Alight snow was falling. Branxy could feel the flakes on his face, melting as they touched his skin like the gentlest of rains. He sat straight atop his horse, watching as the iron portcullis was winched upward. Try as he might to keep calm, his heart was fluttering in his chest.
“Are you ready?” Robbxy asked.
Branxy nodded, trying not to let his fear show. He had not been outside Winterfellxy since his fall, but he was determined to ride out as proud as any knight.
“Let’s ride, then.” Robbxy put his heels into his big grey-and-white gelding, and the horse walked under the portcullis.
“Go,” Branxy whispered to his own horse. He touched her neck lightly, and the small chestnut filly started forward. Branxy had named her Dancerxy. She was two years old, and Josethxy said she was smarter than any horse had a right to be. They had trained her special, to respond to rein and voice and touch. Up to now, Branxy had only ridden her around the yard. At first Josethxy or Hodorxy would lead her, while Branxy sat strapped to her back in the oversize saddle the Imp had drawn up for him, but for the past fortnight he had been riding her on his own, trotting her round and round, and growing bolder with every circuit.
They passed beneath the gatehouse, over the drawbridge, through the outer walls. Summerxy and Grey Windxy came loping beside them, sniffing at the wind. Close behind came Theonxy Greyjoyxyxy, with his longbow and a quiver of broadheads; he had a mind to take a deer, he had told them. He was followed by four guardsmen in mailed shirts and coifs, and Josethxy, a stick-thin stableman whom Robbxy had named master of horse while Hullenxy was away. Maesterxy Luwinxyxy brought up the rear, riding on a donkey. Branxy would have liked it better if he and Robbxy had gone off alone, just the two of them, but Hal Mollenxy would not hear of it, and Maesterxy Luwinxyxy backed him. If Branxy fell off his horse or injured himself, the maester was determined to be with him.
Beyond the castle lay the market square, its wooden stalls deserted now. They rode down the muddy streets of the village, past rows of small neat houses of log and undressed stone. Less than one in five were occupied, thin tendrils of woodsmoke curling up from their chimneys. The rest would fill up one by one as it grew colder. When the snow fell and the ice winds howled down out of the north, Old Nanxy said, farmers left their frozen fields and distant holdfasts, loaded up their wagons, and then the winter town came alive. Branxy had never seen it happen, but Maesterxy Luwinxyxy said the day was looming closer. The end of the long summer was near at hand. Winter is coming.
A few villagers eyed the direwolves anxiously as the riders went past, and one man dropped the wood he was carrying as he shrank away in fear, but most of the town-folk had grown used to the sight. They bent the knee when they saw the boys, and Robbxy greeted each of them with a lordly nod.
With his legs unable to grip, the swaying motion of the horse made Branxy feel unsteady at first, but the huge saddle with its thick horn and high back cradled him comfortingly, and the straps around his chest and thighs would not allow him to fall. After a time the rhythm began to feel almost natural. His anxiety faded, and a tremulous smile crept across his face.
Two serving wenches stood beneath the sign of the Smoking Logxy, the local alehouse. When Theonxy Greyjoyxyxy called out to them, the younger girl turned red and covered her face. Theonxy spurred his mount to move up beside Robbxy. “Sweet Kyraxy,” he said with a laugh. “She squirms like a weasel in bed, but say a word to her on the street, and she blushes pink as a maid. Did I ever tell you about the night that she and Bessaxy—”
“Not where my brother can hear, Theonxy,” Robbxy warned him with a glance at Branxy.
Branxy looked away and pretended not to have heard, but he could feel Greyjoyxy’s eyes on him. No doubt he was smiling. He smiled a lot, as if the world were a secret joke that only he was clever enough to understand. Robbxy seemed to admire Theonxy and enjoy his company, but Branxy had never warmed to his father’s ward.
Robbxy rode closer. “You are doing well, Branxy.”
“I want to go faster,” Branxy replied.
Robbxy smiled. “As you will.” He sent his gelding into a trot. The wolves raced after him. Branxy snapped the reins sharply, and Dancerxy picked up her pace. He heard a shout from Theonxy Greyjoyxyxy, and the hoofbeats of the other horses behind him.
