Twenty-four days and a hundred leagues on the road to Riverrun, but it might as well have been an age and halfway around the world for how tired Dacey felt at the end of it. She had come too far from Bear Island, she felt with certainty. What was a half-wilding barbarian from an island off the edge of the earth doing all the way down here in the Riverlands, marching with a near-broken host of a few thousands?
The wound on her arm had healed clean by now, and most of the bruising had faded entirely, but she still felt the wounds in her bones. It did not help that they had spent the last month on a forced march from the Twins, hounded by the Frey cavalry at every opportunity. Dacey counted herself lucky to be alive, but less lucky to still be fighting. What purpose did this war serve, now? Who was even left, of those that had begun it?
Still, the sight of Riverrun's towers filled her with new hope. How long had it been since they had broken the siege on this place? A year? Two? It looked as though it had much improved in the meantime, with bright banners blowing in the autumn wind, and a cool lake reflecting the smooth stones of the walls. Even as her heart lifted, she knew that it could not last, and already she dreaded the war council that would come on the next day.
The castle welcomed them with open arms. A hot bath, a warm meal, and a prayer before the heart tree were her first priorities. Of these the prayer lasted the longest, for she had left too many truths unsaid for too long. The terrors she had inflicted upon innocent Westerlanders, the despair that she had known seeing her King fall to his death, the fear she held for the future, all these and more poured from her in a rushing tumble of emotion.
When she rose, the sun had set and the weirfires were burning, shedding their dim orange light around the grove. She had not visited the godswood alone. A full thousand men of the Northern host had prayed beside her, all muttering their litany of confession and sorrow. Greybeards and boys suffered alike. This war had not been long, but it had been hard. Twenty thousands had encamped at the Twins under the banner of the Young Wolf, and now less than a quarter that number had huddled near Riverrun, disunified and leaderless. The rest had turned their coats, or died, or been scattered to gods-only-knew-where.
And yet, she knew they were lucky. Had Grey Wind not led the host, there would have been more deserters still.
But the Old Gods had eased her mind, and the bath had eased her body, and she resolved to feel nothing, good or ill, until morning.
Morning came too soon, however, and with it came a war council even worse than she had expected. A hundred feuding lords of various stations, all talking over one another and pacing about. Surrender, or fight? Run, or stand? Every notion of strategy had been brought up, every fact of their situation discussed, but still, no agreement could be reached. There were a thousand paths and one they might choose from, and yet there might not be a true path among them.
"Keep fighting?" Lord Bracken near-hissed the words. The grey-haired Lord of Stone Hedge commanded respect. His booming voice had become a rallying point for the lords who favored surrender. "I hate these Lannisters as much or more than anyone else here. Their dog burnt my home and killed my smallfolk, and the idea of surrender makes my blood boil. But if we fight on, we may as well run ourselves through here and now and save time. Even if we were to fight, where could we turn without leaving our back exposed to the enemy? The Ironborn, the Reachmen, the bastard of Bolton, the new queen… anywhere we advance the enemy will fall in behind us."
The Smalljon's eyes glittered. "I did not take you for a craven, Lord Bracken," he said, his voice low.
"Others take you," Bracken cursed, "If I am a craven then all men are, save for madmen. I swore an oath to the King in the North and served him faithfully for his whole life. But that King is dead and without issue. I swore an oath to Lord Tully, but he is the guest of a Rat Cook. Dying for the sake of the dead is folly and not bravery. Living for the sake of the living is a better cause."
Dacey felt the Smalljon bristle, his strong arms tensing as if for a fight, but the words of Lord Jonos Bracken had found purchase in the assembly. The gathered men were bloodied and broken. They had not run. They had fought, and fought, and fought again for King in the North, and they were tired of fighting. Many of the Stark men had left dead sons and fathers and brothers behind at the Twins. Loss could make a man hungry for vengeance, and she saw that light in the Smalljon's eyes, but there was no light in the eyes of most of the Lords anymore. So long as the goal of Riverrun had sat before them, they had marched on in grim silence, but now that they were here, with no one to rally or lead them, their purpose was faltering.
Dacey wished that she could speak as Lady Stark had, and give wise counsel that might turn the tide, but no words came. She had an ax for a tongue.
"King Stark lives still."
All heads in the room turned to the side of the table where Jeyne Westerling stood, slender as a sapling. The girl had been crying, but now she wore a bright smile, despite the gaze of every man in the room bearing down upon her. Gods help her, she could not be a day past sixteen, Dacey thought. "The gods sent the King's Direwolf as a protector, yes?" She stated, daring anyone to challenge her. "Is it not known that a mere pup of a wolf saved the life of Bran Stark and Lady Catelyn? Robb's protector lives still, and so long as the protectors of the Stark live, we must believe that the Starks still live as well, whatever else appears."
No, Dacey thought, that would not do. Jeyne did not understand their gods, not yet. The Green Way was not a way of prayer and comfort.
