others are enemies of us all," Robb replied quietly.
"You want to ally with Mance Rayder and his horde?" Galbart Glover asked with open dismay. "It's true then, what Bolton said about your brother, isn't it?"
"Galbart," Maege Mormont growled. "You're speaking to our king."
"The Wildlings are thieves, rapers, and murderers," Hugo Wull roared. The lord of Clan Wull was wide-eyed and white-knuckled. "They cannot be trusted, Your Grace I will-"
Robb slammed his hand against the table. "You'll do what, my lord of Wull? Flee?" He accused and turned to Galbart Glover. "Run away? You cannot hide from the Long Night in the mountains or forests, my lords. The Old Gods have shown me that men must stand as one, or we will not stand at all. And I will not let it be known that Robb Stark fled the Others without trying to stem the cold dead tide. Perhaps it is as you say, my lords, and how many of us suspect, perhaps the Wildlings will betray us. Mayhaps they will turn on us in the heat of battle and deliver a new Long Night upon the world. Perhaps… But if this is to end in ice, then we must all freeze together or rest assured we will all freeze alone," Robb finished his ale and stood tall. "I'd like to have a fighting chance. Are you with me?"
Torren Liddle stood first. "I would follow The Stark to whatever end," he drew his sword and knelt, offering the blade to Robb.
One by one, the lords of the North and the Mountain Clans did the same, Hugo Wull was the last, but he did it nonetheless.
Robb stood over the table and smiled. Apart from the rest of Robb's council, she alone could see Robb's smile disappear and be replaced by the same melancholy from days before.
Reek
Iron doors slamming into stone walls woke Reek from his dreadful slumber. Terrible dreams haunted him, Ramsay of course, but also cold things with dead hands. Filthy straw went flying as he started to his knees and grasped the stone floor with his remaining fingers as panic filled his entire being.
"Not for me," he half whispered, and half prayed. "Not for me."
More doors slammed open, and prisoners began screaming as they were dragged into the flickering torchlight. Reek folded himself into a ball and hid in the corner of his cell. He shivered as the screams, accompanied by the sickening sound of blades chopping flesh, grew more intense only to cease suddenly.
The door of his cell opened, and armoured men came inside.
"Please!" Reek begged as they took hold of his bone-thin arms. "Please! I've done nothing. Please tell his lordship I'm sorry! Please!"
The guards ignored Reek and dragged him out of the cell and into the butchery outside his cell. The other prisoners had been slaughtered. Blood and gore were spread unevenly across the floor, and the guards were picking the dead up by their ankles and wrists. One cursed when an arm ripped free and the corpse fell and splashed his boots with blood.
"Please," Reek continued pleading as the guards dragged through the filth. "I'm sorry, I won't do it again, I won't displease him."
He knew not how long it had been since he'd last been taken from the cells. With Lord Roose returned to the Dreadfort, Lord Ramsay no longer visited Reek. The last time Reek had been summoned had been when Lord Roose had taken him to the Black Brother. Reek hadn't seen or smelt so much as a hint of light or fresh air since.
Reek Reek, it rhymes with weak, he thought as the guards pulled him up the stairs. They followed the trail of blood left behind by the dead prisoners. Up the stairs, they went and through twisting halls that remembered ancient horrors. Reek was hung limply in the iron-hard hands that held him. What did I do? He asked himself. More guards and servants rushed here and there, passing around Reek like leaves in the wind. They held everything from books to barrels, spears to sheets, firewood to pots, and they were running hard to wherever they were going.
"What did I do?" Reek asked again as the guard pulled him through the door to the keep and into the courtyard.
The smell of smoke and burning meat hit him like a hammer. He started to drool and looked around for the source of the wonderful aroma. It was pork, he thought.
After a few seconds of sniffing and looking around, he found the source and was almost immediately sick. He saw two guards throw the body of a prisoner onto a bonfire, and under the careful watch of a sergeant, more men tossed more wood into the flames and pushed the bodies deeper into the coals.
The falling snow was ground into the dirt by the crowd of hundreds and quickly turned the courtyard into a sea of mud. Wagons, carts, and sleds by the dozen were being stocked with supplies.
The guards pulled Reek through the mud and toward a wagon with a cage set upon it with other prisoners huddled inside. Passersby ignored them.
"No!" A familiar voice shouted, and the guards came to an abrupt halt turned to face the speaker.
