"To the Rebel Lord Stark. Word has come to our ears of your success at Fairmarket. Your continued perseverance has earned you the admiration of many, even our own. But you have persevered as long as you can. Lord Protector Baelish leads the Vale against you, and Lord Tarly leads the Reach. To your north, ironborn and wildlings led by your own traitorous brother have sacked Winterfell, and winter is coming. Lord Robb, my father and yours were friends once. Can we not put an end to this war? Can we not have peace? Lay aside your crown and swear fealty to us. We are not unmerciful. Your ancient seat shall be returned to you, and aid will be granted toward the end of defeating the rival claimants who plague your realm in the North. Justice against Lord Frey for his crimes against the gods Old and New shall be administered. Generous terms of surrender shall be granted to Lord Edmure and all those who swear fealty to you as well, and all will be allowed to their seats of power without fear of further reprisal."
The scribe cleared his throat nervously, setting the message down upon the table. "It is signed in the name of Tommen of House Baratheon, first of his name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protect-"
"We know all the titles he claims," The Smalljon rumbled, his forehead creased and deep in thought.
"Ahem, I suppose you do. However, ah, one matter of interest is that this letter is also signed in the name of Margaery of House Tyrell, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men."
"The Tyrells rise in power," Dacey said, feeling numb. Up until now, the Lannisters had been their opponent, and they had defeated them in nearly every battle. Doubtless, that was now why the Lannisters had fallen out of favor with the new king. But the Tyrells were fresh, strong, and had as many spears and lances as the North had trees. Even supposing that victory could be achieved against such odds, how many years would it take?
"The politicking in the capital is of no interest to me," Jonos Bracken spat. "This news from the North concerns me more. I had thought your bastard brother sworn to the Watch, King."
Dacey pursed her lips. So far as Dacey knew, the Smalljon had never told the host of his plans for Jon Snow, and so this would be the first they heard of him. News from the North had been scarce and often contradictory, but it seemed the Lannisters had been better informed. Jon led a host of wildlings to sack Winterfell? The thought seemed impossible, ridiculous. How many nights had the King, over a mug of ale, sung the praises of his half brother? How many times had he not looked away wistfully, as though wishing his brother present?
"My will legitimizes my bastard brother and names him my heir, since I had no issue of my own and no living trueborn siblings who were not Lannister puppets," The King declared. "Lord Umber saw fit to send word North after he left the Twins, and they negotiated with the Watch for my brother to be released from his oaths. Since then we have heard nothing from him, and letters sent North informing him of my return have received no reply."
"And now the bastard has turned his coat," Jonos said, the words squeezing out through clenched teeth. "Falseborn boys are not to be trusted, your Grace."
Dacey hid her face in a mug of ale. Her mother had always insisted that Dacey and her sisters had been fathered by a bear in the woods, but now did not seem to be the time to mention that.
"It is hard to say how much truth there is in this story of the Lannisters," said Jon Umber. "Ravens are unreliable things, and it is a long way from Riverrun to Last Hearth. We have been long in the field, unable to receive letters, and no doubt Jon Stark has been similarly engaged."
"And when a man stabs me in the back, it might be because his sword slipped," Bracken said, "But the easier explanation is more like to be true, I think. This Jon Snow is a base bastard who spits on the memory of the Lady Catelyn." Robb's assembled lords met this statement with rumbles of assent.
"Who cares about the bastard?" Dacey blurted. "We've Tywin and Tarly and Baelish to consider."
The room went quiet, and Dacey bit her tongue. She had an ax for a tongue and she would never be a master of it.
"The wench is right," Jonos said, a moment later, "Baelish won't be leading fewer than a score of thousands, Tywin will have ten himself, and as for the Reach..." his voice trailed off.
"We have time," The King replied, his voice low and cool. "Baelish's army only just arrived at Harrenhal and Tarly was tied up in Maidenpool until a few weeks ago. They'll be slow, waiting for reinforcements and scrambling for supplies as they march all the way across the Riverlands. We have more than enough time to settle affairs with the Freys on our own terms."
