Mathis

The snow was thick and heavy on the banks of the Blackwater Rush. It wasn't much colder so close to King's Landing as it was in the northern Reach, and there wasn't much more snow, but the snow was wet and thick and quickly turned to slush and turned the ground beneath into mud. The snow had made the Roseroad little better than the fields on either side and so close to King's Landing, where the traffic was almost constant. The Blackwater itself was free of ice for now. Its dark waters ran too quickly.

MisGold cloaks stood guard on the walls above the King's Gate. They looked miserable in the cold and damp weather. At least it wasn't snowing at the moment. But the dark grey clouds looked like they could start snowing at any time. Mathis hunched his shoulders as he rode under the portcullis to protect the nape of his neck from the ice-cold drops of water dripping from the metal teeth above him. Mathis followed King Aegon and Stannis into King's Landing, with the sun quickly setting behind them.

The King's Gate led to the street called River Row, and to either side, the smallfolk stared out of the alleys and narrow streets like hungry cats. Skittish and hungry. Many wore layers of rag-like clothes and watched with wide eyes as the banners advanced toward Aegon's High Hill and the Red Keep, the stag and dragon banners fluttered at the head of the column. That should get the rumour mill stirring, Mathis thought as he rode past a square where a pair of septons preached atop an empty plinth where a statue might have once stood.

River Row led to Fishmonger's Square, where the royal procession turned onto Muddy Way, which ran between Visenya's Hill and Aegon's High Hill in the dual shadows of the Red Keep and the Great Sept of Baelor. Mathis spied hundreds and hundreds of labourers at work on the gates and the walls, raising them taller and stronger. Wagons filled with bricks, timber, and stone pulled to the side as their betters passed by. All the smallfolk bowed their heads, no doubt muttering as the black stag and crimson dragon banners marched through the city.

The procession turned right off Muddy Way and onto the Hook, which curved up the slopes of Aegon's High Hill. The buildings grew larger and more spread out, separated by low walls and small gardens, turning from tenements into the manses of wealthy merchants and money lenders and highborn who chose to live in the capital close to the Royal Court. Many of them looked empty. One though looked to be very busy. Plumes of smoke and foul-smelling odours rose from behind the walls. As they rode past, Mathis spied men in leather aprons working and workmen's clothes hard at work inside through the wide-open gates. His curiosity was answered when he saw what they were working on, long metal barrels.

Dragons, Mathis realized, Stannis is building his own dragons.

"How many does he have?" Mathis asked himself.

Gunthor shrugged beside him. "Shouldn't it be we now? If both kings are on the same side after all."

"For now," Mathis whispered.

The Hook turned onto the big main road that ran straight from the Gate of the Gods to the Red Keep. High and above them, the Red Keep sat like an old beast on the hill. The red stone battlements were half-hidden by snow that piled on them. Before too long, the Red Keep's gate opened up like a hungry mouth, and Mathis rode into the belly of the beast.

The courtyard inside was lined on either side with ranks of Baratheon retainers, hundreds of them, and each and every last one was armed with a hand-dragon. Their armour was burnished, and swords hung at their sides, but it was the hand-dragons that kept Mathis' attention. The weapons looked different from those he'd seen previously, but the essentials were all the same, a wooden stock, a metal barrel, and a firing mechanism not unlike that of a crossbow. Mathis was relieved to see that the rope matches used to ignite the powder were not lit and ready to shoot.

Between the lines of dragonmen were the lords and ladies of the court. Most were from Crownlands, Narrow Sea, and Stormlands, the bedrock of Stannis' support. There were many Reachlords as well, mainly Florents or Houses tied to them, but some others also. There was also a fair number of Valelords and Riverlords. Lord Yohn Royce was the most prominent among them, both in lordly status and for his position on Stannis' Small Council.

Lord Alester Florent stood front and centre. Resplendent in silk and cloth-of-silver, red foxes danced across his doublet, a large bejewelled silver broach shaped like a flower pinned his cloak in place, and a chain of clasping golden hands hung proudly around his neck.

"Your Grace," Lord Alester bowed. "King's Landing and your court rejoice at your victorious return."

Stannis dismounted, and a page quickly ran from the crowd to take his horse. On that cue, King Aegon dismounted shortly after and then all the other lords began as well. Gunthor had to help Mathis down, but they managed. A sea of pages and squires cleared the horses away.

Stannis looked down at Lord Alester, furious in his silence. "We will speak later, my lord," Stannis said through grinding teeth. "In private," then more loudly Stannis said. "Rest my lords, we shall meet again on the morrow."

Stannis then shouldered past Lord Alester, who couldn't quite stand aside in time. Stannis marched into the Red Keep, pausing only to collect the rest of his Small Council. Melisandre of Asshai paused for a moment to speak a few words to Lord Alester. The Red Woman quickly followed her king and left Lord Alester alone and his face pale.

