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Chapter Twenty-Two: A Slice of the Pie
Heads on spikes lined the road to Winterfell. Staffs driven into the frozen earth, topped with blackened, shrivelled and sightless heads. Harwin drew back the curtain of the litter and flicked a hard crust of bread at a crow perched on one of Bolton's grisly trophies. It squawked at the shock of the impact, but soon flapped away in pursuit of the morsel. Just for a moment, he wondered who the head had been in life. A Stark? Ironborn? Some other poor sod who fell foul of the North's new regime? It was impossible to tell. The flaying knife, axe and decay had stripped what was left of their identity.
Opposite him, Lord Wyman Manderly beheld the scene through eyes misted with sorrow. He was a huge man. So large, he must have been making the litter-bearers lives a living hell. People who did not know him took him for a fool. Stannis Baratheon had been one such, branding him 'Lord Too Fat to Sit a Horse'. But Harwin had known Manderly for years. He put up the front of everyone's favourite fat Uncle, but beneath that veneer was a clever, cunning man. Only now, those shrewd eyes allowed themselves a moment of sorrow.
"If Ned Stark could see this now…" the Lord's sentence trailed off, no more needed to be said. If Ned Stark had a grave, he'd be turning in it so violently the rest of the castle would come crashing down around Bolton's ears. "I'm not a man to abandon myself to despair, Harwin. And we must steel ourselves for the mummer's farce that awaits us."
Deprived of Arya Stark, Ramsay Bolton had had to make do with a Frey bride. A granddaughter, or great-granddaughter, Harwin could barely remember. A girl of twelve, he'd been told. But that was no indication of her relationship to Lord Walder, that old goat was still rutting away well into his nineties. Whatever the case, they'd soon find out. Posing as Manderly's master of horse, he was finally making his way back to Winterfell under the pretence of attending the wedding with his master.
"I told Jon I'd be going straight back to Winterfell," he said, solemn as if he'd broken a formal promise. "I couldn't get anywhere near it."
"You did right by coming to me instead," Manderly insisted. "With the information you have, you're no good to anyone locked in a dungeon being flayed alive."
"Speaking of which, I left the bodies in an outhouse," said Harwin. "Did you get them?"
"I did and I am in your debt for the service you have done me and my family," Manderly replied. "My dear Wynafryd, in particular, is most grateful."
As a sop to the Lannisters and to secure the release of his son, Manderly had agreed to the betrothal of his granddaughter to Rhaegar Frey. Additionally, he agreed to the execution of Davos Seaworth. Only, while Ser Davos was imprisoned, a common criminal was executed in his place and the tarred head sent to Cersei. Cersei, even if she had known Ser Davos, would probably have been too drunk to notice the difference. But the ruse worked and Lord Manderly's son was returned home safe and sound. Then the old Lord had a little job for Harwin…
Rhaegar Frey, along with his kinsmen Jared and Symond, had left White Harbour to return to Winterfell. Plenty of witnesses saw their exit, but Harwin was waiting down the road with a sharp knife and a trick up his sleeve. Jared was first. He left the road to take a piss behind a tree. A swift attack from behind, the blade of Harwin's knife whispered through the flesh and sinew of his throat. That was for Catelyn Stark, he thought to himself as the hot blood spilled over his fingers. Soon, Symond came looking for his kinsman and met a similar fate. Rhaegar, he took in a fair fight.
While killing the Freys was perfectly understandable, insisting that the bodies be returned to White Harbour was not. If he didn't know any better, Harwin would think old Lord Manderly didn't trust him to do the job.
"Are you going to truss them up and present them to King Robb, when he returns?" he asked, fishing for information.
Manderly had a twinkle in his eye again. "Oh, I have every intention of presenting them. But not to King Robb."
Something about the old Lord's tone told him he would get no more, that he would have to wait for him to reveal his hand. In the meantime, Manderly chuckled deeply. "Imagine that simpering weasel wearing the name of that proud, brave dragon."
"Rhaegar?"
"Aye. Oh, I fought against him on the Trident. All the North did, for our Ned's sake. But that was a time when one respected even their enemies, Harwin. That's the thing about the Boltons and the Freys and the Lannisters. You can't even summon up a trace of respect for their low, dirty cunning ways." He paused and sighed, turning all misty-eyed again. "Ignore me, Harwin. I'm a sentimental old man hankering after a time that probably never even existed. Tonight, at the wedding feast, you will see I can stoop as low as them. Just you watch."
It promised to be interesting. But there were other matters of more interest yet.
"Do the Boltons know about Robb?" he asked.