The Smalljon's head jerked up and he nodded thoughtfully. "They promised us only justice for Walder, not for all his sons who aided him, nor for Tywin. And if we can retrieve Lord Tully and vanquish the Freys, we likely can secure a much better deal than mere peace."
Or, Dacey thought, they might decide not to bother with peace at all, once they had marched their armies all the way to the Sunset Sea. But she was a no-count bastard of an irrelevant house, and she had no interest in interrupting these great lords. If the King found the Smalljon's reasoning to be sound, who was Dacey Mormont to challenge him?
Hours of discussion followed and try as she might, Dacey could ill follow the discussions of the lords. Each one of them had a different vision for what might be the best strategy. Half of them seemed to have a desire for peace, others seemed to only hope to return to their holds intact. The quiet, gravelly beaches of Bear island seemed no more than a distant memory to her now, she could scarcely hope for them anymore. The ale at least, was fresh, as was the venison and the fried apples. Perhaps she would die tomorrow, or in a week, but at least for now she had had her fill of food and a fire to keep her warm. Melancholy was a luxury she had not been able to afford herself for months, and now that she had a moment of respite she drank deeply of bitter remembrance.
"Lady Dacey," Jon Umber's voice was soft and low as he settled down next to her. "You are most quiet this evening."
Dacey smiled weakly in reply, her eyes turning momentarily to the King, wondering if he could overhear them, but he simply stared straight forward, looking into the flames of the hearth without blinking, as though he could see something there that they could not.
"These great lords have no desire to hear the advice of a girl from Bear Island," Dacey said with a grimace. "If I spoke it would only remind them that they have forgotten to throw me out."
"If they do think such things, then they are fools. But I am no fool, and neither are you. If something troubles you, I would hear of it."
Dacey felt her face flush red. Perhaps it was the heat, or the richness of the food, or the ale. She could not say. "The men are tired," she answered lamely. "Bracken and Piper and yourself are men of action, you have been raised to fight and to fight and to keep fighting. You see the potential for great reward if you fight just a little longer… but the men of our host, the common soldiers, and even the knights… they were not made to fight forever. Even a strong mule's back will break if you place too heavy a burden upon it."
"You fear desertions."
"We have those already. Not nearly so many as before, and we find three stragglers for every one that deserts, but…" She sighed. "What if the men hear we refused an offer of peace? What if the Freys should bloody us? What if Baelish or Tarly should steal a march upon us?"
"We must make sure that none of these things happens, then."
Dacey stared at her reflection in the mug. She had been young when she came South, barely five and twenty, but now she was old, old and weary, with lines upon her face that would have better fit a woman twice her age. "We can't survive another Fairmarket," she said simply.
The battle had been ended with victory, decisive victory, even, but victory with a cost. The King had said that the deaths of Lannister captives would force the enemy to surrender, would break their spirit, but it had not only been Lannister spirits that had been broken. One of her own men, a hero who had fought in every battle since they left the North, had left his tent empty just the week before, and Dacey knew all too well why. For a moment Dacey fancied that she saw entrails hanging from the beams of the ceiling, but then she blinked and they were gone.
Jon Umber drank his ale in silence, considering her words. "Do you have a plan, then? A path to such a clean victory of the Freys may be impossible, given the threats that press at us from every side. There is no time for clever maneuvering, and so we must let them choose the field of battle. We have two men every one of theirs, but at a crossing or with a stout wall for them to hide behind… numbers mean less than they otherwise might."
"Oldstones," she replied, "They'll have broken the siege around Seagard and advanced to Oldstones by now. Our scouts will confirm as much on the morrow, I warrant. Oldstones may be a ruin, but it's large enough to hold their army, and the situation of the land is ideal for defense. With the bridge at Fairmarket out, we'll have to either fight them if we mean to move northward or else build boats with which to ferry the river. We face a choice between bad and worse."
"Lady Dacey." The King said, his voice cool and quiet.