He turned back to King Aegon and the other lords. "Ahem, as His Grace said, rest my lords, I will have you directed to your rooms."

Mathis received rooms near the Maidenvault, which was given over entirely to King Aegon so that his court might have some privacy. The rooms were spacious and well furnished with Myrish carpets and oaken furniture with finely detailed carvings of birds and beasts. A second smaller bedchamber gave space for Gunthor.

"Gunthor," Mathis called for his son.

"Yes, father?"

"Run down to the kitchens and find us something to eat."

Not long after Gunthor left came the knock on his door, Mathis had been expecting.

"Enter," he said. His leg was still sore from the long days of riding.

King Aegon entered, and his kingsguard remained outside Mathis' chambers and swiftly closed the door.

"My lord," King Aegon began. "I fear I have neglected my promise to you to make right what went wrong."

"Things have been very busy of late," Mathis said by way of excuse. But, in truth, he'd been dreading this moment almost as much as King Aegon must have been.

They sat there in silence for close to a minute as both men tried to organize their thoughts.

Aegon spoke first. "I have dishonoured your lady daughter."

Mathis grimaced. "You aren't the first," he admitted.

"Princess Arianne and I are not formally betrothed," King Aegon began.

"No!" Mathis surprised himself with how quickly he responded. He continued more softly. "Please, your grace, not formally as you say, but in everything but it is expected."

"It is a matter of honour, my lord," King Aegon protested.

"Lords and kings must think of honour your grace, but..."

"But the good of the realm comes first," Aegon finished.

"Yes, it must," Mathis said, relieved that the king hadn't pushed harder, a royal marriage, he could feel old ambitions stirring inside, despite what it had cost him. Elinor, his little girl, he remembered her laugh and smile so easily.

"Still, I owe House Rowan a debt. You were among the first to come when I raised my banner, and then I dishonoured your house with my actions. When this is settled, the wars I mean, ask anything of me, and if it is within my power, it will be yours. I swear by the Old Gods and the New."

"You are too kind, Your Grace," Mathis made himself say.

"Thank you, my lord," the king said. "I fear I must depart now, or else Lord Jon may start to get concerned."

Mathis chuckled forcefully at the small jape. "As you wish, Your Grace."

King Aegon stood and bowed slightly. "Good evening, my lord."

The door opened, outside, Gunthor and Ser Rolly were speaking quietly. The knight, with his sword half drawn and in the middle of waving his arm wildly, Gunthor was carrying a small covered tray.

"So the bravos of the Free Cities are very quick and. Ah," the kingsguard interrupted himself. "Your Grace."

"Having fun, Duck?"

"I was merely explaining to young Gunthor here how the bravos of the Free Cities fight."

Mathis chuckled. "A very valuable education, I am sure," he said.

"It is," Gunthor said.

"Well, it will need to continue another time," Mathis said. "Get in here, boy. I'm starving."

That night Mathis dreamed of storms and a madman's laughter. More than once, he woke covered in sweat and his heart racing.

When morning came, it brought with it a summons to the new squat tower at the mouth of the Blackwater Rush, and Mathis made sure to go despite that he felt that he'd hardly slept at all.

Despite his haste, Mathis was one of the last to arrive. He limped his way down the steps from the wall. Wincing with every step, Mathis limped there and wondered if he should invest in a cane. "Damn my pride," he muttered. "I should have kept the other one."

Gunthor nodded silently at his side, steady as a rock as Mathis reached out then and again to grab his shoulder for a bit of support every now and again.

"But no," Mathis kept muttering. "My pride dare not allow me to seem feeble before my king, ha! It would be even more feeble to fall on my own face. Yes, a good cane, rowan of course, with gilt and silver."

"Maybe mother will get you one for your next Nameday?" Gunthor said.

"Ha! Maybe, maybe."

Mathis joined the kings and the lords at the foot of the stairs. He felt Lord Jon's eyes judging him. No doubt the Hand was suspicious of whatever he thought had happened between Mathis and King Aegon last night.

The tower was an ugly thing. The stone was a mix of grey and red, drawn just as much from the rubble left behind Stannis' siege as from freshly cut material and was barely taller than the surrounding walls. It bulged from the side of the Red Keep like a fungus on a tree. But it was well made and solid beneath the feet. The walls sloped steeply down and met the brackish waters where the river emptied into the sea, leaving no room for men to stand and set ladders. Tall crenulations and hoarding would protect any defenders from arrows.

It was connected to the rest of the Red Keep by a hidden staircase that ran down from the walls higher up the hill and by a tunnel through the walls that ran to a courtyard. Both had once been used as sally ports previously but were now repurposed.