Sour Alyn swaggered up to them and smiled, showing off his rotten teeth. "Lord Ramsay wants this one at his side when we march. I'll take him to him."
"As Lord Ramsay wishes," one of the guards said, and the pair tossed Reek onto the muddy ground in front of Sour Alyn and quickly walked away.
Reek quickly scrambled onto his feet, only for Sour Alyn to knock him back down. He did an exaggerated sniff. "You reek," he laughed at his own joke. "Get up, you clumsy oaf, Lord Ramsay wants you."
Reek rose to his feet again and followed Sour Alyn through the crowd. The man-at-arms led Reek to the walls. They went past the gates to the stairs that made their way up the inside of the towers to the top of the walls.
Lord Ramsay was waiting for Reek atop the gatehouse. Lord Roose stood nearby and next to a fat young woman who shivered under a heavy cloak.
"House Umber is not known for deception or subtlety," Lord Roose was saying to Ramsay as Reek walked into earshot.
Ramsay sneered but was distracted from his father when he spotted Sour Alyn and Reek. "Reek," Ramsay said pleasantly and smiled. He shoved Sour Alyn away and wrapped an arm around his neck. "So good of you to join us," he squeezed Reek's neck. "We are going to have so much fun."
"Ramsay," Roose spoke quietly but insistently.
Reek felt Ramsay stiffen.
"There are still things to discuss," Roose said. Before Ramsay could speak, the Lord of the Dreadfort had already turned away. "Walton," he spoke to a man standing nearby. "Please escort Lady Walda to her carriage. What we are about to discuss is not for a woman's ears."
The fat lady, Walda, curtsied and accompanied the man-at-arms who led her off the wall.
Ramsay turned and walked back to Roose and pulled Reek along with him.
"As I said," Roose began when Ramsay was back at his side. "The Umbers aren't known for subtlety or deception. That alone would be a reason to give weight to their words. Then there is the Night's Watch to consider and what my own patrols report. Villages abandoned, lifeless, and desolate."
"Wildlings," Ramsay sneered. "Thieves and killers to the bone."
"Thieves, who take nothing? Killers, that leave no bodies? I think not. This is the work of something else."
"What next?" Ramsay asked. "Will you think snarks and grumpkins are hiding under the bed?"
Roose said nothing for a long moment. He just stood and watched as the soldiers and servants milled around in the courtyard below. "I don't care if you believe that the Others have returned," he said at last. "Only that you obey. Now go and see to your men. You will ride within the hour and scout our march for any dangers."
"Yes, father," Ramsay turned again, dragging Reek with him.
"Leave him," Roose said.
"He belongs to me," Ramsay growled and squeezed his arm around Reek's neck. Reek could hardly breathe, but he dared not to struggle.
"And everything you own belongs to me," Roose said quietly. "You have all but ruined him if he is to be of any use, then he must be relieved from your care."
Ramsay released Reek and stomped off. Reek fell to his knees and gasped for air as his master departed.
Roose Bolton sighed. "I had hoped to stay here longer," he said. "I have missed my home, but now it seems I must march to war earlier than I'd hoped and against a foe," he shook his head. "A very dangerous foe."
Reek shivered in the wind.
"Rejoice Theon."
"No," Reek shook his head. "Not my name," he whispered. "I know my name."
Roose carried on without a care. "We are taking you home to Winterfell."
Reek shivered again.
"When next I see you, you will be clean, I will have good clothes sent to you, and you will ride in my company."
Reek shivered and shook.
"There will be a battle soon enough. The wildlings flee back west, and so we will follow even as the Others follow us," he shrugged. "And who knows where Stark will go."
Reek shook his head.
Roose continued. "My scouts saw him following me into the Hornwood. He could try to march on the Dreadfort, but that would be foolish. My castle can hold for years. No. I think he'll go west as well. You know Robb Stark well, what do you think he would do?"
Reek shook his head. "I, I don't, my lord. Lord Ramsay wouldn't like me to say."
Roose Bolton sighed. "The pieces were set, and the board was ready, then someone came to knock it over. The gods laugh at the plans of men," he looked into the sky as the snow began to fall more heavily. "I would think that the Others do as well."