She sat up straight as if she had been struck, then turned and bowed her head to him in deference. The chatter ceased and she felt the eyes of the whole room weighing down upon her.
"I wish that you had spoken up earlier, Lady Dacey," the King stated, his eyes still staring unblinkingly into the flames, "For you have offered me an answer to a riddle I have long been pondering. I know now what our plan for battle must be." The King smiled suddenly, his teeth bright and white and sharp. "Rejoice, my Lords, and have faith in your king. I will end the line of the Freys with a hundred men."
They crossed the Blue Fork at night, one hundred men and horse on rafts they had salvaged from the ruins of Fairmarket. The boards beneath them leaked and creaked with every passing moment, threatening to split asunder and let the cold swift water carry them to their death. She sent a prayer to the gods for courage and a quick death if her time had come.
But nothing of the sort happened. The waters remained quiet and the tillers found the shore by the light of the waning half-moon. By dawn, they had already left the sight of the Fork miles behind them. By sunset, they had made camp in an abandoned village. Weary as she was, Dacey could not sleep yet. The Smalljon joined her by the fire once again and she smiled to see it.
"The King puts much faith in the Brotherhood," the Smalljon observed idly in between spoonfuls of beef broth. "As quickly as we're advancing, it would be easy for them to lead us into a trap or give the Freys warning of our approach."
"Do you mistrust them?" Once, Dacey had held suspicions about the Brotherhood. She had thought them nothing more than brigands with a strange god, but they had proved themselves at Fairmarket. They had been fighting in this war longer than she had, longer than anyone, and they knew the Riverlands better than she knew Mormont Hall.
"No," Jon replied. "I trust them."
"And a good thing too!" Anguy's high laugh interrupted them as he came down to sit beside them. Dacey smiled. The cocky Marcher bowman had become one of her favorites. "Since trusting us with your lives is what you've done. Have to say, I'm surprised you came with us, Lord Umber. I'd have given you equal odds of being given command over the greater host."
"If the King is going, why not me as well?"
"The King being odd is expected. He's been touched by the Lord 'o Light. Meaning no disrespect o' course."
"Of course not," Jon grunted. "Swear by whatever god you please, red, old, new or… fuck, don't swear at all. As long as you're by our side in the melee I don't much care."
"The name of your god troubles me little, I'll agree with Lord Umber about that much," Dacey said. "Your name for the king troubles me more."
"What's wrong with calling him the Red King?" Anguy laughed. "I thought it fine, fierce name."
"Fine and fierce it may be, but it's also a Bolton name," Dacey replied. "Back when the Boltons used to flay men, alive before they submitted to the Starks, they called themselves the Red Kings. The Northmen in the host do not much care for the comparison."
She found herself sighing despite herself. When she had been a child, the Red Kings of old had seemed like horrible monsters and she had had nightmares of Red King Rogar Bolton coming after her with his knife... but now those nightmares seemed dull, distant, and mild by comparison.
The Smalljon scowled. "Traitor scum, that Bolton is. I wonder if he's already signing his letters as 'the Red King.'"
Anguy's eyebrows raised in mild surprise. "M'thanks Lady Dacey, and m'thanks again for your patience with our misstep. I will try to spread the word, but I fear the name may have stuck by now, no matter how much I spread the word."
"Win this war, and we can let the Maesters squabble over what to call him."
Anguy shook his head. "Whatever happens next, the war the Brotherhood meant to fight's been lost. We set out from the capital to protect the smallfolk of the Riverlands, and we've..." he drew in a sharp breath. "We've done our best, but in the end, I don't know how much it's mattered."
"You brought back the King," Dacey said.
"We did," Anguy said, and Dacey felt sure he meant to say more, but she would not press the question.
The Smalljon was not so delicate. "You regret joining your forces to ours?"
"The Brotherhood ain't mine. They ain't Throros', and they weren't properly Beric's either. The Brotherhood belonged to no man, that was the whole point."
"Do you regret joining us yourself then?"