Workmen were still busy adding the finishing touches to the defences, reinforcing the hoarding, piling rocks to be tossed down on attackers, and stacking ammunition to be shot down from the walls. But, not just arrows and crossbow bolts, Mathis spied a few barrels with grainy black residue about their tops and pyramids of large smooth stones. Blackpowder and ammunition for the dragons.

Near Stannis and his kingsguard knights were several of the foreigners, the ones who brought and sold the weapons that had changed everything. They were speaking quietly with the Baratheon king. Lord Alester was there as well, but now lacking the necklace of linked golden hands that marked him as the Hand of the King.

An invisible line across the tower divided the two courts.

Stannis spoke first. "We'll put the dragons here," he said. "And with them control access to the Blackwater Rush and the approaches toward the city."

Stannis would know how to defend the city, Mathis thought, considering he took it from the Lannisters.

"What of the provisions?" Lord Edmure Tully asked. "How long can the city be kept fed."

"Not enough for more than a few weeks, I think," Lord Alester said.

"Far less now that the armies are here," Jon Connington said. "Warriors and horses need more to eat than those living in the gutters of Flea Bottom."

Unsaid was that he thought they were more deserving of good as well.

King Aegon frowned.

"They should leave," Princess Arianne said. "As Dorne did during the attacks of Aegon the Conqueror and scatter to the countryside."

King Aegon nodded. "Yes, that could work."

King Stannis and Lord Jon spoke at the same time. "King's Landing is not Sunspear."

Mathis stifled a laugh at the look that passed between the two men.

Stannis continued after a moment. "In this weather, most would die of cold before getting halfway to Duskendale," he said.

"And how many of our men would die trying to force them out of their homes," Jon Connington said with a grimace.

"Very well," King Aegon said. "But we must get food and the means to pay for it."

"Make the merchant guilds pay," Ser Harry suggested. "They always have money squirrelled away no matter their protests."

Mathis found himself nodding in agreement and saying. "Either they pay to help defend the city or pay to feed it. If it falls to Euron they'll lose everything anyway."

"Lord Edmure, might the Riverlands be able to provide?" Stannis asked.

"Your Grace, the Riverlands suffered greatly during the war," Lord Edmure said. "I fear we'll have little enough to help, though we will do what we can."

"Perhaps the West can be squeezed," Lord Rykker said.

"The west has suffered hardly at all," Mathis said. "Their cattle and grain would help."

King Aegon nodded. "Cattle and grain by the Gold Road."

"The Westermen are proud," Lord Alester said, addressing both kings. "And they've already given much to the Riverlands. By your own orders, Your Grace."

"Tell them to speak to Lord Rodrik Harlaw if they have any problems," Stannis growled.

Lord Dustan Drumm chuckled along with the other Ironmen who'd joined the armies after Oldtown.

"Yes, Your Grace," Lord Alester bowed his head.

"What of the Royal Fleet?" Lord Jon asked after a moment.

Stannis ground his teeth and glared daggers at Lord Alester.

"Gone south to confront Euron," the Lord of Brightwater Keep said. "And defeated, ravens have come from Tarth, Storm's End, Estermont, and a dozen other castles in the Stormlands baring word of the survivors making landfall in their harbours."

"And where is Euron now?" Mathis asked.

"A raven came in the night from Sharp Point. Fishermen spotted the Ironman fleet passing into Blackwater Bay."

"We have but a handful of days," Stannis said. "Likely less as the winds always seem to be in Euron's favour."

Tyrion

Thousands of Northmen, Starks, Boltons, and wildlings made for a deadly brew at the best of times. Thousands of warriors and thousands more servants, camp followers, and children and women in the case of the wildlings were crowded together in the camp around Winterfell. The sprawl went for miles, and Tyrion didn't care even to try to guess how many people there were. Tens of thousands for sure, even together, the Bolton and Stark Northmen were badly outnumbered by the wildlings, and that was after Morna had left with most of the horde.

Just as had happened after they'd taken Castle Black Morna White Mask had taken all but the strongest warriors with her. She hadn't gone alone this time. Rattleshirt, Soren Shieldbreaker, and other chiefs had also departed, taking their men with them. If the Northmen were fearful of the battle to come, the wildlings were terrified. They were slipping away by the dozens and hundreds each night.

Tensions were hot despite the growing chill. Tyrion pulled his sheepskin cloak further around his shoulders. Not long after the Boltons had arrived, one of their footsoldiers had tried to rape a daughter of the Great Walrus. He'd been stopped only when the daughter's brothers had found her. They'd castrated the soldier then and there, and after that, they got creative. Then the soldier's friends had tried to avenge him, and it had taken Roose Bolton and Mance Rayder both to stop the feud from turning into a small battle.