Manderly was thoughtful for a moment. "If they do, there's not a hope in all the seven hells they'd tell me. Or any other Northern Lord they're currently subjugating. But, I wonder … I really do wonder. Roose was proudly declaring the betrothal between that bastard get of his and Lady Arya. Then, suddenly, the whole thing was off and Lady Arya never appeared. Then you turned up at White Harbour saying Arya was alive and well at Riverrun. Ser Brynden would sooner die than hand his niece over to her enemies."
"It wasn't the real Arya," said Harwin. "But if it was some fake, then why… Oh, what does it matter now? Their time is nearly done, my lord."
Every lord in the North was attending Ramsay Bolton's wedding. They'd be plotting their downfall under their very noses.
"I hear Frey rumours that the Tyrells have joined forces with Ser Brynden Tully," Manderly continued. "But no one said anything about Robb. I wouldn't put it past the Freys to lie to Roose and, if they have… then all the more to our advantage."
"So, it's true that the Tyrells have abandoned the Lannisters?"
The siege was only just starting when Harwin left the Riverlands.
"Yes, but they haven't left the Riverlands. I also hear from sources in the Vale that they too are crossing the country. If the Vale have entered the war, and if they've joined forces with the Tullys and King Robb, the day of reckoning for Bolton and Frey is close at hand."
"If that's common knowledge, then surely everyone else has realised Robb's still alive," said Harwin. "The Vale wouldn't cross the country just for the sake of the Blackfish."
"Ah, but Lysa you see," Manderly reasoned. "The Freys are saying it's Lysa who's ordered them to Riverrun. The Blackfish has always had one foot in the Riverlands and the other in the Vale. But then, I also hear rumours that Lysa is dead. I don't know what to believe anymore."
"And what about the Lord Commander?" asked Harwin. "Surely the Northern Lords find it strange that Lord Stark's bastard has suddenly left his post."
"They've noticed, but they barely care given everything else going on," Manderly answered. "Anyway, the Lord Commander sent out those letters regarding the dead marching on the wall. Most think he's gone mad and deserted his post and left it at that. I daresay he's reached Robb by now and will be on his way back."
Harwin could only pray that was the case. He could only pray that Robb got home soon and liberated them from the dual tyrannies of Bolton and Frey. The Lannisters can destroy themselves.
The corpses lining the road to Winterfell thickened in number. On the approach to Winterfell's curtain wall, they were welcomed by whole flayed men, their bones and sinew exposed to the freezing northern winds. Wyman Manderly regarded each one with intense sadness. "You're a Northman yourself, Harwin. You know what I said to Ser Davos is true. No matter how confused things are right now: one thing remains steadfast. The North remembers, Harwin. The North will remember all of this."
Manderly spoke to the flayed men more than to Harwin, but he got the message.
Less than a year ago, Robb would have leapt at the chance of leading such a daring mission. He had done it several times, most memorably at the Crag. But that was before the Red Wedding. Now, every military manoeuvre he made was done so with the voices of the thousands of dead nagging at the back of his mind. Caution, fear, nerves…
Meanwhile, outside his tent, the bombardment of the Twins had swung into motion. Siege engines and trebuchets were hurling great boulders at the curtain walls, the noise so deafening it reached the people assembled in the tent. And all he could do was lean against the table, rub his chin and agonise over what to do next. Defeat had made him thrice shy and he hated it.
Ser Garlan approached and placed a hand on his shoulder and spoke softly, as if coaxing a bashful bride down the aisle. "Your Grace, you won't be alone. And once you're back in the press of the battle, it will all come back to you. You know that."
It wasn't cowardice that stayed him, and Garlan knew that. It was the risk. The gambling of other men's lives, as he had in the past. He steeled himself, felt his hands curling tighter around the edge of the table as his old resolve returned to him. He was about to speak, when a young lad from the Vale pushed his way to the front of the assembled lords and ladies. Sansa stumbled aside and the lad stared at her and, Robb could have sworn it, he winked at her before drawing his sword with a flourish.
"I'll lead the mission, my lord," he said, brandishing his weapon. "In the name of the Princess!"
He glanced to his right to make sure Sansa was still looking at him, at least that was the impression Robb got. She was, but with daggers in her eyes. Robb shared her feelings.
"No, you won't," he said, deciding to ignore the romantic side of his outburst. "This is my army, and I'll lead it. You will join us and follow my command."
"Good," said Garlan, stiffly. "Now that's settled, on to business. The eastern tower is sustaining heavy damage. It won't be long until there's a hole wide enough for us to get through, but Frey has his bowmen lined up along the bridge to defend it. If we can get close enough, we can pick off the archers and cut down the fleeing enemy. And they will flee as the curtain walls crumble."