Anguy stared into his soup. "Sometimes. Sometimes not. It's like you said, about squabbling maesters. We need to win this war before we can sort out what's regret and what's pride." He drew himself up straighter. "I'm glad to not be on the same side as Bolton, though. His men were beasts in human skin."
Jon laughed. "Regardless of your reasons, we're happy to have you, and the war will be over all the quicker because of your help."
"But why are you here?" Anguy asked, seeming to recover some of his lost spark. "We've strayed far from the original question. Why are you here with rogues like me when you could be leading the host?"
Jon shrugged. "The King tells me where to go, and I go. It's not my place to question the whys and the whens."
Dacey raised an eyebrow. "You don't know why he wanted you?"
Jon paused, uncertain. "In truth, no."
"You didn't notice that this was something of a reunion?" Dacey laughed slightly. "A celebration of Lord Edmure's wedding. You, me, Donnel Locke, Robin Flint, Ser Patrek... The whole of the old battle guard is here with him. Or all of them that are left at any rate." There had been thirty of them once, but only half of them remained.
"Oh," Jon said, a rare smile peeking out from beneath his beard. Dacey tucked an errant strand of hair behind one ear and looked away. Those had been happier times. Dacey was happy that the King had remembered that much.
"You're all a bunch of fools," Anguy said with a laugh. "It makes me like you all the better." He clapped Dacey on the shoulder before leaving as quickly as he had come. "Get some rest, both of you."
Dacey sighed and drained the rest of her bowl. The broth was plain food, but rich and hot and filling. Anguy had been right, she needed rest, but she felt too tired, too comfortable to leave the fire, leave the Smalljon's company and find her furs.
The Twins. They were headed back. It seemed like a place out of an old story, like a place that did not truly exist. Would she be able to summon her courage and walk back through those bloodied gates again? Would she serve her King loyally as she had before? Yes, she told herself. Surely she would. The King's plan was madness, but if he told her to have faith, faith she would have. They would take the Twins. They would kill Lord Walder and avenge all those who had been lost. They would make peace, they would…
She did not know what they would do after that.
She looked to Jon and found that he had been staring at her, that he kept staring at her even when she locked eyes with him. She looked away and began gathering her things. "I had best see myself to my tent."
"Might I see you?" The Smalljon said, his words suddenly clumsy and unsure. "See you to your tent, I mean?"
Dacey blinked, turning back to him with surprise. She was tired and she ached in a thousand places and they would be riding hard tomorrow… but...
"Oh at least that far, I should think."
Every day that passed brought them closer and closer to the Twins, and soon every hedgerow and ditch brought back some painful memory. Here she had stood and fought against Frey light horse that had raided their camp. There she had shared her last skin of wine with a dying Glover man. But she had expected such remembrances. More surprising was that they only filled her with determination, with purpose. They had fled from here ill-supplied and ill-fed, with a dead king and all the might of the Twins at their back, but now they returned, with a reborn king and a righteous cause.
The Smalljon felt it too, she could tell. He never spoke of his feelings, but she had known him long enough to discern his moods. His posture, his eyes, his… manner of making love, all these said more than enough.
Dacey harbored no doubt that the others knew that she and Jon shared a tent, but none of them had seen fit to comment, and for that much Dacey was grateful. Not for her own sake. Dacey had been born on Bear Island with a nameless father and when she had finally come south, it was with Jorah's black reputation preceding her. She had been long accustomed to sneers and disrespect. But for Jon's sake, for Lord Umber's sake, Dacey was happy that their affair passed by without remark or censure.
She first caught sight of the Twins as they crested a great hill just to the west of the fortress. At that distance, she could make out little more than the faded blue silhouette of two castles and a bridge and tower between them. The Twins looked tiny from up on the hill, as though she could reach out and crush them both with her hand. But she remembered all too well how large and strong those castles truly were.