Tyrion felt a pang of hunger in his belly and grimaced. Food was starting to get hard to get. All the smallfolk were running south, and the animals ran with them. The forests had less game every day, and supplies could only last so long. The wildlings especially were starting to get hungry. Two days ago, a band of Hornfoots had raided the Stark camp and stolen fifteen horses from knights sworn to House Manderly to have a feast. That had almost provoked another battle, and the skirmishing had left a dozen dead on both sides before the lords and chieftains brought their men to heel.

Tyrion's boot slipped on the cold mud, or maybe it was dirty snow, and went into a puddle. He pulled it free and glared at the towers of Winterfell. Tyrion had grown used to knowing in King's Landing, back when he was the Hand of the King when he'd been important, and when he'd had knights and sellswords and wildlings of his own to command. Now he knew nothing but rumours and whatever tidbits Tormund Giantsbane cared to share. Tyrion pulled his boot free and tramped onward.

The one thing both Northmen and wildlings could agree on was that they thought the Night's Watch deserters were scum. Distrusted by the wildlings and hated by all the Northmen. So they tried to keep to themselves, tried to stay among Tormund's warriors who were at least friendly most of the time, but sometimes, things didn't go to plan.

"Where in the Seven Hells is Jon?" Lancel growled.

He and the other Night's Watch deserters were well outside the wildling camp. Ever since the Starks had arrived, Jon had been acting strange. He'd been quiet for so many days when Tormund had delivered the news, but Tyrion had hoped that it had more to do with the arrival of the Greyjoys a few days earlier. Then this morning, Jon and Ghost had disappeared.

"Doing something stupid," Grenn muttered. "Damn fool."

"Bloody turncloaks," someone shouted, and a stone came flying out of the tents to strike Tyrion in the back. He stumbled but was unhurt. Lancel was at his side in a moment, and Tyrion waved him off. They were skirting the edge of the Stark camp, looking for signs of Jon. They dared not go inside, for the baleful glares of guards standing watch at the gates of the palisade shouted louder than a thousand threats. He was conscious of how alone the deserters were. Tyrion, Lancel, Grenn, Satin, and the Fair Isle twins Arron and Emrick. The Moletown whore Zei had left them as quickly as she could, and Tyrion didn't blame her. She was pretty enough to claim a spot in the bed of some Stark or Bolton bannerman. Better for her to be there than trusting the deserters to protect her when they could hardly protect themselves, Tyrion supposed.

"Let's go quickly," Tyrion said to the others. He didn't like the way the Northmen were looking at them. It reminded him too much of hungry men looking at a fine cut of steak.

"Aye, m'lord," Arron and Emrick hissed as one. Old Westermen habits died hard when confronted by the Lannister name.

Grenn grumbled, but he and Satin followed silently.

The deserters moved away from the Stark camp and headed across the no man's land that separated Stark, Bolton, and wildling. Land that in more warm and peaceful times would have been host to fields of barley, wheat, patches of woodland, and grazing land. Now it was covered in cold white snow over two feet deep in places. Tyrion was thankful for the men, horses, and other animals that had made countless paths that crisscrossed the snow. Otherwise, Tyrion would have had worse luck walking than a fish.

"Let's go back," Arron said. "Either Jon will meet us back at the camp, or he won't."

Satin frowned. "He's still one of us."

Emrick shrugged. "He's probably feasting with his brother."

"Shut up, all of you," Grenn said. "What's that?" He pointed into the snowy field.

For a few seconds, Tyrion was sure that Grenn had imagined things. He saw nothing save white snow and equally low grey clouds. But he soon saw the huge furry white shape walking quickly through the snow. Ghost approached and sniffed Grenn's neck. The direwolf was as tall as a pony, maybe taller.

Ghost pulled away suddenly and started walking away.

"Do we follow?" Lancel asked, hand tight on his sword's hilt.

"Do you have a better idea?" Tyrion asked dryly.

The albino direwolf lead them toward a copse of trees too near the Bolton camp for Tyrion's comfort. Jon was there, seated crosslegged under the branches of an old ironwood tree. Longclaw was resting half-drawn across his knees. All the trees bore signs of repeated harvesting and cutting, their limbs cut and pruned so they'd grow long and straight to make for better firewood in smallfolk hearths.

Ghost came close and sat down with his huge head resting on Jon's knees.

"Where'd you disappear to?" Tyrion asked when he got closer.

"To see my brother," Jon answered. "Or to try to."

Tyrion huffed and started to speak, but Lancel's hand on his shoulder forestalled him.

"Tyrion, we have company," his cousin warned.

A group of about twenty men had left the Bolton camp, some in armour, but all of them armed. Spears, swords, axes, and shields with the flayed man of House Bolton standing proud.