Tyrion
Jon laughed when he saw the white shadow lope out of the trees. Ghost had grown a lot since Tyrion had last seen the direwolf, the half-grown pup was now as large as a pony, and if he grew much more, even Grenn or Tormund would be able to ride Ghost comfortably. The huge wolf loped out of the trees and toward the band. A handful of wildlings hefted weapons at first but relaxed them when Jon darted from the loose column and ran to Ghost.
The direwolf loped toward his master and rammed a wet nose into Jon's neck, pushing the bastard to the ground and half burying him in snow. The pair wrestled for almost a minute before Jon convinced the direwolf to let him stand.
"What's wrong?" Tyrion asked Jon when he saw the bastard's troubled face.
"Ghost was north of the Wall."
"So?" Grenn asked.
"So how'd he get south if the Free Folk sealed the gates?" Jon asked back.
Tyrion frowned. "Maybe he swam?"
"Maybe," Jon said, though he didn't sound convinced.
The wind began to pick up, and the black brothers and wildlings quickly raised their hoods and wrapped their faces against the cold.
As the days passed, the wind blew harder and colder, and the snow fell more heavily. It whipped into the trees and turned the bark white on the north side. They moved south as they had for many days before, spurred on by the cold wind driving like daggers and arrows in their backs. The forests provided some cover but not enough to keep the wind at bay.
They made their camps on the sides of hills, trusting in the slope to keep the wind away and kept guards throughout the night. Despite the cold, they dared not light fires lest they attract the attention of the Bolton men who were no doubt hunting them. They pushed further south away from the hills and into the woods and flatlands that dominated the centre of the North.
Tyrion woke one night to the sound of a footstep in the snow, not an unusual sound. He turned his head slightly, cursing under his breath as the movement let a whiff of ice cold air reach him. He saw someone dressed in black standing there, and for a moment, Tyrion thought it was just Lancel, Jon, or one of the other deserters, but then he saw the black cloak. None of Tyrion's companions still had their black cloaks. They'd traded them in for sheepskins.
"Woah!" Tyrion shouted. "Wake! Beware!"
He struggled against the heavy sheepskin and two cloaks he'd wrapped around himself.
His shouts woke the other sleepers, and they began to rise as well. Jon rose with Longclaw in hand, then Grenn and Lancel followed him only seconds later. Tormund rose like a great angry bear, axe in hand and roaring like the Warrior incarnate, and the other wildlings followed him, spears and axes at the ready as the black brother stood still. The black-cloaked man, the man of the Night's Watch did nothing, didn't move. His back was turned to them.
"Oh, gods…" Tormund swore quietly. "Oh gods, no."
"Brother?" Grenn asked his hands tight around his blade.
The Black Brother turned, entrails hung from the wound in his belly, and his eyes were a frosty blue.
A scream pierced the darkness, cold and clear as an icicle. The wight that once was a man of the Night's Watch charged, and from the pitch black of a moonless night came more blue-eyed corpses, not just men, but animals too. A stag with ten points and almost no skin rammed its antlers into a wildling and tossed him ten feet into the air. Jon, Grenn, and Lancel took turns hacking at the walking corpses that came to challenge them.
"Fire!" Tormund shouted, and half a dozen wildlings hurried to turn wood and tinder into burning brands.
Everyone fell back, for the dead outnumbered the living dozens to one, they came together as more from instinct and fear than from any sense of discipline. The wights came forward a dreadful wave of blue eyes, bones, and dead flesh. They were met by steel, iron, bronze, and stone weapons carried by living hands. It was enough to slow the wights but not stop them, and nothing close to enough to turn them back. The stragglers didn't live long enough to mourn their misfortune. A dead wolf leapt at Tormund, who drove an axe into its skull and knocked the blue-eyed beast to the ground. Longspear Ryk pinned it to the icy ground with a spear while Jon rushed in with his bastard sword and swung viciously at the beast.
Tyrion fell in behind Lancel, and his cousin used two hands as he cut and chopped at the wights. Tyrion held his crossbow tightly even though the bolt had fallen out, leaving the weapon useless. Even if Tyrion could reload, it would do nothing to the dead. Lancel's sword cut deep into a skull and became caught in the bone. The wight reached up to grab the blade, twisted backward, and pulled the sword free of Lancel's hands.
A burning arrow lit up the night.
