A Dance With Dragons

argument as last night and the night before. Press on and die, stay here and die, fall back and die.
    “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.”
    “ You will not take 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. March, I said, and before the moon can turn, we’ll all be bathing in the blood of Freys and Boltons.”
    Men began to stamp their feet, to pound their fists against the tabletop. Almost all were northmen, Asha noted. Across the fire trench, the south-ron 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?”
    “ Gods? ” said Richard Horpe. “You forget yourself, Justin. We have but one god here. Speak not of demons in this company. Only the Lord of Light can save us now. Wouldn’t you agree?” He put his hand upon the hilt of his sword, as if for emphasis, but his eyes never left the face of Justin Massey.
    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.
    Broken quick as that, thought Asha. My champion is made of suet. Even so, Ser Justin was one of the few who might object should the queen’s men try to burn her. So she rose to her feet, donned her own cloak, and followed him out into the blizzard.
    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. “ Justin? ” she called. There was no answer. Somewhere to her left she heard a horse whicker. The poor thing sounds frightened. Perhaps he knows that he’s to be tomorrow’s supper. Asha pulled her cloak about her tightly.
    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. The old gods mean to bury him, Asha thought. This was no work of theirs.
    “Take a good long gander, cunt,” the deep voice