Robb was thoughtful for a second. "And by the time that's done, we should have our way into the eastern tower. Once we have that, the western tower will be severely compromised. But if we do take the eastern tower, we will need the bridge in tact to take the western. Also, once on that side of the river, we'll be in our own line of fire."
"True," Garlan agreed. "The bridge is stone, it can take a lot of punishment. But I say we give the order to suspend bombardment as soon as we're in place at the eastern banks. As for the rest, we'll have to dodge the big boulders flying at us. Stay well back from the walls themselves, just until we can signal for our men to turn the trebuchets exclusively to the western tower."
"The signal," said Robb. "There's cornfields and orchards lining the eastern tower walls. I say we burn them and use that at the signal for the direction of bombardment to alter."
They had a twenty-oar river barge to transport them across the Green Fork from their position on the western banks of the river. Sailing through the lines of fighting men, right down the middle, had been what worried Robb the most. They'd be coming under fire from both sides. However, Ser Garlan had already organised a shield wall to be fitting along both the barge's gunwales.
Before the meeting dispersed, Margaery stepped out from the small crowd and approached him with arms open. An embrace that was all too brief.
"Stay safe," she said, smiling ruefully. "I'll be waiting for you when you get back. So, just make sure you do."
He kissed her brow. "I will, I promise."
Outside, he found the bold knight errant from the Vale waiting for him. Up close, Robb could see he was young. He probably hadn't been knighted yet at all. His hair was blond, falling in curls and he had bright blue eyes. His silver fluted armour was draped in a full-length cloak bearing a sigil of red and white diamonds. Sheepish now, he didn't say anything but instead fell into step with Robb and Garlan as they rounded up their men and headed for the barge.
As they neared the front lines, the counterweight of a trebuchet dropped sharply and splashed into the river. The arm of the machine soared through the air, hurling its flaming missile right at the eastern tower of the Twins. It hit its target with a sharp crack, accompanied by the sound of masonry crashing into the river. He wondered where Walder Frey was now. Cowering behind his own daughters, no doubt.
Before long, they were sailing over the river to reach the eastern banks, all hunched over behind the shield wall. Arrows thudded into the shields, the head of one penetrating the oak just inches from Robb's ear. He cursed at the sight of it, but kept rowing. Each man at the oars would stop for nothing and no one, until they hit the opposite bank so hard the barge almost listed.
This was the most dangerous part. Getting from the barge, back on to dry land and into the cover of the woods. Just for a few brief seconds, they would be exposed. However, Robb was the first over the gunwale, leading the way with a shield he had pulled from the gunwale. He urged the others to do the same, if they hadn't brought their own.
Just as Garlan had predicted, the Frey's unpaid soldiers were already fleeing. Robb engaged them as soon as he was on dry land, drawing his sword and plunging it right into the heart of an enemy fighter. Similarly, Jon appeared at his side, his own fine weapon drawn and the ancient Valyrian steel glimmering in the light. It had been a while since Dark Sister had seen battle. She proved her worth by taking out two Freys with one stroke.
"There's more coming through the woods," Jon warned him.
By now, the Vale Knight with the red and white diamonds had caught them up. He too had his sword drawn and like Jon and Robb's, his was red with blood to the hilt.
"Took out one already!" he boasted as he passed into the trees.
"Who is that ass?" Jon asked, face screwed up with distaste.
Even if Robb had known, he wouldn't have had time to answer. A group of Freys, about forty or fifty of them came crashing down the path in an attempt to flee, only to run straight into Robb's path. They stalled, some falling over others in their haste to beat a retreat in the opposite direction. Only Robb gave chase, the others of his company following hot on his heels.
"Stand and fight, you craven weasels!" Robb bellowed at them.
"Normally, I'd baulk at killing retreating men," Jon snapped at no one in particular. "But I make an exception for retreating men who slaughtered honourable soldiers at their dinner."
He had a point, too. All too vividly, Robb remembered how they were disarmed and herded into a slaughter chamber. Now he was back at the spot where it happened and it felt like the Red Wedding happened only yesterday. He aimed a savage blow at the nearest soldier, cutting through his spine. Ser Garlan took care of another, while Jon took on two at once. They weren't running any more, they were fighting for their lives. Soon, Robb was engaging three, while fourth tried to stab him through the back.
"Robb, look out!" Jon yelled at him as another Frey died at his feet.
But the attacker was already dead, a sword sticking out through his mouth and fresh blood gushing down the twin towers stitched in his tunic. To Robb's mild chagrin, it was the red and white diamonds who'd saved his skin. The lad grinned as if he knew this was going to happen all along.