The red-haired wildling, Ygritte, loosed a flaming arrow into the wight attacking Jon. She knelt and picked another arrow from the fire and shot it just as quickly. Tyrion stumbled backward, he threw his useless crossbow to the ground and grabbed one of the burning brands being handed out. Tyrion turned back and thrust the flames into the groin of the wight, trying to strangle Lancel. The fire spread quickly and began to consume dead flesh as if it had been soaked in oil. Lancel broke free of the weakening grip and retreated to arm himself with a new weapon.
Despite the flames and burning arrows now lashing out to deliver death to the dead, the living continued to fall back. The wights cared not for their casualties, only the will of their masters, the deadly elegant Others that before tonight Tyrion hadn't believed were real. Tonight he saw them, and they strode behind the lines, not risking to cross blades with the living, content to let their thralls do the hard work.
Tyrion fought beside Lancel. His cousin used a stone-tipped spear to keep the dead at bay, while Tyrion used his burning brand to light the wights aflame. It wasn't easy. Too often, the fire didn't catch fast enough, and even if they did, the wights would for a few terrifying moments still charge and kill while wreathed in terrible hot flames.
A wight came forward, and Tyrion stumbled for a second, he slipped on a patch of snow, and his torch fizzled out when it hit the ground. The wight charged, sensing weakness, but stumbled as well when Lancel's suddenly drawn sword took its leg off at the knee. Still, it came for him. The cold, black, dead hand seized Tyrion's foot with a vice grip and pulled him closer.
Tyrion swung the unlit torch into the wight to little effect.
Lancel stabbed the wight through the neck and with it pinned in place while he hurriedly chopped at the wrist with a broad-bladed dagger. Once, twice, thrice, and then Tyrion was able to pull himself free. Once done, Lancel pried his spear free and pulled Tyrion back to make room for a volley of burning arrows to pierce dead flesh.
And just as suddenly as the attack began, it ended. The dead and their masters retreated into the woods, back into the cold from whence they'd come.
Tyrion suddenly realized he was shaking and shivering. He was colder than he'd ever been.
"What happened to the guards?" A wildling said. "Where is Toregg? He was standing guard, wasn't he?"
Tormund forced a torch into one of the slain wight's wounds until it went up in flames. He pulled the torch free and spun around in the snow. "Toregg!" He shouted. "Toregg! Where are you? Son!"
They didn't have to search for very long. Toregg was still at his post. His throat had been cut, and the blood had frozen him to the tree, then it seemed the Other had decided to play.
Tyrion looked away from the mess and art the Other had made of Toregg's entrails, lest he vomit.
Tormund stepped through them all and put a hand to his son's frozen cheek. "Prepare a pyre for our dead," he said. "I'll take Toregg down."
"Tormund," Longspear Ryk said. "You don't-"
"Yes I do," Tormund said. "Gods, we were so close."
"Close to what?" Tyrion asked Jon as they departed back to the camp.
"Close to sleeping without fear of dead things in the night," Ygritte answered for Jon.
"And then you killed the Watchers on the Wall," Grenn said bitterly.
Ryk sneered. "I don't remember you lot being eager to stay at your posts."
Grenn bristled, but Jon forestalled him with a hand on Grenn's wrist to stop him from drawing his sword.
"Why didn't they finish us off," Tyrion asked quietly.
"Why!" Tormund roared, turning on Tyrion with hate and wrath and sorrow on his face. Tears were pouring from his eyes only to freeze on his cheeks. "I'll tell you why! Because it's funny!" He gasped for breath through the tears. "It's funny to them, to these frozen monsters, it's funny to them to watch a man mourn his son! To make him watch as his son dies!" Tormund turned to face the woods. "Isn't it!" There was only silence for a few seconds, but then the sound like cracking ice began to echo through the woods.
Laughter, Tyrion realized.
The hateful cheer hung in the air like a dark and cruel fog.
Tormund shouted and threw a torch into the forest, it landed in the snow, and the few flames were quickly smothered.
Asha
Asha Greyjoy was seated in House Glover's longhall drinking House Glover's wine when House Glover's maester brought the letter to her.
"My lady," the maester's voice was anxious, as it always was when he spoke to her. "A bird from the Eastwatch, from the Night's Watch." He thrust the parchment at her as if he could not wait to be rid of it. It was tightly rolled and sealed with a button of hard black wax.
