“We are in sore need of some, my lord.” She sat, listening to the rain patter down noisily against the canvas overhead.
Robb waited for Ser Raynald to close the tent flap. “The gods have heard our prayers, my lords.
Lord Jason has brought us the captain of the Myraham, a merchanter out of Oldtown. Captain, tell them what you told me.”
“Aye, Your Grace.” He licked his thick lips nervously. “My last port of call afore Seagard, that was Lordsport on Pyke. The ironmen kept me there more’n half a year, they did. King Balon’s command. Only, wel , the long and the short of it is, he’s dead.”
“Balon Greyjoy?” Catelyn’s heart skipped a beat. “You are tel ing us that Balon Greyjoy is dead?”
The shabby little captain nodded. “You know how Pyke’s built on a headland, and part on rocks and islands off the shore, with bridges between? The way I heard it in Lordsport, there was a blow coming in from the west, rain and thunder, and old King Balon was crossing one of them bridges when the wind got hold of it and just tore the thing to pieces. He washed up two days later, all bloated and broken. Crabs ate his eyes, I hear.”
The Greatjon laughed. “King crabs, I hope, to sup upon such royal jelly, eh?” The captain bobbed his head. “Aye, but that’s not all of it, no!” He leaned forward. “The brother’s back.”
“Victarion?” asked Galbart Glover, surprised.
“Euron. Crow’s Eye, they cal him, as black a pirate as ever raised a sail. He’s been gone for years, but Lord Balon was no sooner cold than there he was, sailing into Lordsport in his Silence.
Black sails and a red hul , and crewed by mutes. He’d been to Asshai and back, I heard.
Wherever he was, though, he’s home now, and he marched right into Pyke and sat his arse in the Seastone Chair, and drowned Lord Botley in a cask of seawater when he objected. That was when I ran back to Myraham and slipped anchor, hoping I could get away whilst things were confused. And so I did, and here I am.”
“Captain,” said Robb when the man was done, “you have my thanks, and you will not go unrewarded. Lord Jason will take you back to your ship when we are done. Pray wait outside.”
“That I will, Your Grace. That I will.”
No sooner had he left the king’s pavilion than the Greatjon began to laugh, but Robb silenced him with a look. “Euron Greyjoy is no man’s notion of a king, if half of what Theon said of him was true. Theon is the rightful heir, unless he’s dead... but Victarion commands the Iron Fleet. I can’t believe he would remain at Moat Cailin while Euron Crow’s Eye holds the Seastone Chair.
He has to go back.”
“There’s a daughter as wel ,” Galbart Glover reminded him. “The one who holds Deepwood Motte, and Robett’s wife and child.”
“If she stays at Deepwood Motte that’s al she can hope to hold,” said Robb. “What’s true for the brothers is even more true for her. She will need to sail home to oust Euron and press her own claim.” Her son turned to Lord Jason Mal ister. “You have a fleet at Seagard?”
“A fleet, Your Grace? Half a dozen longships and two war gal eys. Enough to defend my own shores against raiders, but I could not hope to meet the Iron Fleet in battle.”
“Nor would I ask it of you. The ironborn will be setting sail toward Pyke, I expect. Theon told me how his people think. Every captain a king on his own deck. They will all want a voice in the succession. My lord, I need two of your longships to sail around the Cape of Eagles and up the Neck to Greywater Watch.”
Lord Jason hesitated. “A dozen streams drain the wetwood, al shallow, silty, and uncharted. I would not even call them rivers. The channels are ever drifting and changing. There are endless sandbars, deadfalls, and tangles of rotting trees. And Greywater Watch moves. How are my ships to find it?”
“Go upriver flying my banner. The crannogmen will find you. I want two ships to double the chances of my message reaching Howland Reed. Lady Maege shall go on one, Galbart on the second.” He turned to the two he’d named. “You’ll carry letters for those lords of mine who remain in the north, but al the commands within will be false, in case you have the misfortune to be taken. If that happens, you must tell them that you were sailing for the north. Back to Bear Island, or for the Stony Shore.” He tapped a finger on the map. “Moat Cailin is the key. Lord Balon knew that, which is why he sent his brother Victarion there with the hard heart of the Greyjoy strength.”
“Succession squabbles or no, the ironborn are not such fools as to abandon Moat Cailin,” said Lady Maege.