Meanwhile, they reached as close to the eastern tower as they dared get. Another boulder smashed into the curtain walls, sending down a thick shower of falling debris. Inside, people screamed and a body fell from the top, landing at the advancing northern army's feet. Robb paid it no mind as he ordered his archers to line up and start picking off the enemy currently defending the bridge.
"Burn the orchards!" Jon shouted over the din of crashing boulders and dying men. "Burn the cornfields!"
They'd arrived in the right place, but the curtain walls to the tower still held and now there were groups of archers firing on them from the murder holes and the top of the barbican. Another bolder, fired by the Tyrells, crashed into the barbican, killing several of them and buying them breathing space. But it was too dangerous. Some of the boulders passed so close, he felt the rush of the slipstream as they soared into their targets. All the while, retreating Frey soldiers fled, keeping Robb and his men busy in cutting them down.
Robb pulled back just as a vat of boiling oil was poured down on his men, five of them were dowsed in it and their screams filled the air around him. Three fell into the river, drowning in their armour. Another from the Vale was hit with an arrow below the gorget as he looked up at the murder holes, he died choking on his own blood. But reinforcements, led by Ser Loras Tyrell, were already on their way up the embankments. Another couple of hundred men, with more set to arrive at regular intervals.
Emboldened and angered in equal measure, Robb managed push past the defensive lines and out into cornfields.
"Burn it!" he shouted at the men who followed him. "Burn it all!"
He heard the sounds of several flints being struck, but the wet cornfields proved hard to ignite. They had better luck with the orchards and soon whole rows of trees were ablaze and turning the skies black with smoke. Leaving the fires to do their job, he returned to the front lines of the battle, where his men were finally breaching the curtain walls of the eastern tower. The longbowmen he positioned along the edges of the riverbanks made light work of picking off the enemy archers up on the bridge. Like dying flies, they fell from the bridge and hit the angry waters. If the arrows didn't kill them, the tides soon would.
Hours seemed to pass, or it could have been days for Robb lost all sense of time, but the reinforcements and the endless bombardment saw the eastern tower overwhelmed. The curtain wall shattered, ancient bricks crumbling away. Even when the bombardment turned away, aimed at the western tower instead, it was too late for those inside. The opening appeared and Robb was the first through the breach. Finally, the Twins had been penetrated and the assault on the bridge could begin. With Jon on his right and Garlan on his left, he kicked in the barbican gate, savouring the feeling of shattering wood and falling iron bands. Fleeing soldiers had lowered the drawbridge, granting the invaders ease of access. Now they had control.
Margaery had been in battles before, but this felt different. There was more at stake. The very future was at stake. So, she paced and paced and paced…
"You're wearing a hole in that rug," Olenna pointed out, sharply. "Oh, dear, do sit down."
"I can't," Margaery insisted.
Arya was outside, teaching Sweet Robin to tell one end of a sword from another. Sansa was serene at her needlework and Jeyne sat in a corner, furtive and nervous. Margaery tried to join them, but whenever she relaxed a crash or a scream would come from the battle and she would be back on her feet with her heart in her throat. It was no good. So, she paced and chewed the nail of her index finger.
Sick with nerves, she pushed her way out through the tent flap once more to take in the sights and sounds of death and destruction. It was darkening now, but the horizon was aglow with fire. Dark against that glow, the Twins still stood, but only just. The eastern tower was jagged and ablaze, the bridge a hive of thick fighting. From the top of the steep hill they had camped on, she could see it all. The trebuchets were dark and sinister against the skies, she even could see the occasional boulder still being hurled at their enemy.
Somewhere, in the thick of all that, was the man she loved. And that was what the difference was, this time around. Before, she worried for Garlan and Loras. They had her heart. But now Robb. And the fighting: it had been going on all day and they had heard nothing since early afternoon, when Robb had managed to burn the orchards to send signal of their advance.
"He won't lose."
Sansa's voice drew Margaery from her troublesome thoughts. She turned and found her sister-by-law standing in the awning of their pavilion tent. Close by, Arya continued to beat up her cousin.
"I just wish we had some news."
Sansa nodded. "I know." She too looked out over the horizon, to where the battle continued against the onset of night. A pale hand came to a rest over her heart. "There's someone coming now … Oh, gods! It's him."
"Who?" she asked, puzzled.
She saw the cloak of red and white diamonds and realised who she meant. He paused before the women and swept an elegant bow.
"What news?" Margaery demanded, with no time for knightly courtesy now.
Nearby, the sword fighting came to an abrupt halt. The man knelt in the wet ground, holding out his hands palm up. A large set of rusty keys rested there.