Eastwatch, Asha mused as she took the letter. It had been many weeks since a northern lord had sent a raven to Deepwood Motte. Moons ago, there'd been one from White Harbour, sealed with a direwolf in grey wax. Robb Stark had taken Deepwood Motte from her uncle's garrison and now demanded that she leave the North. Asha had ignored him and had stayed in the seat of House Glover. A different raven had come from the Night's Watch as well several weeks ago. That first raven had been a weak and bloody bird from the Shadow Tower with a wound in its side, like from a hunting hawk. The letter itself was almost unreadable from the blood that stained it. But it revealed enough. It had been written in the final hours of the Shadow Tower's battle against the wildlings. A battle they'd lost. Asha had had half a mind to write to Mance Rayder and offer him an alliance but had contented herself and her crew by raising a toast to him during their meal.
"What news does the Night's Watch have that they'd want to send to me?" She asked out loud, though she suspected its contents to be similar to the first.
"The commander of Eastwatch is an Ironman," Maester Worryn of Deepwood Motte offered. "Cotter Pyke he's named."
Asha hummed in acknowledgement as she slipped the dirk from her bosom to tear the seal free and spread the letter flat on the table, and started reading. She started laughing halfway through. "Is this some kind of drunken joke?"
"What?" Maester Worryn asked quietly.
"Listen to this. The Wall crumbles a little more every night, and the dead are coming, their blue eyes shine in the night. The men of the Night's Watch must want to frighten us out of the North. Or do Wildlings so unman them?"
The maester said nothing as Asha tossed the half-read letter into the flames.
In the days that followed, a great chill descended upon Deepwood Motte. The wind blew from the north, bringing a freezing cold with it and powerful snowstorms that half-buried the castle and smothered the lands around it in white. The storm raged night and day, though it was so dark that Asha could hardly tell the difference, save that when night fell, the clouds would come alive with faint blue and green and purple lights as the northern lights shone and illuminated the clouds and the snow.
Asha, her crew, and the Glover household huddled inside. Great fires, thick walls, and heavy tapestries and blankets kept the cold at bay.
"Asha," Qarl came to her one freezing morning. "You have to come with me to see the sea."
Asha snorted. "I have seen the sea before and have no great desire to travel through the cold and snow to see it again."
"Asha," Qarl said seriously. "Please, it's unnatural."
Asha let her grin fade away when she heard Qarl's worried tones. "Fine," she said.
Wrapped in furs and riding a horse from Deepwood's stable, Asha and Qarl made quick work of the distance between the Motte and the Bay of Ice and the strangeness he'd spoken of. The sea was frozen, but that itself was nothing to be surprised with, but Qarl was right. It was strange. The water was trapped in the shape of waves. As if it had frozen all at once in mid-motion rather than gradually.
"Drowned God's watery halls," Asha swore as her horse planted its feet into the ground and refused to move any closer to the frozen waves.
With the curse still fresh on her lips, Asha dismounted and stepped onto the ice. She stomped to test it, but the ice was solid. It didn't flex and hardly seemed even to shiver as she put her full weight onto it. Qarl and a dozen men of her crew followed her, and even all their weight combined couldn't shift the ice.
"Tris," Asha called.
"Aye?" Tristifer Botley asked.
"Get an axe and find out how thick the ice is."
Tristifer ran off, and Asha turned her attention to the ships. Most had been beached well onto the shore, save for one called Wild Axe. Asha's men had been using it to scout the Bay for signs of the Mormonts of Bear Island getting brave, or worse if Euron or her supposed husband Erik Ironmaker had sent ships and men to seize her.
Now it looked like Wild Axe wouldn't sail again even without the ice. Her sides had been crushed, and ice had pierced the timbers to stab like daggers into her belly.
"She'd sink in seconds," Asha said quietly to herself. More loudly, she spoke to her crew. "Unload Wild Axe, and all the rest as well. Until the ice clears, we'll make no quick escape to sea, so I want everything in Deepwood Motte."
"Have you ever seen anything like this?" Qarl asked once they were alone.
"No," Asha said.
"It's unnatural," Qarl said, repeating himself from earlier.
"I'll talk to the maester. Maybe he knows something."
Back in Deepwood Motte, Asha climbed the tower to the maester's quarters. "Has anything like this happened before?"
"Not to my knowledge," Maester Worryn said quietly. "Not as you describe it, at least. There are records from almost a century ago that claimed the waters further north, near the Gorge and in the shadow of the Wall and the Frostfangs, that the waters there froze solid and let Wildlings raiders walk across the sea to raid the Mountain Clans," he shook his head. "But nothing this far south. The Bay of Ice is so named for icebergs, not for freezing solid."
