A Feast for Dragons

said he had to find a man who
owed him silver.”
    “What man?” Ramsay demanded. “Give me his name. Point him
out to me, boy, and I will make you a cloak of his skin.”
    “He never said, my lord. Only that he won the coin at dice.”
The Frey boy hesitated. “It was some White Harbor men who taught dice. I
couldn’t say which ones, but it was them.”
    “My lord,” boomed Hosteen Frey. “We know the man who did
this. Killed this boy and all the rest. Not by his own hand, no. He is too fat
and craven to do his own killing. But by his word.” He turned to Wyman
Manderly. “Do you deny it?”
    The Lord of White Harbor bit a sausage in half. “I
confess …” He wiped the grease from his lips with his sleeve. “… I
confess that I know little of this poor boy. Lord Ramsay’s squire, was he not?
How old was the lad?”
    “Nine, on his last nameday.”
    “So young,” said Wyman Manderly. “Though mayhaps this was a
blessing. Had he lived, he would have grown up to be a Frey.”
    Ser Hosteen slammed his foot into the tabletop, knocking it
off its trestles, back into Lord Wyman’s swollen belly. Cups and platters flew,
sausages scattered everywhere, and a dozen Manderly men came cursing to their
feet. Some grabbed up knives, platters, flagons, anything that might serve as a
weapon.
    Ser Hosteen Frey ripped his longsword from its scabbard and
leapt toward Wyman Manderly. The Lord of White Harbor tried to jerk away, but
the tabletop pinned him to his chair. The blade slashed through three of his
four chins in a spray of bright red blood. Lady Walda gave a shriek and
clutched at her lord husband’s arm. “Stop,” Roose Bolton shouted.
“Stop
this madness.”
His own men rushed forward as the Manderlys vaulted
over the benches to get at the Freys. One lunged at Ser Hosteen with a dagger,
but the big knight pivoted and took his arm off at the shoulder. Lord Wyman
pushed to his feet, only to collapse. Old Lord Locke was shouting for a maester
as Manderly flopped on the floor like a clubbed walrus in a spreading pool of
blood. Around him dogs fought over sausages.
    It took two score Dreadfort spearmen to part the combatants
and put an end to the carnage. By that time six White Harbor men and two Freys
lay dead upon the floor. A dozen more were wounded and one of the Bastard’s
Boys, Luton, was dying noisily, crying for his mother as he tried to shove a
fistful of slimy entrails back through a gaping belly wound. Lord Ramsay
silenced him, yanking a spear from one of Steelshanks’s men and driving it down
through Luton’s chest. Even then the rafters still rang with shouts and prayers
and curses, the shrieks of terrified horses and the growls of Ramsay’s bitches.
Steelshanks Walton had to slam the butt of his spear against the floor a dozen
times before the hall quieted enough for Roose Bolton to be heard.
    “I see you all want blood,” the Lord of the Dreadfort said.
Maester Rhodry stood beside him, a raven on his arm. The bird’s black plumage
shone like coal oil in the torchlight.
Wet
, Theon realized.
And
in his lordship’s hand, a parchment. That will be wet as well. Dark wings, dark
words
. “Rather than use our swords upon each other, you might try them
on Lord Stannis.” Lord Bolton unrolled the parchment. “His host lies not three
days’ ride from here, snowbound and starving, and I for one am tired of waiting
on his pleasure. Ser Hosteen, assemble your knights and men-at-arms by the main
gates. As you are so eager for battle, you shall strike our first blow. Lord
Wyman, gather your White Harbor men by the east gate. They shall go forth as
well.”
    Hosteen Frey’s sword was red almost to the hilt. Blood
spatters speckled his cheeks like freckles. He lowered his blade and said, “As
my lord commands. But after I deliver you the head of Stannis Baratheon, I mean
to finish hacking off Lord Lard’s.”
    Four White Harbor knights had formed a ring around Lord
Wyman, as Maester Medrick labored over him to staunch his bleeding. “First you
must needs come through us, ser,” said the eldest of them, a hard-faced
greybeard whose bloodstained surcoat showed three silvery mermaids upon a
violet field.
    “Gladly. One at a time or all at once, it makes no matter.”
    “Enough,”
roared Lord Ramsay, brandishing
his bloody spear. “Another threat, and I’ll gut you all myself. My lord father
has spoken! Save your wroth for the pretender Stannis.”
    Roose Bolton gave an approving nod.