To lay siege to the Twins, the King would have needed thousands of men and weeks to prepare, and even then if an enemy force should appear to bring them battle they would be destroyed piecemeal. The Twins was not unlike Riverrun in this regard, and well did Dacey remember how disastrously that siege had ended for the Lannisters. The King had a plan, of course, but in truth, if anyone other than the King had proposed such a scheme...
"Surely they must know we're here," she said, giving voice to a thought that had been running through her mind for days.
"Not much they can do about it if they do know," Anguy said with a laugh. "We may only have a hundred men with us but they have fewer than half that number. One of our boys got in close the day before to have a look and he confirmed as much. It seems luck is on our side at last."
"Lucky is making it this far without being discovered," Dacey replied. "If he's truly left himself so few guards, that's something more than luck."
"The work of the gods?"
Dacey snorted. "The work of a stupid enemy commander. Frey has more than fifty sons, why keep so few near to him?"
Anguy shrugged. "I suppose they're concerned with holding our main host at Oldstones. It's a good thing, though. I don't know if this plan of the King's would work if it had been otherwise."
Dacey looked to the front of their little party, to where the King rode with his most trusted supporters. He had spoken with such confidence when he first announced his scheme, so many days ago, that none had dared to question him. But Anguy spoke the truth. Had this merely been a gambit? But the King had always had that strange, unearthly intuition, she told herself. She had given him her faith, and he had rewarded her yet again. She would put more faith in him yet, before this was all over. It was not the place of an ax to question the hand that wielded it.
No light but the stars, no sound but the flow of the river, and nothing before them except the Twins. Most of the King's party had been left behind. Only Dacey and the Battle Guard remained with the King now. They had stolen a brace of ships upstream from the Twins and floated down under cover of darkness. The castles themselves loomed ahead, huge dark shadows against the night with a great bridge spanning the river between them. The Twins were not half so mighty as Winterfell or Harrenhal, but still, the size confounded her. The bridge had been built so thick and wide that it supported a strong keep twice the size of Mormont Hall in the middle of it.
Only one thought comforted Dacey. The report of the scouts seemed to be true. Only one window in fifty showed any sign of light or life. Still, she felt the old fear welling up inside her. They had lost half the battle guard at the Twins on the way out, how many would they lose on the way in? Would any of them survive? Anguy had said that only fifty armed men guarded the Twins, but Dacey knew there would be others. Hundreds of smiths, tanners, scribes… any of whom might take up arms against them.
Most terrifying of all was the dark. The dark obscured every face, every banner, and made friend from foe indistinguishable. Even marching in the dark could be a hazard. No preparation, no reason, no strategy would be of any avail here. In the dark, no man was any wiser or more clever than a beast.
But doubtless the King depended upon that.
Doubtless he had planned this entire journey such that they would arrive on a moonless night when the darkness would hide them as they came down the river. Doubtless he depended on the terror the men of the Twins would feel, as the Young Wolf and his fellows sprang from the Trident to exact vengeance.
They had almost come up to the Twins now, next to the rough stones that formed the link between the castle and the bridge. Silence had been the rule until now, but there was no hope of keeping silent much longer. The boats rocked and creaked as every man aboard readied himself for the climb.
Dacey was the first from her boat to start the climb, jumping to the rocks and clinging for her life. She had climbed steeper inclines in the peaks north of Winterfell, but not like this. Not in full battle dress. Not in the dark. Not on stones that were wet with spray from the river. But fear had no place here. Turning back was impossible, and so she climbed upward.
Somewhere in the dark below a man fell with a splash. Was it Jon? Was it one of her other old fellows of the battle guard? She did not dare look. Her muscles ached. Her fingers creaked with effort. Just a few more feet, just…
A guard's face appeared above her. Her heart stopped in her chest as the boy's eyes widened in fear… but then half a dozen crossbow bolts sprouted from his neck and chest.
He fell with a half-strangled scream, writhing on the stones as Dacey pulled herself to stand on the bridge. She had barely found her footing before another guard thrust a spear in her face. She dodged on instinct and struck him in the face with the hilt of her mace. The guard stumbled. She struck him again, this time breaking his shoulder, and again, breaking his chest. A third blow and a fourth and and then...