"Your Grace. My Princess. The Twins are yours."
"And the King?"
"Noble and dignified in his triumph, your grace."
Margaery gasped so hard it was almost a scream of relief, her knees buckled but Sansa and Arya caught her.
The man rose, showing his blood smeared face. "Once the eastern tower was taken, the King himself valiantly led his men across the bridge, fighting back the Freys as he went. As they reached the western tower, what was left of the Freys forces turned heel and ran, only to be met by your grace's brother as they made their retreat. Ser Loras, leading a host of nearly one thousand, took them easily and stormed the tower, meeting the King half way. I am to escort you there now."
Margaery took the keys to the Twins and kissed them, tasting the mud and sweat on her lips. But she did not care. Her old resolve returned to her, stiffening her back to her feet.
"Come, ladies," she said. "Looks like we're leaving."
A light drizzle was falling, but Margaery was unconcerned. However, the same could not be said of their gallant messenger. He swept off his cloak and held it over Sansa's head, declaring loudly: "not a drop of these rough, rude rains would dare touch the head of my princess!"
Sansa looked mortified, Margaery tried not to laugh and Arya made an exaggerated retching sound. But it was Sweet Robin who saved the day: "Oh, hello Harry," he said, casually. "How's your bastard daughter? Has the next one been born yet? You know, the one you're having with that other woman."
Harry turned red in the face, while Arya looked wide eyed at her cousin and burst out laughing. Sansa casually stepped out from under the cloak, leaving him standing there still holding it over an invisible person's head. "I think we'll be all right, Harry. Thanks all the same."
Margaery looked back over her shoulder. "Make sure my grandmother arrives safely, won't you?"
The wedding guests fell silent as Lord Manderly's gifts were brought out on silver platters. Three huge meat pies, baked to perfection. Their golden crusts shimmered in the light of a thousand candles. Seated in the lower benches, Harwin watched in dawning comprehension as they were laid before the bride and groom, one by one. The smell of them filled the air. Rich and warm. Even Roose Bolton raised a smile as he drank a toast to old Lord Walder Frey, who sadly couldn't make it to his sweet granddaughter's wedding.
Servants bearing deadly sharp knives cut into the first of the offerings, plating up generous slices of meat pie. The juices ran out, clear and succulent. Ramsay Bolton licked his fat lips as he bit into a slice. Aenys Frey dug right in and Harwin almost cringed. He was Rhaegar Frey's father, if he had his facts right. Here, the old quite literally ate the young.
Meanwhile, Roose was still on his feet and he raised his cup to Lord Manderly. "I thank you, my lord, for this delicious pie. Let us be friends from here forth and forever share the others bounty."
Manderly smiled and raised his cup back. "Forever, my lord. Savour every mouthful."
The pies made their way down the aisles of trestle tables. Before he knew it, a servant girl was standing at his shoulder.
"A slice of pie, ser?" she asked, waving it under his nose.
The flesh inside was pink and soft, still smelling of the herbs it had been boiled in. For a second, Harwin looked at it as if he might recognise some Frey-like features in the dead meat. He found he had no appetite.
"I think I've eaten enough," he said. "Thanks all the same."
Manderly then met Harwin's gaze from across the room and smiled a benevolent smile as he raised his cup to him. Harwin returned the gesture, smiling crookedly. All around him, the lords and ladies devoured the pies, washing it down with fine red wine. In his head, he drank a toast of his own. To Robb Stark, the King in the North, wherever he was that night.
Far away, down in the Riverlands, the fields still burned. Inside the western tower, Robb stood behind the high wooden chair of a bald old man. Famed for his sharp tongue, Lord Walder seemed quite lost for words tonight. He flinched as Robb leaned in close, almost to kissing distance.
"I heard you've been looking for me," he said. "I don't like to keep an old friend waiting."
The toothless mouth flapped open and closed, emitting foul smelling breath. That was exactly how Robb remembered him looking the last time they met before the massacre. His stupid, toothless mouth flapping like a landed fish; white lips as shrivelled and puckered as a dead cat's arse.
"Do it then," Walder snapped, rigid in his seat. "What are you waiting for? Do it!"
"If it please you." He ran the blade over the old man's throat, watching listlessly as the blood sprayed out over the white linen table cloth. Once dead, Robb shoved him forward, his head hitting the table with a dull thump.
Movement from the shadows caught his attention, but he knew it was only Jon. He felt his brother's hand at his elbow, leading him away. "It's done," he said. "But there's still a long way to go." Prisoners. Robb was dimly aware of the prisoners.
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Before the Dawn will be updated on Sunday and this story will be updated next Thursday, as usual. Thanks again.