A Feast for Dragons

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.
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
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?”
    “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,