“No,” Robb admitted. “Victarion will leave the best part of his garrison, I’d guess. Every man he takes will be one less man we need to fight, however. And he will take many of his captains, count on that. The leaders. He wil need such men to speak for him if he hopes to sit the Seastone Chair.”
“You cannot mean to attack up the causeway, Your Grace,” said Galbart Glover. “The approaches are too narrow. There is no way to deploy. No one has ever taken the Moat.”
“From the south,” said Robb. “But if we can attack from the north and west simultaneously, and take the ironmen in the rear while they are beating off what they think is my main thrust up the causeway, then we have a chance. Once I link up with Lord Bolton and the Freys, I will have more than twelve thousand men. I mean to divide them into three battles and start up the causeway a half-day apart. If the Greyjoys have eyes south of the Neck, they wil see my whole strength rushing headlong at Moat Cailin.
“Roose Bolton will have the rearguard, while I command the center. Greatjon, you shall lead the van against Moat Cailin. Your attack must be so fierce that the ironborn have no leisure to wonder if anyone is creeping down on them from the north.”
The Greatjon chuckled. “Your creepers best come fast, or my men will swarm those walls and win the Moat before you show your face. I’l make a gift of it to you when you come dawdling up.”
“That’s a gift I should be glad to have,” said Robb.
Edmure was frowning. “You talk of attacking the ironmen in the rear, sire, but how do you mean to get north of them?”
“There are ways through the Neck that are not on any map, Uncle. Ways known only to the crannogmen - narrow trails between the bogs, and wet roads through the reeds that only boats can fol ow.” He turned to his two messengers. “Tell Howland Reed that he is to send guides to me, two days after I have started up the causeway. To the center battle, where my own standard flies. Three hosts will leave the Twins, but only two will reach Moat Cailin. Mine own battle will melt away into the Neck, to reemerge on the Fever. If we move swiftly once my uncle’s wed, we can all be in position by year’s end. We will fall upon the Moat from three sides on the first day of the new century, as the ironmen are waking with hammers beating at their heads from the mead they’ll quaff the night before.”
“I like this plan,” said the Greatjon. “I like it well.”
Galbart Glover rubbed his mouth. “There are risks. If the crannogmen should fail you.. ”
“We will be no worse than before. But they will not fail. My father knew the worth of Howland Reed.” Robb rol ed up the map, and only then looked at Catelyn. “Mother.” She tensed. “Do you have some part in this for me?”
“Your part is to stay safe. Our journey through the Neck wil be dangerous, and naught but battle awaits us in the north. But Lord Mallister has kindly offered to keep you safe at Seagard until the war is done. You will be comfortable there, I know.” Is this my punishment for opposing him about Jon Snow? Or for being a woman, and worse, a mother? It took her a moment to realize that they were al watching her. They had known, she realized. Catelyn should not have been surprised. She had won no friends by freeing the Kingslayer, and more than once she had heard the Greatjon say that women had no place on a battlefield.
Her anger must have blazed across her face, because Galbart Glover spoke up before she said a word. “My lady, His Grace is wise. It’s best you do not come with us.”
“Seagard wil be brightened by your presence, Lady Catelyn,” said Lord Jason Mal ister.
“You would make me a prisoner,” she said.
“An honored guest,” Lord Jason insisted.
Catelyn turned to her son. “I mean no offense to Lord Jason,” she said stiffly, “but if I cannot continue on with you, I would sooner return to Riverrun.”
“I left my wife at Riverrun. I want my mother elsewhere. If you keep al your treasures in one purse, you only make it easier for those who would rob you. After the wedding, you shall go to Seagard, that is my royal command.” Robb stood, and as quick as that, her fate was settled. He picked up a sheet of parchment. “One more matter. Lord Balon has left chaos in his wake, we hope. I would not do the same. Yet I have no son as yet, my brothers Bran and Rickon are dead, and my sister is wed to a Lannister. I’ve thought long and hard about who might fol ow me. I command you now as my true and loyal lords to fix your seals to this document as witnesses to my decision.”
A king indeed, Catelyn thought, defeated. She could only hope that the trap he’d planned for Moat Cailin worked as well as the one in which he’d just caught her.
SAMWELL
Whitetree, Sam thought. Please, let this be Whitetree. He remembered Whitetree.
