A Dance With Dragons

of Clayton Suggs said, behind her. “You’ll look just as pretty once you’re roasted. Tell me, can squids scream?”
    God of my fathers, if you can hear me in your watery halls beneath the waves, grant me just one small throwing axe. The Drowned God did not answer. He seldom did. That was the trouble with gods. “Have you seen Ser Justin?”
    “That prancing fool? What do you want with him, cunt? If it’s a fuck you need, I’m more a man than Massey.”
    Cunt again? It was odd how men like Suggs used that word to demean women when it was the only part of a woman they valued. And Suggs was worse than Middle Liddle. When he says the word, he means it. “Your king gelds men for rape,” she reminded him.
    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.”
    There’s that horse again. “Do you hear that?”
    “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.
    By then the riders were upon them.
    They emerged from the storm like a troop of wraiths, big men on small horses, made even bigger by the bulky furs they wore. Swords rode on their hips, singing their soft steel song as they rattled in their scabbards. Asha saw a battle-axe strapped to one man’s saddle, a warhammer on another’s back. Shields they bore as well, but so obscured by snow and ice that the arms upon them could not be read. For all her layers of wool and fur and boiled leather, Asha felt naked standing there. A horn, she thought, I need a horn to rouse the camp.
    “Run, you stupid cunt,” Ser Clayton shouted. “Run warn the king. Lord Bolton is upon us.” A brute he might have been, but Suggs did not want for courage. Sword in hand, he strode through the snow, putting himself between the riders and the king’s tower, its beacon glimmering behind him like the orange eye of some strange god. “Who goes there? Halt! Halt! ”
    The lead rider reined up before him. Behind were others, perhaps as many as a score. Asha had no time to count them. Hundreds more might be out there in the storm, coming hard upon their heels. Roose Bolton’s entire host might be descending on them, hidden by darkness and swirling snow. These, though …
    They are too many to be scouts and too few to make a vanguard. And two were all in black. Night’s Watch, she realized suddenly. “Who are you?” she called.
    “Friends,” a half-familiar voice replied. “We looked for you at Winterfell, but found only Crowfood Umber beating drums and blowing horns. It took some time to find you.” The rider vaulted from his saddle, pulled back his hood, and bowed. So thick was his beard, and so crusted with ice, that for a moment Asha did not know him. Then it came. “ Tris? ” she said.
    “My lady.” Tristifer Botley took a knee. “The Maid is here as well. Roggon, Grimtongue, Fingers, Rook … six of us, all those fit enough to ride. Cromm died of his wounds.”
    “What is this?” Ser Clayton Suggs demanded. “You’re one of hers? How did you get loose of Deepwood’s dungeons?”
    Tris rose and brushed the snow from his knees. “Sybelle Glover was offered a handsome ransom for our freedom and chose to accept it in the name of the king.”
    “What ransom? Who would pay good coin for sea scum?”
    “I did, ser.” The speaker came forward on his garron. He was very tall, very thin, so long-legged that it was a wonder his feet did not drag along the ground. “I had need of a strong escort to see me safely to the king, and Lady Sybelle had need of fewer mouths to feed.” A scarf concealed the tall man’s features, but atop his head was perched the queerest hat Asha had seen since the last time she had sailed to Tyrosh, a brimless tower of some soft fabric, like three cylinders stacked one atop the other. “I was given to understand that I might find King Stannis here. It is most urgent that I speak with him at once.”
    “And who in seven stinking hells are you?”
    The tall man slid gracefully from his garron, removed his peculiar hat, and bowed. “I have the