Branxy’s cloak billowed out, rippling in the wind, and the snow seemed to rush at his face. Robbxy was well ahead, glancing back over his shoulder from time to time to make sure Branxy and the others were following. He snapped the reins again. Smooth as silk, Dancerxy slid into a gallop. The distance closed. By the time he caught Robbxy on the edge of the wolfswood, two miles beyond the winter town, they had left the others well behind. “I can ride!” Branxy shouted, grinning. It felt almost as good as flying.
“I’d race you, but I fear you’d win.” Robbxy’s tone was light and joking, yet Branxy could tell that something was troubling his brother underneath the smile.
“I don’t want to race.” Branxy looked around for the direwolves. Both had vanished into the wood. “Did you hear Summerxy howling last night?”
“Grey Windxy was restless too,” Robbxy said. His auburn hair had grown shaggy and unkempt, and a reddish stubble covered his jaw, making him look older than his fifteen years. “Sometimes I think they know things … sense things …” Robbxy sighed. “I never know how much to tell you, Branxy. I wish you were older.”
“I’m eight now!” Branxy said. “Eight isn’t so much younger than fifteen, and I’m the heir to Winterfellxy, after you.”
“So you are.” Robbxy sounded sad, and even a little scared. “Branxy, I need to tell you something. There was a bird last night. From Kingxy’s Landingxy. Maesterxy Luwinxyxy woke me.”
Branxy felt a sudden dread. Dark wings, dark words, Old Nanxy always said, and of late the messenger ravens had been proving the truth of the proverb. When Robbxy wrote to the Lordxy Commanderxy of the Night’s Watchxyxy, the bird that came back brought word that Uncle Benjenxy was still missing. Then a message had arrived from the Eyriexy, from Motherxy, but that had not been good news either. She did not say when she meant to return, only that she had taken the Imp as prisoner. Branxy had sort of liked the little man, yet the name Lannisterxy sent cold fingers creeping up his spine. There was something about the Lannistersxy, something he ought to remember, but when he tried to think what, he felt dizzy and his stomach clenched hard as a stone. Robbxy spent most of that day locked behind closed doors with Maesterxy Luwinxyxy, Theonxy Greyjoyxyxy, and Hallis Mollenxy. Afterward, riders were sent out on fast horses, carrying Robbxy’s commands throughout the north. Branxy heard talk of Moat Cailinxy, the ancient stronghold the First Menxy had built at the top of the Neckxy. No one ever told him what was happening, yet he knew it was not good.
And now another raven, another message. Branxy clung to hope. “Was the bird from Motherxy? Is she coming home?”
“The message was from Alynxy in Kingxy’s Landingxy. Joryxy Casselxyxy is dead. And Wylxy and Hewardxy as well. Murdered by the Kingslayer.” Robbxy lifted his face to the snow, and the flakes melted on his cheeks. “May the gods give them rest.”
Branxy did not know what to say. He felt as if he’d been punched. Joryxy had been captain of the household guard at Winterfellxy since before Branxy was born. “They killed Joryxy?” He remembered all the times Joryxy had chased him over the roofs. He could picture him striding across the yard in mail and plate, or sitting at his accustomed place on the bench in the Great Hall, joking as he ate. “Why would anyone kill Joryxy?”
Robbxy shook his head numbly, the pain plain in his eyes. “I don’t know, and … Branxy, that’s not the worst of it. Fatherxy was caught beneath a falling horse in the fight. Alynxy says his leg was shattered, and … Maesterxy Pycellexy has given him the milk of the poppy, but they aren’t sure when … when he …” The sound of hoofbeats made him glance down the road, to where Theonxy and the others were coming up. “When he will wake,” Robbxy finished. He laid his hand on the pommel of his sword then, and went on in the solemn voice of Robbxy the Lordxy. “Branxy, I promise you, whatever might happen, I will not let this be forgotten.”
Something in his tone made Branxy even more fearful. “What will you do?” he asked as Theonxy Greyjoyxyxy reined in beside them.
“Theonxy thinks I should call the banners,” Robbxy said.
“Bloodxy for blood.” For once Greyjoyxy did not smile. His lean, dark face had a hungry look to it, and black hair fell down across his eyes.
“Only the lord can call the banners,” Branxy said as the snow drifted down around them.
“If your father dies,” Theonxy said, “Robbxy will be Lordxy of Winterfellxyxy.”
“He won’t die!” Branxy screamed at him.