"Have you not heard?" Lord Bracken asked. "The Wolf disappeared from the camp last night. Do not pretend to me that this omen is good." Dacey had not heard this, and she frowned. Grey Wind's disappearance would fill the camp with fear and uncertainty.
"Grey Wind did not go wild, like an untamed beast, when Robb disappeared into the river," Jeyne replied, "And he has not gone wild now, merely slipped away quietly. If Grey Wind has left us now it is only because we are safe, and he goes to rally others to us. King Robb always prayed for wisdom, and for guidance, and it seems the gods give us guidance still"
Better, Dacey thought. If the Old Gods granted any boon, they granted wisdom and discernment. The Lords who had campaigned most heartily for surrender looked between each other. Jeyne had not given them confidence, but she had given them uncertainty.
"I have naught to say of gods and signs." It was Brynden the Blackfish who raised his voice now. The man was perhaps the most respected commander in the whole alliance, and yet he had held his counsel in reserve until now. Whatever this simply-dressed man said now would carry as much force as a charge of plated knights. "Our plight is not half so hopeless as good Lord Bracken presents. We have a mere five thousands here, true but many of the survivors of the slaughter by the Twins will join us here yet, and there are another five thousands at least spread between various garrisons in the Riverlands. Raventree, Stone Hedge, Pinkmaiden, Acorn Hall, and others all still fly the Direwolf."
"Those keeps did little enough to halt Tywin in his first march." Donnel Locke seemed only barely able to keep his tone civil. "Why should we trust them now?"
Brynden met Locke's anger with cool composure. "My nephew had expected peace and was given war. Consequently, his bannermen were poorly garrisoned and provisioned, and their castles fell swiftly. But this is no longer the case. The Lannisters will need to fight for every inch, and their armies have suffered worse than ours in this war."
"This is your plan then?" Bracken growled, "Expect me and mine to hold off tens of thousands of Tyrells and Lannisters and Freys and Boltons? They have us outnumbered ten to one. We can't face them in the field, and letting them siege us down one is a strategy that only ends with all our heads on pikes, Blackfish."
"You speak truthfully," Brynden agreed, "The Freys and the Boltons and Karstarks have twelve thousands between them, the Lannisters have double that, and the Tyrells field more than all the others combined. But they cannot bring it to bear against us. What are a hundred thousand men but a hundred thousand mouths to feed in a land where every pig and sheep has been taken into our protection? I say let them come and starve outside our walls."
The Smalljon spoke again, his voice more confident and powerful now, "And who among us could trust a treaty these whoresons offered? Tywin forgives and blesses a Rat Cook and we're expected to trust the terms he offers?" He earned a few cheers and Dacey could sense the mood in the room shifting. The song of the Rat Cook was an ancient and infamous tale of a man of the Night's Watch who killed, cooked, and served some men who had been his guests and then fed them their unknowing father. Guest right was a sacred thing, and violators of it so rare that there was no name for those who broke it in such a violent fashion. Walder and anyone he treated with was accursed before gods and men.
"As soon as word came of the Red Wedding, I had taken action," the Blackfish continued. "Lord Blackwood has marched east to Harrenhal, which the Lannisters have left almost completely empty. From there, our armies can cut the fat from the Crownlands. Let us live for a time at the expense of King Joffrey, and see how he likes it. The Crownlands have rested easy from this war for long enough."
Maester Vyman suddenly rose from his bench, startled. "Milord Tully," he said, "I would not pretend to advise you in military matters, but I am afraid I must take this opportunity to share news from King's Landing. Had there been a time for a man of my station to interrupt I should have told you, but now I can no longer stay silent and must correct you. If this plan should be enacted, it would not be at King Joffrey's expense. King Joffrey is dead! He died poisoned by the strangler at his own wedding, and they name Sansa Stark and her husband the Imp as his assassins! Joffrey's child brother sits the throne, the Imp stands for trial, and Lady Sansa has fled the city!"
The cheers that then shook the room were deafening. "Vengeance!" they cried, "Vengeance for the Young Wolf! Vengeance for a brother! Vengeance for a father!" Dacey cheered with the rest of them. Such joy was folly, she knew. The boy-king Joffrey barely ranked next to the Old Lion, or Mace or Roose or even Walder. But still, it seemed in that moment that if a barely-flowered girl could kill the king, then how strong could the Lannisters truly be?
The gathering of lords lasted long into the evening, with numerous plans being drawn up and agreed upon. Daring, almost hopeful comments floated through the air. A few key battles and the will of these Lannisters would be broken. A taste of autumn snow would send these Tyrells riding south again. Grey Wind would rally them an army of Children from the woods, or perhaps a Queen of Stark blood.
"We don't have the men." To Dacey's surprise, the Smalljon was the grimmest of all the King's old guard, when they gathered later for cups. The Smalljon, Lord Umber now, wore a dour expression despite the ale, and she noted that like her he wore mail under his simple clothes even when at his ease. There had been scars left at the Twins that would not heal easily. "Even if every man of us kills ten of them," the Smalljon said, "they'll still have blood to spare. We can bleed them and starve them and lead them on a merry chase, but in the end, it will be us who starves, not them." The giant took a drink.