Whitetree was on the maps he’d drawn, on their way north. If this vil age was Whitetree, he knew where they were. Please, it has to be. He wanted that so badly that he forgot his feet for a little bit, he forgot the ache in his calves and his lower back and the stiff frozen fingers he could scarcely feel. He even forgot about Lord Mormont and Craster and the wights and the Others.
Whitetree, Sam prayed, to any god that might be listening.
Al wildling villages looked much alike, though. A huge weirwood grew in the center of this one... but a white tree did not mean Whitetree, necessarily. Hadn’t the weirwood at Whitetree been bigger than this one? Maybe he was remembering it wrong. The face carved into the bone pale trunk was long and sad; red tears of dried sap leaked from its eyes. Was that how it looked when we came north? Sam couldn’t recall.
Around the tree stood a handful of one-room hovels with sod roofs, a longhall built of logs and grown over with moss, a stone wel , a sheepfold... but no sheep, nor any people. The wildlings had gone to join Mance Rayder in the Frostfangs, taking all they owned except their houses. Sam was thankful for that. Night was coming on, and it would be good to sleep beneath a roof for once. He was so tired. It seemed as though he had been walking half his life. His boots were falling to pieces, and all the blisters on his feet had burst and turned to cal us, but now he had new blisters under the cal us, and his toes were getting frostbitten.
But it was either walk or die, Sam knew. Gilly was still weak from childbirth and carrying the babe besides; she needed the horse more than he did. The second horse had died on them three days out from Craster’s Keep. It was a wonder she lasted that long, poor half -starved thing.
Sam’s weight had probably done for her. They might have tried riding double, but he was afraid the same thing would happen again. It’s better that I walk.
Sam left Gilly in the longhall to make a fire while he poked his head into the hovels. She was better at making fires; he could never seem to get the kindling to catch, and the last time he’d tried to strike a spark off flint and steel he managed to cut himself on his knife. Gilly bound up the gash for him, but his hand was stiff and sore, even clumsier than it had been before. He knew he should wash the wound and change the binding, but he was afraid to look at it. Besides, it was so cold that he hated taking off his gloves.
Sam did not know what he hoped to find in the empty houses. Maybe the wildlings had left some food behind. He had to take a look. Jon had searched the huts at Whitetree, on their way north. Inside one hovel Sam heard a rustling of rats from a dark corner, but otherwise there was nothing in any of them but old straw, old smells, and some ashes beneath the smoke hole.
He turned back to the weirwood and studied the carved face a moment. It is not the face we saw, he admitted to himself. The tree’s not half as big as the one at Whitetree. The red eyes wept blood, and he didn’t remember that either. Clumsily, Sam sank to his knees. “Old gods, hear my prayer. The Seven were my father’s gods but I said my words to you when I joined the Watch.
Help us now. I fear we might be lost. We’re hungry too, and so cold. I don’t know what gods I believe in now, but... please, if you’re there, help us. Gilly has a little son.” That was al that he could think to say. The dusk was deepening, the leaves of the weirwood rustling softly, waving like a thousand blood-red hands. Whether Jon’s gods had heard him or not he could not say.
By the time he returned to the longhal , Gilly had the fire going. She sat close to it with her furs opened, the babe at her breast. He’s as hungry as we are, Sam thought. The old women had smuggled out food for them from Craster’s, but they had eaten most of it by now. Sam had been a hopeless hunter even at Horn Hill, where game was plentiful and he had hounds and huntsmen to help him; here in this endless empty forest, the chances of him catching anything were remote.
His efforts at fishing the lakes and half-frozen streams had been dismal failures as well.
“How much longer, Sam?” Gilly asked. “is it far, still?”
“Not so far. Not so far as it was.” Sam shrugged out of his pack, eased himself awkwardly to the floor, and tried to cross his legs. His back ached so abominably from the walking that he would have liked to lean up against one of the carved wooden pillars that supported the roof, but the fire was in the center of the hall beneath the smoke hole and he craved warmth even more than comfort. “Another few days should see us there.”