"Seven Hells," Tyrion swore. "Get up, Jon."

Jon rose quickly, holding his sheathed sword in hand, and the other deserters formed ranks beside him. They all warily watched the approaching Northmen.

"Well, well, we had one, yes, but now a whole gang of turncloaks! Must be our lucky day," a lean and rangy man in Bolton pink approached them with a dozen more men not far behind him. His skinny fingers played on the head of an axe, and he wore dull mail under his surcoat.

"Not likely," Jon responded, and before the other deserters or Bolton soldiers could move, he'd kicked the feet out of the rangy Bolton man and had Longclaw at his throat.

The rangy man's friends started running, and other people heard the scuffle and started to gather.

Tyrion blinked and took a double-take. No. The man stepping out of the Bolton ranks wasn't Robert Baratheon come to life and returned to his youth, but the resemblance was uncanny. He was tall with black hair, blue eyes, and bulging muscles beneath his mail, padded jacket, and leathers. The flayed man stood proud and bold on his surcoat. He reached down and pulled the rangy Bolton fighter to his feet with hardly any effort.

"You alright, Rod?" He asked. His accent was that of King's Landing.

Definitely one of Robert's bastards, Tyrion thought, warily eyeing the warhammer at the bastard's belt.

"Aye," the rangy man, Rod it would seem, said. "Didn't you say you almost joined the Night's Watch, Gendry?"

"Aye," the bastard, Gendry, said. He looked at Jon and frowned.

"See something you don't like?" Jon replied angrily.

"You just look like someone I used to know, is all."

Jon bristled, and his hands tightened on his bastard sword.

The Bolton men bristled and raised their own weapons. The Baratheon bastard put a hand on his warhammer.

Grenn was beside Jon instantly, his hand resting on his blade as well. The other deserters didn't waste time joining them.

Tyrion was suddenly aware of how few friendly faces there were in the crowd. Boltons, yes, but there were men in other colours as well. Karstarks, Ryswells, Dustins, and more. They were too far from the wildlings to expect any help if it was offered.

"What is this?" A man shouted suddenly. A tall and dour soldier all in mail save for the greeves on his long legs pushed through and stood with hands raised between the bastards of Stark and Baratheon.

"Just teaching the turncloaks a lesson, Steelshanks," Rod answered meekly.

Steelshanks looked at Jon, Tyrion, and all the rest with nothing more than light contempt, like they weren't even worth hating. He looked back at his comrades. "You know what Lord Bolton commanded. Leave the turncloaks alone, now, or our lord will hear of this, and he will not be pleased."

Displeased but unwilling to press their luck against Lord Bolton's mercy, the Northmen began to disperse.

"Thank you, ser," Tyrion said with false cheerfulness.

Walton glared, spat on Tyrion's boots, and stomped off back the way he'd come.

"I wonder if one of them killed Pyp," Grenn said to Jon.

The Bastard of Winterfell slammed Longclaw back into its sheath. "We will avenge him one day."

"Let's go," Tyrion said, ending the conversation before it could take a worse turn.

Free of the Northmen, the deserters hurried back to their part of the wildling camp where Tormund's protection still counted for something.

The constant movement and chaos of the wildling camp were almost familiar now. The tread of giants and mammoths this way and that. The squabble of families, clans, and tribes amidst their constant feuds and feasts. However, the feasts were meagre nowadays. Food was constantly getting harder and harder to come by.

It was almost nightfall by the time they returned to their own little encampment.

Tyrion stepped aside and waved for Jon to follow him as they came close.

"What was that, Jon?" Tyrion hissed. "Are you trying to get us killed!" He grabbed Jon's arm.

"Get off me," Jon pushed Tyrion back. Unable to resist his strength, Tyrion let himself step back rather than get pushed down into the cold mud.

"What's the matter with you?" Tyrion asked. "You're acting like a sullen child!" He snapped.

Jon stamped a few more steps away before sitting. "It's Robb. I tried to go to him, but it was like he didn't even see me. Like I was less than a ghost."

Tyrion bit back an angry retort and approached quietly, listening to Jon as he continued.

"I met him in the godswood, beneath the heart tree. He was praying so I didn't interrupt," Jon clenched his fist and beat it against the snow. "When he was done… it's like he didn't see me like I was less than a ghost to him."

Tyrion shook his head, trying to imagine what it would be like if Jaime had done the same to him, Cersei, well he didn't need to imagine that.

"You need a drink," he told Jon. "And a good whore."

Jon gave him a questioning look.

"To take your mind off things," Tyrion answered.

Jon shook his head. "No," he said. "I'm going to go find Ygritte."

"She threatened to kill you if my memory is right."

"Ghost will have to protect me,"

Jon and the silent white direwolf walked away into the maze of wildling tents.

