Down the table, Will Foxglove was telling the men around him that Stannis would resume his march on Winterfell three days hence. He’d had it from the lips of one of the grooms who tended the king’s horses. “His Grace has seen victory in his fires,” Foxglove said, “a victory that will be sung of for a thousand years in lord’s castle and peasant’s hut alike.”
Justin Massey looked up from his horsemeat. “The cold count last night reached eighty.” He pulled a piece of gristle from his teeth and flicked it to the nearest dog. “If we march, we will die by the hundreds.”
“We will die by the thousands if we stay here,” said Ser Humfrey Clifton. “Press on or die, I say.”
“Press on
“We should remain here until the weather breaks,” said Ser Ormund Wylde, a cadaverous old knight whose nature gave the lie to his name. Asha had heard rumors that some of the men-at-arms were wagering on which of the great knights and lords would be the next to die. Ser Ormund had emerged as a clear favorite.
“Too few fish and too many fishermen,” Lord Peasebury said gloomily. He had good reason for gloom; it was his men Ser Godry had just burned, and there were some in this very hall who had been heard to say that Peasebury himself surely knew what they were doing and might even have shared in their feasts.
“He’s not wrong,” grumbled Ned Woods, one of the scouts from Deepwood. Noseless Ned, he was called; frostbite had claimed the tip of his nose two winters past. Woods knew the wolfwood as well as any man alive. Even the king’s proudest lords had learned to listen when he spoke. “I know them lakes. You been on them like maggots on a corpse, hundreds o’ you. Cut so many holes in the ice it’s a bloody wonder more haven’t fallen through. Out by the island, there’s places look like a cheese the rats been at.” He shook his head. “Lakes are done. You fished them out.”
“All the more reason to march,” insisted Humfrey Clifton. “If death is our fate, let us die with swords in hand.”
It was the same argument as last night and the night before.
“Feel free to perish as you wish, Humfrey,” said Justin Massey. “Myself, I would sooner live to see another spring.”
“Some might call that craven,” Lord Peasebury replied.
“Better a craven than a cannibal.”
Peasebury’s face twisted in sudden fury. “You—”
“Death is part of war, Justin.” Ser Richard Horpe stood inside the door, his dark hair damp with melting snow. “Those who march with us will have a share in all the plunder we take from Bolton and his bastard, and a greater share of glory undying. Those too weak to march must fend for themselves. But you have my word, we shall send food once we have taken Winterfell.”
“
“Aye, we will,” came a cackle from the high table, where Arnolf Karstark sat with his son Arthor and three grandsons. Lord Arnolf shoved himself up, a vulture rising from its prey. One spotted hand clutched at his son’s shoulder for support. “We’ll take it for the Ned and for his daughter. Aye, and for the Young Wolf too, him who was so cruelly slaughtered. Me and mine will show the way, if need be. I’ve said as much to His Good Grace the king.
Men began to stamp their feet, to pound their fists against the tabletop. Almost all were northmen, Asha noted. Across the fire trench, the southron lords sat silent on the benches.
Justin Massey waited until the uproar had died away. Then he said, “Your courage is admirable, Lord Karstark, but courage will not breach the walls of Winterfell. How do you mean to take the castle, pray? With snowballs?”
One of Lord Arnolf’s grandsons gave answer. “We’ll cut down trees for rams to break the gates.”
“And die.”
Another grandson made himself heard. “We’ll make ladders, scale the walls.”
“And die.”
Up spoke Arthor Karstark, Lord Arnolf’s younger son. “We’ll raise siege towers.”
“And die, and die, and die.” Ser Justin rolled his eyes. “Gods be good, are all you Karstarks mad?”
“
Beneath that gaze, Ser Justin wilted. “The Lord of Light, aye. My faith runs as deep as your own, Richard, you know that.”
“It is your courage I question, Justin, not your faith. You have preached defeat every step of the way since we rode forth from Deepwood Motte. It makes me wonder whose side you are on.”
A flush crept up Massey’s neck. “I will not stay here to be insulted.” He wrenched his damp cloak down from the wall so hard that Asha heard it tear, then stalked past Horpe and through the door. A blast of cold air blew through the hall, raising ashes from the fire trench and fanning its flames a little brighter.
She was lost before she had gone ten yards. Asha could see the beacon fire burning atop the watchtower, a faint orange glow floating in the air. Elsewise the village was gone. She was alone in a white world of snow and silence, plowing through snowdrifts as high as her thighs. “
She blundered back onto the village green unknowing. The pinewood stakes still stood, charred and scorched but not burned through. The chains about the dead had cooled by now, she saw, but still held the corpses fast in their iron embrace. A raven was perched atop one, pulling at the tatters of burned flesh that clung to its blackened skull. The blowing snow had covered the ashes at the base of the pyre and crept up the dead man’s leg as far as his ankle.
“Take a good long gander, cunt,” the deep voice of Clayton Suggs said, behind her. “You’ll look just as pretty once you’re roasted. Tell me, can squids scream?”
“That prancing fool? What do you want with him, cunt? If it’s a fuck you need, I’m more a man than Massey.”
Ser Clayton chuckled. “The king’s half-blind from staring into fires. But have no fear, cunt, I’ll not rape you. I’d need to kill you after, and I’d sooner see you burn.”
“Hear what?”
“A horse. No, horses. More than one.” She turned her head, listening. The snow did queer things to sound. It was hard to know which direction it had come from.
“Is this some squid game? I don’t hear—” Suggs scowled. “Bloody hell. Riders.” He fumbled at his sword belt, his hands clumsy in their fur-and-leather gloves, and finally succeeded in ripping his longsword from its scabbard.