"To the King!" Jon growled, drawing himself up and pushing past her in the dark. Dacey left the man to die and followed him.
The King had taken the lead, cutting down a Frey man as they pushed to the keep in the center of the bridge. The Keep of the Crossing, it was called. Push to the keep. Mallister and the others would see to the castle.
They fell on the few guards that had rallied like a storm. Five men dead in as many heartbeats, and then the King controlled the Keep of the Crossing. A frightened old woman in a wimple appeared atop one of the staircases and Dacey grabbed her by the wrist and locked her in a side chamber. She and Jon raced through the Keep, room by room until they had made sure it was entirely free of enemies.
"Who was it that fell?" she asked. "I couldn't see."
"Flint," Jon replied. "Norrey too, though I never heard a splash."
Dacey grimaced. Every man they lost tonight would be a dear friend of many years. Every man they lost would be like losing an uncle, a brother, a son. The sound of clashing steel roused her from her thoughts. They had no time for grief yet. She and Jon raced down the stairs, nearly colliding with Ser Patrek Mallister and the rest of the King's guard as they poured through the doorway, slamming it behind them even as Frey men tried to break it down.
"What happened?" Jon roared.
"There were more of them than we expected in the castle," Patrek said, his teeth clenched in pain. "Went well at first. Got through the gate and right into the barracks. Killed five of them before they knew we were there but..." His voice trailed off. Dacey needed to hear no more. She rushed back up the stairs, up and up until she came out at the top. The king was standing there, a roaring signal-fire just behind him, coloring his gray cloak red and orange with light. She went to his side to look down and gasped.
Too many men had gathered below them. A dozen armed guards with more rallying every moment. She felt her heart sink. So many awake and ready to arms! For every one guard below there would be three back in the castle, putting on armor and picking up their weapons…
"We won't be able to take the East Castle," Dacey murmured.
If the King was concerned, his face did not show it. "With the signal-fire lit, Thoros and the Brotherhood will storm the East Castle soon enough."
"They'll be slaughtered. The best we can do here is hold out, and perhaps keep the West Castle from reinforcing the East. which leaves, what, three or four score Frey defenders at the gate?"
"Nonetheless, we will prevail."
Dacey stopped and silenced herself. She had followed the King this far, there was no use in challenging him now.
"Who is up there?" A voice called out from below. "Who are you?" The speaker on the bridge was a tall, thin man wearing the symbol of the Crossing, but more than that Dacey could not discern in the darkness.
The King smiled, stepping forward to the edge of the tower. "Do you not recognize me, cousin? Mine uncle married your younger sister, I should think you would remember me."
The speaker on the bridge took a step back, aghast, and then Dacey recognized him. Perwyn. The man had been part of the battle guard with the Smalljon and herself and had fought at Riverrun and the Whispering Woods alongside them. At the Red Wedding, his own sister's wedding, he had been suspiciously absent. Had that been because he was loyal to the King still? Would he prove an ally? Dacey felt the beginnings of a plan form in the back of her mind.
"I… King Stark," Perwyn said, his voice unsure. "I see the rumors are true. What are you-"
"I have come again to bring a reckoning to your house," the King said flatly. "I have come to bring vengeance and blood to you and your kin, and any who would stand with you."
"You are trapped in the Tower of the Crossing, surrounded by a hundred men at arms. Your Grace, perhaps..."
Sudden movement atop the west castle caught Dacey's eye. The peak of the tower was lower than either the East Castle or the West, and from that height a guard could easily...
"Your Grace!' She screamed, tackling the King to the ground as an arrow clattered on the ground next to them. She scrambled for the stairs, pulling the King behind her. She heard more arrows fall around her. She and the King made it to the stairs, stumbling and tripping downwards. Pain flashed in her calf as she tried to right herself.
The King stood quickly and turned from her without a word, walking down the stairs. "The Freys will not resolve to attack us immediately," he said with confidence. "Perwyn is the most senior Frey here, but he is not trusted. They have gathered quickly but now that they are gathered it will take time for them to choose who is in command."