Robbxy took his hand. “He won’t die, not Fatherxy,” he said calmly. “Still … the honor of the north is in my hands now. When our lord father took his leave of us, he told me to be strong for you and for Rickonxy. I’m almost a man grown, Branxy.”
Branxy shivered. “I wish Motherxy was back,” he said miserably. He looked around for Maesterxy Luwinxyxy; his donkey was visible in the far distance, trotting over a rise. “Does Maesterxy Luwinxyxy say to call the banners too?”
“The maester is timid as an old woman,” said Theonxy.
“Fatherxy always listened to his counsel,” Branxy reminded his brother. “Motherxy too.”
“I listen to him,” Robbxy insisted. “I listen to everyone.”
The joy Branxy had felt at the ride was gone, melted away like the snowflakes on his face. Not so long ago, the thought of Robbxy calling the banners and riding off to war would have filled him with excitement, but now he felt only dread. “Can we go back now?” he asked. “I’m cold.”
Robbxy glanced around. “We need to find the wolves. Can you stand to go a bit longer?”
“I can go as long as you can.” Maesterxy Luwinxyxy had warned him to keep the ride short, for fear of saddle sores, but Branxy would not admit to weakness in front of his brother. He was sick of the way everyone was always fussing over him and asking how he was.
“Let’s hunt down the hunters, then,” Robbxy said. Side by side, they urged their mounts off the kingsroad and struck out into the wolfswood. Theonxy dropped back and followed well behind them, talking and joking with the guardsmen.
It was nice under the trees. Branxy kept Dancerxy to a walk, holding the reins lightly and looking all around him as they went. He knew this wood, but he had been so long confined to Winterfellxy that he felt as though he were seeing it for the first time. The smells filled his nostrils; the sharp fresh tang of pine needles, the earthy odor of wet rotting leaves, the hints of animal musk and distant cooking fires. He caught a glimpse of a black squirrel moving through the snow-covered branches of an oak, and paused to study the silvery web of an empress spider.
Theonxy and the others fell farther and farther behind, until Branxy could no longer hear their voices. From ahead came the faint sound of rushing waters. It grew louder until they reached the stream. Tears stung his eyes.
“Branxy?” Robbxy asked. “What’s wrong?”
Branxy shook his head. “I was just remembering,” he said. “Joryxy brought us here once, to fish for trout. You and me and Jon. Do you remember?”
“I remember,” Robbxy said, his voice quiet and sad.
“I didn’t catch anything,” Branxy said, “but Jon gave me his fish on the way back to Winterfellxy. Willxy we ever see Jon again?”
“We saw Uncle Benjenxy when the king came to visit,” Robbxy pointed out. “Jon will visit too, you’ll see.”
The stream was running high and fast. Robbxy dismounted and led his gelding across the ford. In the deepest part of the crossing, the water came up to midthigh. He tied his horse to a tree on the far side, and waded back across for Branxy and Dancerxy. The current foamed around rock and root, and Branxy could feel the spray on his face as Robbxy led him over. It made him smile. For a moment he felt strong again, and whole. He looked up at the trees and dreamed of climbing them, right up to the very top, with the whole forest spread out beneath him.
They were on the far side when they heard the howl, a long rising wail that moved through the trees like a cold wind. Branxy raised his head to listen. “Summerxy,” he said. No sooner had he spoken than a second voice joined the first.
“They’ve made a kill,” Robbxy said as he remounted, “I’d best go and bring them back. Wait here, Theonxy and the others should be along shortly.”
“I want to go with you,” Branxy said.
“I’ll find them faster by myself.” Robbxy spurred his gelding and vanished into the trees.
Once he was gone, the woods seemed to close in around Branxy. The snow was falling more heavily now. Where it touched the ground it melted, but all about him rock and root and branch wore a thin blanket of white. As he waited, he was conscious of how uncomfortable he felt. He could not feel his legs, hanging useless in the stirrups, but the strap around his chest was tight and chafing, and the melting snow had soaked through his gloves to chill his hands. He wondered what was keeping Theonxy and Maesterxy Luwinxyxy and Josethxy and the rest.
When he heard the rustle of leaves, Branxy used the reins to make Dancerxy turn, expecting to see his friends, but the ragged men who stepped out onto the bank of the stream were strangers.