"Then how did this happen?"
"I know not," Worryn said.
More days passed Asha by as the snowstorms, at last, began to diminish.
"My lady." The maester's voice was anxious, as it always was when he spoke to her. "A raven from the Last Hearth." He passed her the parchment, and Asha saw it tightly rolled and sealed with a button of hard red wax.
Last Hearth. Asha tried to recall who ruled the Last Hearth. Some northern lord, she thought, no friend of mine. Asha shrugged and took the letter.
"House Umber rules Last Hearth," the maester provided.
"Have they sworn to the Boltons or the Starks?" Asha asked as she cut it open and began to read.
"I know not," Worryn admitted. "These are strange times."
Asha hardly listened to him, for as she read, she was instantly reminded of the letter from Eastwatch she'd burned. They come in the dark, it said, be it night or day, they come in the dark. There are screams in the darkness. An ocean of blue-eyed corpses. We will not last long. They scream even now as the dead, and their cold masters charge the walls. They are coming. We cannot drink because the wells are frozen. Even wine and ale from the deepest cellars is frozen. They scream in the dark. The Long Night has come again. They are coming. We cannot get out. We cannot escape. They are coming.
It was signed thrice, once with a small drawing of a man, or perhaps a giant, second with the name Hother Umber written in a gnarled and scrawled hand, and third with Samwell Tarly of the Night's Watch, written in fine figures.
Asha let the letter far from limp fingers as she thought about the frozen sea and the letter from Eastwatch that she'd scarcely read before tossing into the flames.
"My lady?" Maester Worryn began.
The door to the maester's chamber crashed open, Asha jumped as Qarl rushed in.
"Asha! The Mormonts are here."
Asha leapt to her feet, eager for any distractions from the contents of the letter.
"They're on the shore?" She asked as they ran through the halls.
"At the gate," he said. "We couldn't spot them. The storm started again."
"Have they attacked?"
"That's the mad thing," Qarl grinned. "They're begging for aid."
Several hundred people wrapped in what must have been every scrap of fur and cloth they had were huddled together for warmth in the shadow of the walls. Blowing snow was already piling into drifts around them and threatening to bury them.
Asha risked the cold to take a good look at the people herself. Underneath so much clothing, she couldn't tell a warrior from an old woman, but there was no mistaking the smaller huddled shapes as children.
Asha turned to Qarl. "Let them in eight at a time and search them for weapons."
"I'll get the crews," he said as he turned away. He paused when Asha put a hand on his shoulder.
"Let the children in first."
Qarl nodded and kept going.
If this is a trick, Asha thought, then at least we'll have hostages.
"They came from the sea," Lyanna Mormont said once she and her people were inside Deepwood Motte. "Great icebergs often break off the Frostfangs and float into the bay. That's how it got its name, the Bay of Ice. Sometimes they have animals on them, once when my mother was little, there were even wildlings trapped on an iceberg, but now they came bearing dead things."
Asha listened in stony silence as the little lady of Mormont continued.
"They poured onto the shore and started killing, anything and everything, they kept killing until they reached the keep. Then they stopped."
"Why?" Asha asked.
"I don't know," the girl of ten said. "They just retreated into the woods," she pulled the bear fur closer around her shoulders. "Three days we waited in the keep for the Others to kill us, but they never did. So on the fourth day we ran, we took all the food and provisions and then fled across the frozen sea."
"They let you?"
"Aye, we saw an Other once, but he didn't do anything, just watched us from the woods."
"They didn't give chase?"
Lyanna shook her head again. "We never saw them, Hother will tell you," she pointed at one of her guards, a man who, from his size, beard, and gnarled features, looked so Northern one would think he'd spit frost.
Asha spared him a glance before looking back to Lyanna. "Keep your people inside the great hall, and there'll be no trouble."
"Alright," Lyanna said quietly.
Asha left and returned with Qarl to her chambers.
"You think…" Qarl started. "You think it's real? That the Others have returned?" Qarl's tone was more desperate than disbelieving.
Asha crouched next to the brazier and slowly started poking and prodding the flames back to life. "There's a letter from Last Hearth on the table," she said. "Read it."