Dacey ignored the pain in her leg as she hobbled after him. "Your Grace, Perwyn Frey was not among those at the Red Wedding and he served you loyally, he may be amicable-"
"I do not strike deals with Freys," the King stated, his voice absolute. "Never again."
She bowed her head. "As you will, Your Grace. I will begin preparing for their assault."
"Their assault?" The King turned to her, a dry smile warming his features. "Did you think I meant to hole up in this keep like a mouse until the Brotherhood pulled them back to the East Castle? They are leaderless, headless, and we will spear them through in a single charge."
Madness. But he was King, and she had followed him this far. "As you say, sire."
They passed down into the floor of the keep, where the companions of the king had gathered. Ten men remained. Ten men of skill and discipline, veterans who had fought in every battle and had the scars to prove it. Ten men, against…
"Nigh on forty out there now," Mikkel Cerwyn growled from where he knelt by the spyhole. Dacey's heart fell. Four to one. Swords against pikes, with archers overhead, at four to one odds. Mikkel Cerwyn took his eye away from the spyhole and grimaced. "Forty men, and more arriving every second."
"Then we must strike before they rally more," The King replied, fastening on his helm and stepping toward the door. "Follow me."
"Your Grace," Ser Patrek said, "Your Grace, pray let one of us lead the charge. Any one of us would gladly-"
"Don't fall behind," the King stated, and flung open the door.
The battle guard surged forward from the tower as one man. Dacey herself ran only a step behind the king, her feet eating up the ground as she gained speed. The Freys were unprepared for their assault, standing in complete disorder, and even as the Stark battle guard began to close with them, many still stood still as if in surprise. The other attempted to rally, to draw up in line against them… but too late. Dacey pushed a pike aside with her shield and crushed a man's helm with a blow of her mace. Another spear glanced off her armor and she closed with its wielder and killed him too. Jon to her left, the King to her right, and half a dozen heroes behind them, and all the Frey men fled from them.
Dacey heard a mad voice laughing above the sounds of slaughter, and then realized it was her own. But how could she do otherwise than laugh? Forty were fleeing from ten. What madness was this?
"Take the gate! Take the castle!"
Arrows fell amongst them now, but they pressed on, heedless of the danger, cutting down men who stumbled on the retreat. Perwin Frey lay on the ground, his helm half open and his leg slick with blood.
"Please, Lady Dacey," he called as the battle guard advanced, "Please..."
She caught him on the chin with a blow from her mace, and that silenced his pleas. They were almost to the door, now, the door that opened to the side of the East Castle gate. A tall man in plate was the last through the door before he closed it behind him, leaving three of his fellows locked on the outside where Mikkel and Ser Patrek cut them down in short order.
"Jon!" the King called, and the Smalljon stepped forward, longaxe in hand. The Smalljon stood seven feet tall, with strong arms and broad shoulders to match, and he threw his whole frame into a blow against the door, splinters flying out into the dark. An arrow glanced off the shoulder of his plate but he continued on as if unaware, striking the door two, three, four times more. The door had been made of sound construction, hardwood planks layered over one another at crossed grains. The Smalljon was breathing hard now, his blows coming slowly and with more labor, but the door was yielding as well, its craftsmanship giving way to raw force.
An arrow caught Marc Glover in a gap of his armor and he went down with a scream. Dacey grit her teeth and stooped low over them, seeing if aught could be done to bind his wound…
But then the door gave way and the King called them to press on, press through. Dacey's hands trembled as she tried to undo the straps of his armor, to get at the wound so she could bind it, "Go," Marc urged, smiling through the pain, "This wound is not so dire."
Arrows fell about them as she pulled him into the gatehouse and laid him amidst the corpses of the guards. "Go," He urged her again, and this time she went.