“Good day to you,” he said nervously. One look, and Branxy knew they were neither foresters nor farmers. He was suddenly conscious of how richly he was dressed. His surcoat was new, dark grey wool with silver buttons, and a heavy silver pin fastened his fur-trimmed cloak at the shoulders. His boots and gloves were lined with fur as well.
“All alone, are you?” said the biggest of them, a bald man with a raw windburnt face. “Lost in the wolfswood, poor lad.”
“I’m not lost.” Branxy did not like the way the strangers were looking at him. He counted four, but when he turned his head, he saw two others behind him. “My brother rode off just a moment ago, and my guard will be here shortly.”
“Your guard, is it?” a second man said. Grey stubble covered his gaunt face. “And what would they be guarding, my little lord? Is that a silver pin I see there on your cloak?”
“Pretty,” said a woman’s voice. She scarcely looked like a woman; tall and lean, with the same hard face as the others, her hair hidden beneath a bowl-shaped halfhelm. The spear she held was eight feet of black oak, tipped in rusted steel.
“Let’s have a look,” said the big bald man.
Branxy watched him anxiously. The man’s clothes were filthy, fallen almost to pieces, patched here with brown and here with blue and there with a dark green, and faded everywhere to grey, but once that cloak might have been black. The grey stubbly man wore black rags too, he saw with a sudden start. Suddenly Branxy remembered the oathbreaker his father had beheaded, the day they had found the wolf pups; that man had worn black as well, and Fatherxy said he had been a deserter from the Night’s Watchxy. No man is more dangerous, he remembered Lordxy Eddardxy saying. The deserter knows his life is forfeit if he is taken, so he will not flinch from any crime, no matter how vile or cruel.
“The pin, lad,” the big man said. He held out his hand.
“We’ll take the horse too,” said another of them, a woman shorter than Robbxy, with a broad flat face and lank yellow hair. “Get down, and be quick about it.” A knife slid from her sleeve into her hand, its edge jagged as a saw.
“No,” Branxy blurted. “I can’t …”
The big man grabbed his reins before Branxy could think to wheel Dancerxy around and gallop off. “You can, lordling … and will, if you know what’s good for you.”
“Stivxy, look how he’s strapped on.” The tall woman pointed with her spear. “Might be it’s the truth he’s telling.”
“Straps, is it?” Stivxy said. He drew a dagger from a sheath at his belt. “There’s ways to deal with straps.”
“You some kind of cripple?” asked the short woman.
Branxy flared. “I’m Brandon Starkxyxy of Winterfellxy, and you better let go of my horse, or I’ll see you all dead.”
The gaunt man with the grey stubbled face laughed. “The boy’s a Starkxy, true enough. Only a Starkxy would be fool enough to threaten where smarter men would beg.”
“Cut his little cock off and stuff it in his mouth,” suggested the short woman. “That should shut him up.”
“You’re as stupid as you are ugly, Halixy,” said the tall woman. “The boy’s worth nothing dead, but alive … gods be damned, think what Mancexy would give to have Benjenxy Starkxyxy’s own blood to hostage!”
“Mancexy be damned,” the big man cursed. “You want to go back there, Oshaxy? More fool you. Think the white walkers will care if you have a hostage?” He turned back to Branxy and slashed at the strap around his thigh. The leather parted with a sigh.
The stroke had been quick and careless, biting deep. Looking down, Branxy glimpsed pale flesh where the wool of his leggings had parted. Then the blood began to flow. He watched the red stain spread, feeling light-headed, curiously apart; there had been no pain, not even a hint of feeling. The big man grunted in surprise.
“Put down your steel now, and I promise you shall have a quick and painless death,” Robbxy called out.
Branxy looked up in desperate hope, and there he was. The strength of the words were undercut by the way his voice cracked with strain. He was mounted, the bloody carcass of an elk slung across the back of his horse, his sword in a gloved hand.
“The brother,” said the man with the grey stubbly face.
“He’s a fierce one, he is,” mocked the short woman. Halixy, they called her. “You mean to fight us, boy?”
“Don’t be a fool, lad. You’re one against six.” The tall woman, Oshaxy, leveled her spear. “Off the horse, and throw down the sword. We’ll thank you kindly for the mount and for the venison, and you and your brother can be on your way.”