"In truth, I had thought much the same," Dacey replied.
"But you still mean to keep fighting?"
Dacey shrugged, then looked off into space. "I'm the daughter of a minor house. When I was a girl I thought I should never see any of the beauties my goodsister spoke of. I thought I should love someone, perhaps, if I were lucky, and live a simple, useful life surrounded by sentinels and pines. This war has been a terrible, awful thing, from beginning to end. Every moment has been nauseating boredom or sheer terror with nothing between. I cannot go back, Jon, even if I should want to. I could never live so simply and peacefully. There can be no retreat for me."
Jon's eyes glinted as he peered at her over his mug of ale. "There will be no retreat for me either. I'm a Lord now, but what does that mean? That I could go home and concern myself with taxes and plows and poachers?" Jon shook his head. "No, something awoke in me in the Twins, Dacey. I'm hungry, hungry for war, hungry for vengeance, and I cannot go home until my hunger is sated. If I die, I die, but at least I will die with an ax in my hand and my enemy's blood on my face."
What a fine pair we make, Dacey thought. Two giants of the North come a thousand miles south, unwilling to go home. "So is that all then?" Dacey asked. "We seek to die well?"
"I did not say that." Jon smiled. "We could win, yet. You see it too, you know what it is we need."
Dacey sighed. "I suppose I do. Bolton's bastard holds Winterfell, last I heard, but he only has a few hundred to his name. There are strong men in the North who could resist him and should they rally they could go south to the Neck and oust the Ironborn, and then we might siege the Twins from both sides. But who could rally the North? Glover? My Mother? No. But that is the truest problem we face, that we are a kingdom without a king. We need a leader, both now and later. The Blackfish can lead the Riverlords for the nonce, but making peace will require a King."
"We need a Stark," Umber agreed, "And a Stark we shall have."
"Lady Sansa, you mean?" A bare slip of a girl that most of the North had never even seen. But if they could find her...
"Nay. I would rather have a Stark who's not fucked a Lannister. I would have King Robb's brother and his nearest equal."
Dacey felt heat color her cheeks. Such talk would be poison if the Lady Sansa could be found. A Stark was a Stark, and there could be a Queen in the North as easily as a King. But no, Dacey understood Umber's point. "You have written to Last Hearth, then?"
The Smalljon drank heavily from his mug, his somber face cracking into a broad smile. "Aye. I have."
-
The Wolf hunted in the dark under the light of a full moon, accompanied by a hundred of her kin. It felt glorious to run, to feel the power in her legs, and the scent on her nose. The pack had eaten well this month, on human flesh as much as anything else. Wolves ran from men, even as deer ran from wolves, but dead men, dead men were fair game, and there were thousands of those upon the land these days. Strong smells of death had taunted her for days now. A great slaughter had occurred and a great feast awaited them, as long as they could get there while the dead remained.
Other scents enticed her as well. Her brother hunted not far from here, and a part of her ached for him. But she had dozens of brothers and sisters now, and he ran away from the corpses. She had her pack's needs to consider.
Soon they came to the killing field, or part of it at least, that had washed up downstream from where they had died. Dozens of corpses lined the banks. Her pack chased off the dogs and the ravens and the vultures. This feast would belong to the wolves. Humans were tough and stringy and of late often encased in those strange metal shells, but even so, they could feed for days here. Her small kin tore at the bodies that lay in the dirt, but she pushed deeper into the river, and she stalked among them, twice as tall and powerful as the largest of them. She would choose her meal carefully.
But then a scent, fainter than any other and more curious, tickled her nose. Something about it teased her sense. Her other's brother, she thought, the dead boy whom she mourned for in the waking world at times. He had the scent of death upon him, but he could not be far. She split off from her pack, pushing deep into muddy water where the loam came up almost to her chest. A hundred other more enticing scents tempted her, but she remained focused, pushing aside reeds and mud to uncover the body of a young man, nearly submerged in the mud. The corpse was old, and degraded, with blood pooling beneath the skin to match the red-flecked hair on the top of the head. She knew the scent, knew this boy. She caught up the body in her mouth carefully, as though she were lifting a pup, and pulled it to shore, to lay gingerly upon the riverbank.
She whined softly, nudging him with her nose. She licked his face to clear it and paced around him to wake him...
But no, this one was dead, and she let out a great howl for him, joined in by all her pack. Her brothers and sisters, her true pack, they too howled, and she felt it in her heart.
But mourning could not last long. New scents came down on the wind. Scents of men, of living men, and she could hear them too, jangling in their steel and leather. Her pack had to flee. Such were the laws of the world. After one great howl they ran from the riverbank, deep into the dark woods, and away from the men and their fire. Her mind became more clear, more focused, and all memories of the strange, drowned boy flowed away with the river.