The battle guard ran through the halls of the East castle, painting the walls red with blood. A small band of guards had tried to make a stand. Ten men only half-dressed for battle, but they had died bravely. It felt as though nothing could stop the battle guard now as they raged onward. Their party splintered and splintered again, breaking off by twos and threes. Three to hold the Keep of the Crossing, two to hold the door to the bridge... Soon it was only Dacey and Jon and the King himself standing in the courtyard in front of the gatehouse. It was a mean thing, with the lowest walls only fifteen-foot high, but still, Dacey wondered what the King could be thinking, assaulting the gatehouse with only two of his battle guard.
"We yield!" A voice called out. "We yield! To you or the men outside! It's only the two of us up here!"
"If you truly intend to yield," the king replied, "Come down from the gatehouse and lay down your arms."
The men did as the King had bidden them, bowing low and scraping and saying "Mercy!" over and over again. Dacey wondered that there were not more defending the gatehouse, but then everything about this night had been strange. What was one more oddity? Both of the men were auburn-haired, like the Lord Edmure, with freckles and plain features. One of them was the elder of the other by twenty years, and Dacey wondered if they might be father and son.
The King executed them both with two quick strokes of his blade, and their auburn heads rolled in the dirt. "Open the gates," he commanded, and Jon and Dacey obeyed.
The Castle was theirs. The Castle was theirs. No other thought could form inside her head. It seemed impossible, yet so it was. They controlled the East gate, they controlled the bridge, they controlled the door to the Great Keep… and as the gates opened with a creak, a hundred of the Brotherhood streamed through. Thoros and Anguy rode at their head, laughing and smiling.
"I can't believe it," she said as a pair of the Brotherhood raised the Direwolf high above the gatehouse. "I still can't, and I don't know that I ever will."
"The gods themselves fight for the King," Jon replied, mirroring Dacey's own thoughts. Night attacks were things of chance, where any army a dozen miles out of position, but the Brotherhood had arrived exactly as they had raised the gate. The guard had not seen their approach on the water, had fled from a fight they should have won, and had not rallied to any position of importance after the first time they fled. At every turn the King's luck had held, and… and there was no other way he could have taken the East Castle. He stood now in the courtyard, eyes closed as if in prayer, while all his army set the castle to rights.
Dacey could only think of the King staring into the flames at the feast, as though he saw something they could not.
"Hear now, look at this!" Anguy's cheery voice called to them over the yard. He and his men were leading captives, Lord Frey himself chief among them, stumbling and tripping and swearing. Ryman Dacey recognized too, but then she saw who walked behind them and she could pay the Freys no more mind. Edmure Tully and Lucas Blackwood and Vance, all unchained and blinking in the torchlight. She had known they were here, known that they might be made free, but somehow until that moment she had not truly understood. She had given them up for dead, and now that they were alive she could not think what she would say to them.
The Freys were drawn up in front of the king and forced to kneel. Some wept, some cursed, some threw up on the ground, but soon enough they were all subdued. The freed prisoners stepped to the side, looking to Edmure to speak for them.
"Robb," Edmure said, his voice uncertain. Dacey saw now that a slip of a girl held his arm, a girl shivering in the wind, wearing naught but her nightclothes. She looked around nervously, and Dacey realized she must be Edmure's Frey wife, the girl they had forced him to marry before the killing had begun. Then Dacey noticed the bulge of the girl's belly, and she felt herself clench up on the inside.
"I almost could not believe it when I heard," Edmure said, "Your Grace, I could not-"
"Uncle," Robb replied, his voice dry and without inflection. "Your wife belongs with her family."
The girl clung to Edmure all the more tightly. "Your Grace," Edmure replied, his voice firm. "Your Grace, she had nothing to do with what occurred."
"She knew and she lured you away and captured you."
"No," Edmure replied, his voice rising in pitch. "No, Your Grace, she is innocent. She carries my child, she carries one of your own blood, she-"
"-Will only bring another Frey into the world," The King pronounced, drawing his sword. "She will face justice along with her kin.'
Dacey never saw what happened next, for she closed her eyes, but the sounds, the sounds… those she would never forget.