Robbxy whistled. They heard the faint sound of soft feet on wet leaves. The undergrowth parted, low-hanging branches giving up their accumulation of snow, and Grey Windxy and Summerxy emerged from the green. Summerxy sniffed the air and growled.
“Wolves,” gasped Halixy.
“Direwolvesxy,” Branxy said. Still half-grown, they were as large as any wolf he had ever seen, but the differences were easy to spot, if you knew what to look for. Maesterxy Luwinxyxy and Farlenxy the kennelmaster had taught him. A direwolf had a bigger head and longer legs in proportion to its body, and its snout and jaw were markedly leaner and more pronounced. There was something gaunt and terrible about them as they stood there amid the gently falling snow. Fresh blood spotted Grey Windxy’s muzzle.
“Dogs,” the big bald man said contemptuously. “Yet I’m told there’s nothing like a wolfskin cloak to warm a man by night.” He made a sharp gesture. “Take them.”
Robbxy shouted, “Winterfellxy!” and kicked his horse. The gelding plunged down the bank as the ragged men closed. A man with an axe rushed in, shouting and heedless. Robbxy’s sword caught him full in the face with a sickening crunch and a spray of bright blood. The man with the gaunt stubbly face made a grab for the reins, and for half a second he had them … and then Grey Windxy was on him, bearing him down. He fell back into the stream with a splash and a shout, flailing wildly with his knife as his head went under. The direwolf plunged in after him, and the white water turned red where they had vanished.
Robbxy and Oshaxy matched blows in midstream. Her long spear was a steel-headed serpent, flashing out at his chest, once, twice, three times, but Robbxy parried every thrust with his longsword, turning the point aside. On the fourth or fifth thrust, the tall woman overextended herself and lost her balance, just for a second. Robbxy charged, riding her down.
A few feet away, Summerxy darted in and snapped at Halixy. The knife bit at his flank. Summerxy slid away, snarling, and came rushing in again. This time his jaws closed around her calf. Holding the knife with both hands, the small woman stabbed down, but the direwolf seemed to sense the blade coming. He pulled free for an instant, his mouth full of leather and cloth and bloody flesh. When Halixy stumbled and fell, he came at her again, slamming her backward, teeth tearing at her belly.
The sixth man ran from the carnage … but not far. As he went scrambling up the far side of the bank, Grey Windxy emerged from the stream, dripping wet. He shook the water off and bounded after the running man, hamstringing him with a single snap of his teeth, and going for the throat as the screaming man slid back down toward the water.
And then there was no one left but the big man, Stivxy. He slashed at Branxy’s chest strap, grabbed his arm, and yanked. Suddenly Branxy was falling. He sprawled on the ground, his legs tangled under him, one foot in the stream. He could not feel the cold of the water, but he felt the steel when Stivxy pressed his dagger to his throat. “Back away,” the man warned, “or I’ll open the boy’s windpipe, I swear it.”
Robbxy reined his horse in, breathing hard. The fury went out of his eyes, and his sword arm dropped.
In that moment Branxy saw everything. Summerxy was savaging Halixy, pulling glistening blue snakes from her belly. Her eyes were wide and staring. Branxy could not tell whether she was alive or dead. The grey stubbly man and the one with the axe lay unmoving, but Oshaxy was on her knees, crawling toward her fallen spear. Grey Windxy padded toward her, dripping wet. “Call him off!” the big man shouted. “Call them both off, or the cripple boy dies now!”
“Grey Windxy, Summerxy, to me,” Robbxy said.
The direwolves stopped, turned their heads. Grey Windxy loped back to Robbxy. Summerxy stayed where he was, his eyes on Branxy and the man beside him. He growled. His muzzle was wet and red, but his eyes burned.
Oshaxy used the butt end of her spear to lever herself back to her feet. Bloodxy leaked from a wound on the upper arm where Robbxy had cut her. Branxy could see sweat trickling down the big man’s face. Stivxy was as scared as he was, he realized. “Starks,” the man muttered, “bloody Starks.” He raised his voice. “Oshaxy, kill the wolves and get his sword.”
“Kill them yourself,” she replied. “I’ll not be getting near those monsters.”
For a moment Stivxy was at a loss. His hand trembled; Branxy felt a trickle of blood where the knife pressed against his neck. The stench of the man filled his nose; he smelled of fear. “You,” he called out to Robbxy. “You have a name?”