"Where'd Jon go?" Lancel asked when Tyrion arrived alone.

"To find his wildling girl."

Grenn chuckled. "At least one of us will be warm tonight."

Tyrion shivered at the thought of nightfall, of late night's chill cut deeply no matter how close the fires were or how many layers of fur he wore.

The deserters gathered around their fire, stoking it with timber cut from the wolfswood and dried mammoth dung. For food, they had a thin stew filled with the lean pickings of the wildling hunters, and there was nothing to drink but goat milk.

Jon returned not long after the first stars had started to shine. Ygritte and Longspear Ryk were with him. The two wildlings sat as if this fire was no different than any other. Jon and Ygritte sat side by side, and Ryk tossed skins of ale around to the deserters.

"My thanks," Tyrion lifted the skin and drank deeply. The ale was dark, and the taste was bitter. "Fuck me, but I miss wine. What I wouldn't give for a cask of Arbor gold or a barrel of Dornish red."

"I had wine once," Ygritte said. "Took it on a raid. It was so sour I could hardly drink it."

"Cheap wine," Tyrion dismissed. "I've had Night's Watch wine, and save for Lord Jeor's stores it was all terrible. I can't imagine whatever wine the smallfolk had was much better."

Ygritte reached out poked Jon's shoulder. "You'll need to get me some of that arbor gold then."

Jon blushed, and Tyrion laughed. The others laughed as well, and more ale and mead flowed. They drank until the sun was long gone and the sky was dark.

Tyrion was laughing hard from one of Ygritte's jokes when a shadow in the dark beyond the fires caught his eye. He turned in time to watch a band of two score wildlings loped past the deserters and out of the camp. Heavy packs filled with supplies bulged on their backs as they headed south into the darkness.

"Maybe we should follow them," Grenn said.

"Don't be stupid," Tyrion said. "The only thing keeping us alive is all the wildling axes surrounding us."

Longspear Ryk laughed loudly.

"That won't matter when the Others come," Grenn said morosely.

Ryk stopped laughing at that and took another drink of his ale.

Jon flinched and untangled his arm from Ygritte. "I saw what was left," he said. "It was bad," he shook his head. "Worse than bad."

"It was worse to live it," Grenn said, biting his lip.

"How many rangers were there?" Tyrion questioned. "A few hundred at most. There is ten times their number here."

"You weren't there," Grenn said. "At the First of the First Men! None of you." He stood up, almost laughing as he said. "You think this," he waved his arms around to encompass the wildlings and Northmen. "Can stop the Others? They're going to kill us all if we stay," he looked at Ygritte and Ryk. "You both know I'm right."

"Har!" A familiar voice laughed, and Tormund Giantsbane himself walked into their camp. He smelled of ale and mead, but his voice and legs were steady. Half a dozen warriors followed him. "That's the spirit."

"Don't mock me. You know it's true. Otherwise, you'd still be on the other side of the Wall."

"Aye, well," Tormund scratched his beard. "Mance wants you."

"Me?" Grenn asked.

"Him?" Tyrion said at the same time.

Tormund ignored Tyrion. "Aye you, you were at the First, these Southron lords won't listen, Mance thinks they might listen to you. One of their own."

"I'm no lord," Grenn protested. He looked at Tyrion and Jon for help.

"Maybe I could," Tyrion started.

"Were you at the Fist Halfman?" Tormund asked.

"No," Tyrion said slowly. He liked the wildling chief, but he was getting tired of being ignored. He was a Lannister of Casterly Rock, which should mean something even among savages.

Jon shrugged. "My brother doesn't want to see me. Maybe you'll have better luck, Grenn."

"Come on," Tormund took Grenn by the shoulder and heaved him to his feet. "Let's be on."

Reek

It was cold. That's all Reek could think of, what you want to think of, a treacherous part of his mind whispered back. It was cold. All the fires and walls and furs in the world couldn't stop this cold. The soldiers and bannermen loyal to House Bolton were encamped on the eastern side of Winterfell. Beyond the limits of Wintertown, which the wildlings had taken for their own. The fields that in summer had been full of wheat, barley, and pasture land had been buried under the snow and then trampled by the feet of thousands of soldiers.

Only a few days later, the white and grey banners of the Starks arrived. Ramsay made Reek watch them march and set up camp two miles away from Lord Roose had set his own.

"Do you remember living here?" Ramsay asked. His grip on Reek's neck was tight.

"No," Reek protested. Ramsay's fingers dug deeper. "No. No. No," he protested.

"Are you sure?" Ramsay whispered.

"No. No. No. I've never lived here."

"Are you sure?" Ramsay asked again. "Maybe we should take a closer look," his grip tightened further.

"Lord Roose has asked for you," a voice interrupted Ramsay.