Sam had his maps, but if this wasn’t Whitetree then they weren’t going to be much use. We went too far east to get around that lake, he fretted, or maybe too far west when I tried to double back. He was coming to hate lakes and rivers. Up here there was never a ferry or bridge, which meant walking al the way around the lakes and searching for places to ford the rivers. It was easier to fol ow a game trail than to struggle through the brush, easier to circle a ridge instead of climbing it. If Bannen or Dywen were with us we’d be at Castle Black by now, warming our feet in the common room. Bannen was dead, though, and Dywen gone with Grenn and Dolorous Edd and the others.
The Wal is three hundred miles long and seven hundred feet high, Sam reminded himself. If they kept going south, they had to find it, sooner or later. And he was certain that they had been going south. By day he took directions from the sun, and on clear nights they could fol ow the Ice Dragon’s tail, though they hadn’t traveled much by night since the second horse had died.
Even when the moon was full it was too dark beneath the trees, and it would have been so easy for Sam or the last garron to break a leg. We have to be wel south by now, we have to be.
What he wasn’t so certain of was how far east or west they might have strayed. They would reach the Wal , yes... in a day or a fortnight, it couldn’t be farther than that, surely, surely... but where? It was the gate at Castle Black they needed to find; the only way through the Wall for a hundred leagues.
“Is the Wall as big as Craster used to say?” Gilly asked.
“Bigger.” Sam tried to sound cheerful. “So big you can’t even see the castles hidden behind it.
But they’re there, you’l see. The Wall is all ice, but the castles are stone and wood. There are tall towers and deep vaults and a huge longhal with a great fire burning in the hearth, day and night. It’s so hot in there, Gil y, you’ll hardly believe it.”
“Could I stand by the fire? Me and the boy? Not for a long time, just till we’re good and warm?”
“You can stand by the fire as long as you like. You’l have food and drink, too. Hot mulled wine and a bowl of venison stewed with onions, and Hobb’s bread right out of the oven, so hot it will burn your fingers.” Sam peeled a glove off to wriggle his own fingers near the flames, and soon regretted it. They had been numb with cold, but as feeling returned they hurt so much he almost cried. “Sometimes one of the brothers will sing,” he said, to take his mind off the pain.
“Dareon sang best, but they sent him to Eastwatch. There’s still Halder, though. And Toad. His real name is Todder, but he looks like a toad, so we cal him that. He likes to sing, but he has an awful voice.”
“Do you sing?” Gilly rearranged her furs, and she moved the babe from one breast to the other.
Sam blushed. “I... I know some songs. When I was little I liked to sing. I danced too, but my lord father never liked me to. He said if I wanted to prance around I should do it in the yard with a sword in my hand.”
“Could you sing some southron song? For the babe?”
“If you like.” Sam thought for a moment. “There’s a song our septon used to sing to me and my sisters, when we were little and it was time for us to go to sleep. ‘The Song of the Seven’ it’s called.” He cleared his throat and softly sang:
The Father’s face is stern and strong, he sits and judges right from wrong.
He weighs our lives, the short and long, and loves the little children.
The Mother gives the gift of life, and watches over every wife.
Her gentle smile ends all strife, and she loves her little children.
The Warrior stands before the foe, protecting us where e’er we go.
With sword and shield and spear and bow, he guards the little children.
The Crone is very wise and old, and sees our fates as they unfold.
She lifts her lamp of shining gold, to lead the little children.
The Smith, he labors day and night, to put the world of men to right.
With hammer, plow, and fire bright, he builds for little children.
The Maiden dances through the sky, she lives in every lover’s sigh, Her smiles teach the birds to fly, and give dreams to lit le children.
The Seven Gods who made us all, are listening if we should call.
So close your eyes, you shall not fall, they see you, little children, Just close your eyes, you shall not fall, they see you, little children.
Sam remembered the last time he’d sung the song with his mother, to lul baby Dickon to sleep.
His father had heard their voices and come barging in, angry. “I will have no more of that,” Lord Randyll told his wife harshly. “You ruined one boy with those soft septon’s songs, do you mean to do the same to this babe?” Then he looked at Sam and said, “Go sing to your sisters, if you must sing. I don’t want you near my son.”
Gilly’s babe had gone to sleep. He was such a tiny thing, and so quiet that Sam feared for him.
He didn’t even have a name. He had asked Gilly about that, but she said it was bad luck to name a child before he was two. So many of them died.
She tucked her nipple back inside her furs. “That was pretty, Sam. You sing good.”