Qarl did so. When he was done, the brazier was crackling again, spitting sparks and radiating heat. Qarl came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight. Asha returned the embrace pulling him tight against her.
"What do we do?"
"We run."
Many more snowy days passed as Asha's Ironborn, the Hornwoods, and the Bear Islanders gathered supplies. Half a dozen hunting parties went out each day, bringing back whatever game could be had. The animals from the nearby villages were butchered. Horses, goats, pigs, cattle, sheep, and dogs alike were slaughtered for their meat to be stored in the snowbanks if they couldn't be salted or smoked.
There wasn't enough, but then Asha had known that would be the case when she'd started. Even so, she wished for just a few more days when the time finally came.
The Others came on a day when the clouds were so thick and dark that even midday seemed more like twilight. The dead marched over the frozen ocean and came to the snow-covered shore like the waves upon the sea, numberless, uncountable, and endless. The stars had been obscured for weeks, but in the ocean of cold blue eyes, the night sky was reborn. Haunted by the Others' breaking ice screams, Asha gripped her axe as she watched them surround Deepwood Motte.
"They aren't attacking," Qarl said. "Just like on Bear Island. Why?"
"If I had to guess," Asha said. "I'd say it's because there's no sport in hunting cornered prey. Collect everything. We march within the hour.."
"If you're wrong, we'll all die."
"We'll die anyway, and I'd rather go to the Drowned God with an axe in hand on the field of battle than cowering in this dismal hall."
Digging Deepwood Motte's gates free of the snow took almost two hours of slow, cold, and backbreaking work as snow fell almost as fast as it was dug away. All the while, the dead waited outside the walls. Wildlings, northmen, and beasts filled the cleared fields between the walls and the forest and waiting for some sign from their unseen masters.
At last, with snow piled up against the walls, the gates were pulled open, and the living left the castle. Wagons with their wheels replaced by runners to turn them into sleds pulled by shaggy oxen and horses and laden with supplies pushed out of the gates and into the open.
The wights had pulled back into two groups flanking the gates, leaving a path between them from Deepwood Motte to the gates, and slipping between the rows of the dead like white ghosts were the Others. The baleful and beautiful monsters had made themselves known at last. Asha saw one then two and, was that three and four or one of the first two. Each was twin to the first, and the ranks of the dead made keeping track of them hard. Still, with the gates open, Asha and her followers were exposed as never before, but the wights made no move to attack. They stood as still and cold as stone.
Asha held a sputtering torch in hand as she led the living out of Deepwood Motte and toward the forest. Ten feet became fifty, and the sleds slid steadily forward over the snow, boots crushed the powdery white, and Asha could feel her fingers growing cold through her gloves and mittens. Movement from the edge of sight and Asha spun to see the dead part for an Other.
The Other was tall and pale and as thin as a dagger. He held a crystal sword in one hand and held the leash of a pair of giant white spiders covered in frost in the second. The spiders hissed and shook their fangs at the mix of Ironborn and Northerners. The Other's sword tip tapped the ground, sending shocks of frost and snowflakes across the ground each time it did. He raised his hand, bidding Asha to stop, and she did.
A different Other, twin to the first, approached her. Fear sent Asha's stomachs into knots, but she held firm. Twenty feet, ten feet, five feet, and then the Other was beside her. She could feel the hellish cold emanating from him, stealing the warmth from bones and blood alike. The Other's sword remained at his side, and she knew that that was the only reason she still stood. If the Other wanted her dead, she'd be dead. The Other's ice eyes looked over Asha. He sneered and then struck, snake quick, and seized part of her hair in his hand and pulled it free. The strands broke easily in his grasp as they froze. Asha reacted half a second too slow as she jumped back and pulled her axe free. But the Other ignored her, turned his back on her, and the wights never moved an inch. The only sound was the spiders' clitter clatter as they scented Asha's hair as the Other passed it to them, as a hunter would pass a scent to a hound.
The Other holding the spiders flicked his sword again, dismissing Asha and the others fleeing Deepwood Motte. He then sheathed the blade and pointed at the sky, then raised three fingers, then pointed at the sky with all three, and made a motion to mirror the rise and fall of the sun.
"Three days," Asha said. "We have three days headstart."
"You're sure?" Qarl asked.
"No, but let's make them count anyway."
Asha turned to lead her followers into the Wolfswood, and the living fled before the ice cold laughter of the lords of the dead.