Reek's master turned, tossing Reek aside and spittle flying as he swore. "You're interrupting me!"

Steelshanks Walton looked on impassively. "Lord Roose has asked for you," he repeated.

Ramsay snarled but did not disobey. Instead, he dragged Reek behind him they made their way to Roose Bolton.

The Lord of the Dreadfort had taken a well-to-do farmer's cottage as his seat. Two floors made from old timbers with heavy rafters, a roof of thick straw, and a crackling fireplace kept the cold at bay. A far cry from the tents and hovels that even the other lords had to make do with.

Lord Harrion Karstark was speaking to Lord Roose when Ramsay slammed the door open and strode inside. Reek trailed behind him. Neither lord paid them much attention.

"Eight more fights, and that was just this morning," Lord Harrion was saying.

"Double the guards," Lord Roose said. "Eyes on who's going in and out of the camp."

"Father," Ramsay almost shouted. "You wanted me."

Harrion glared over his shoulder. "I'll make sure it's done."

The Lord of Karhold turned on his heel and shouldered his way past.

When Lord Harrion left, Roose fixed Ramsay with his icy grey eyes.

"Keep your pet hidden," the Lord of the Dreadfort and would be Warden of the North had told his bastard. "Robb Stark was his friend once, and those bonds die hard or, when tainted by betrayal, turn to blackest hate. Keep him hidden."

The muscles beneath Ramsay's eye spasmed and twitched for a moment, but he said. "Yes, father," with ill grace. He gripped Reek's shoulder and turned to leave.

"Leave him here for a moment," Roose commanded.

Ramsay squeezed Reek's shoulder for a moment, then let go and headed for the door.

"And keep your pleasures to yourself," Lord Roose said just as Ramsay had reached the exit.

Ramsay froze in place, one hand on the door. "Yes, father," he hissed and left Reek behind as he stalked off.

Reek shivered and waited to be commanded.

"Sit," Lord Roose commanded.

Reek sat.

Roose sipped some of his hippocras. He didn't offer any to Reek. "There are times when Ramsay makes me regret the day I raped his mother," he sipped more hippocras. "I must impress upon you how important it is for you to stay hidden lest I give my bastard ideas he would not realize are foolish."

"Yes, my lord," Reek said quietly.

"Tell me you understand."

"I understand, my lord," Reek said fervently.

"Good, then go," Lord Roose dismissed Reek with a wave of his hand. "Give him the cloak."

A guard handed a cloak to Reek as he left the house and saw that Lord Ramsay was gone. He threw the cloak around his shoulders. It was large, shapeless, and made from undyed wool. The lords of the North and the chiefs of the wildlings alike would pay him no mind as he watched from the shadows.

But he couldn't disobey Lord Ramsay when he dragged Reek into Winterfell.

"You know my father's commands," Ramsay whispered. "Stay hidden, attract no attention, don't be seen. If you are, you'll have only yourself to blame, and I'll have to punish you."

Reek nodded and buried inside his cloak, his eyes darted this way, and that as Northern lords and Wildling chiefs walked past him.

"Good," Ramsay crooned. "Now stay here," he pushed Reek down onto the floor outside the great hall. "And remember, be quiet."

Ramsay left him and entered the great hall, and the huge doors were closed.

Reek stayed. His only company was a handful of stony-faced guards for each group inside who glared daggers at each other. The sounds from inside the hall were muffled and dimmed by stone and oak, but only a deaf man could have missed the shouting, cursing, and threatening no doubt going on inside.

After some hours, the doors opened, and a grey-bearded wildling chief with many rings on his arms departed. Two warriors followed him.

Reek shivered and kept waiting. Behind the closed doors, the arguing continued.

The chief and his warriors returned a while later, bringing a big man wearing a sheepskin cloak and ragged blacks beneath.

The Northmen guards all muttered and cursed at the sight and whispered turncloak and deserter to each other. United in disgust despite their different allegiances.

The doors opened, and before they closed again, Reek heard a loud voice shouting.

"Har! This is Grenn. He flew down from the Wall the same as Mance, and he's fought the White Walkers. Maybe you'll listen to him."

Cries of. "Deserter!" And. "Turncloak!" Grew louder in the hall until the doors closed again, once again turning the deafening noise inside down to a dull and persistent hum.

Perhaps an hour passed before the doors opened again the same warrior left, with the same black brother. Their boots echoed against the stones as they walked down the corridor. This time, the doors didn't close. Reek pulled his cloak tight around him as, from the shadows outside, he listened to the lords and chiefs argue and speak. He might have cared to see who was who and who said what in another life, but that pride was long forgotten. Reek Reek, it rhymes with meek.

"Do we know where the Others are?" A gruff voice asked.

"We've had some word from the Ryswells," Roose Bolton's cold and quiet voice replied. "Thousands of fishermen and woodsmen from the Stony Shore and Sea Dragon Point are moving south."

"Wherever they go, the land dies beneath wind and snow and cold," came a woman's voice.

"It's the same in the east," someone said. "Men and beasts alike are moving in vast numbers."

"A rider from the Hornwood claimed the castle was full to bursting."

"East and west, bah! So we don't know where the White Walkers even are," a man with a raspy voice said. "Nothing from your damned ravens?"

"The ravens are useless, let them fly, and no matter where they're supposed to go, they just fly due south."

"The birds are brighter than men, it would seem," a thickly accented woman said.

"If we don't know where they are," a voice said. "At least we know where they aren't. East or west if the Others were there, there would be no riders to send."

Reek shuddered. He knew that voice. He knew it almost as well as his own. The voice of a man that had been like a brother to him, Robb's voice.

Other voices rose in agreement.

"That leaves the centre," Robb continued. "The forests and plains north of Winterfell, we need not worry about bringing the Others to battle. They will come to us, I think."

Someone through the open door and stepped outside to speak to a guard. Reek turned to look at them and almost vomited. Asha Greyjoy, sister my sister. No, no! My name is Reek! Reek Reek, it rhymes with freak! He stumbled up from his seat outside, cloak wrapped around him and began to run away.

In the distance, he could hear his sister, NO, not mine, begin speaking.

"I came all the way from Deepwood Motte," Asha said. "And the coldblooded bastards followed us-"

Reek stopped listening. He had to get out, had to get away. Robb, with his blue eyes and one lonely arm, judging him, judging him. Traitor, his own mind betrayed him and Asha with her piercing gaze and confidence. Shame threatened to overwhelm him. Inside him, shame and disgust were roiling like ocean foam on a massive wave of self-hatred.

He ran from the great hall, the burned out shell, across the courtyard where he'd once practiced with sword, shield, lance, and bow with men and boys he'd loved and killed. No, that wasn't me. I am Reek! He screamed at his own traitorous mind.

From the courtyard, he found a stairway, and he started to climb, taking the steps two or three at a time. He stumbled many times and added cuts, stubbed toes and fingers, and bruised limbs to his unending list of pains and little agonies.

Up and up, he climbed. Past the height of the walls, and up further until he came to a closed weirwood door that he threw open and went out into the freezing night.

He was high, high enough to look past the outer walls of Winterfell and see the world beyond, high enough that even the tallest trees of the godswood were a score or more feet below him.

Reek crept on silent steps toward the parapet. Gloved hands rested on the crenulations, feeling the cold seep through them and the hard stone almost brittle in the chill.

Reek leaned forward and looked toward the ground. From so high up, it seemed almost like a make-believe land. All the tents and people were like a child's toys. It was so inviting. He wanted to visit this land of little things where there was no pain and no cold. All it would take was a single step. The dark was calling him.

"Theon," Bran said.

Reek squealed and turned to face the ghost. But, nothing, there was nothing there, nothing but the leaves and tip tops of the trees in Winterfell's godswood.

He trembled. "No," he cried. "No. No. No. I'm Reek. No. No. No. You're dead."

But that was a lie. He hadn't been able to find Bran and Rickon. So, instead, he'd burned the miller's boys.

"Theon," Bran said again, louder this time almost shouting.

"No!" Reek clapped his hands over his ears. This was a trick. Lord Ramsay would come out of the darkness to punish him soon. He fell to his knees and curled in on himself. "I'm Reek. I'm your Reek. I'm good."

"I'm sorry, Theon," Bran said, his voice as loud as ever, cold and dispassionate, but swiftly fading as he continued to speak. "We weren't strong enough."

Then Bran was gone, and the only sound was the cold northern wind and his sobbing. How long he laid there, he wasn't sure, maybe he would have stayed there forever, and the following day they'd find him as a frozen corpse.

Reek, Theon, Reek suddenly heard the distant keening of a horn. One blast for rangers returning. A second horn blew a little closer perhaps, or maybe carried by the wind. Two blasts for wildlings. But the wildlings are already here, Reek almost giggled, but it came out as more crying instead. A third sounding of the horn filled the night. And three blasts for Others. Reek shivered and shook and stood up out of the crevice he'd hidden inside of. From the top of the tower, he could see the lands of the North splayed out around him. The whole of the northern horizon was blanketed in a blizzard of monstrous size. He could see the closer clouds silhouetted against the vast dark and hungry storm descending upon Winterfell. It stretched from horizon to horizon and reached so high it seemed to scrape the stars.

He could feel the malice that sent it.

Horns blew in a great chorus from the three camps, and the wind carried the ice-sharp screams of the Others.