“I am Robbxy Starkxyxy, the heir to Winterfellxy.”
“This is your brother?”
“Yes.”
“You want him alive, you do what I say. Off the horse.”
Robbxy hesitated a moment. Then, slowly and deliberately, he dismounted and stood with his sword in hand.
“Now kill the wolves.”
Robbxy did not move.
“You do it. The wolves or the boy.”
“No!” Branxy screamed. If Robbxy did as they asked, Stivxy would kill them both anyway, once the direwolves were dead.
The bald man took hold of his hair with his free hand and twisted it cruelly, till Branxy sobbed in pain. “You shut your mouth, cripple, you hear me?” He twisted harder. “You hear me?”
A low thrum came from the woods behind them. Stivxy gave a choked gasp as a half foot of razor-tipped broadhead suddenly exploded out of his chest. The arrow was bright red, as if it had been painted in blood.
The dagger fell away from Branxy’s throat. The big man swayed and collapsed, facedown in the stream. The arrow broke beneath him. Branxy watched his life go swirling off in the water.
Oshaxy glanced around as Fatherxy’s guardsmen appeared from beneath the trees, steel in hand. She threw down her spear. “Mercyxy, m’lord,” she called to Robbxy.
The guardsmen had a strange, pale look to their faces as they took in the scene of slaughter. They eyed the wolves uncertainly, and when Summerxy returned to Halixy’s corpse to feed, Josethxy dropped his knife and scrambled for the bush, heaving. Even Maesterxy Luwinxyxy seemed shocked as he stepped from behind a tree, but only for an instant. Then he shook his head and waded across the stream to Branxy’s side. “Are you hurt?”
“He cut my leg,” Branxy said, “but I couldn’t feel it.”
As the maester knelt to examine the wound, Branxy turned his head. Theonxy Greyjoyxyxy stood beside a sentinel tree, his bow in hand. He was smiling. Ever smiling. A half-dozen arrows were thrust into the soft ground at his feet, but it had taken only one. “A dead enemy is a thing of beauty,” he announced.
“Jon always said you were an ass, Greyjoyxy,” Robbxy said loudly. “I ought to chain you up in the yard and let Branxy take a few practice shots at you.”
“You should be thanking me for saving your brother’s life.”
“What if you had missed the shot?” Robbxy said. “What if you’d only wounded him? What if you had made his hand jump, or hit Branxy instead? For all you knew, the man might have been wearing a breastplate, all you could see was the back of his cloak. What would have happened to my brother then? Did you ever think of that, Greyjoyxy?”
Theonxy’s smile was gone. He gave a sullen shrug and began to pull his arrows from the ground, one by one.
Robbxy glared at his guardsmen. “Where were you?” he demanded of them. “I was sure you were close behind us.”
The men traded unhappy glances. “We were following, m’lord,” said Quentxy, the youngest of them, his beard a soft brown fuzz. “Only first we waited for Maesterxy Luwinxyxy and his ass, begging your pardons, and then, well, as it were …” He glanced over at Theonxy and quickly looked away, abashed.
“I spied a turkey,” Theonxy said, annoyed by the question. “How was I to know that you’d leave the boy alone?”
Robbxy turned his head to look at Theonxy once more. Branxy had never seen him so angry, yet he said nothing. Finally he knelt beside Maesterxy Luwinxyxy. “How badly is my brother wounded?”
“No more than a scratch,” the maester said. He wet a cloth in the stream to clean the cut. “Two of them wear the black,” he told Robbxy as he worked.
Robbxy glanced over at where Stivxy lay sprawled in the stream, his ragged black cloak moving fitfully as the rushing waters tugged at it. “Deserters from the Night’s Watchxy,” he said grimly. “They must have been fools, to come so close to Winterfellxy.”
“Follyxy and desperation are ofttimes hard to tell apart,” said Maesterxy Luwinxyxy.
“Shall we bury them, m’lord?” asked Quentxy.
“They would not have buried us,” Robbxy said. “Hack off their heads, we’ll send them back to the Wallxy. Leave the rest for the carrion crows.”
“And this one?” Quentxy jerked a thumb toward Oshaxy.
Robbxy walked over to her. She was a head taller than he was, but she dropped to her knees at his approach. “Give me my life, m’lord of Starkxy, and I am yours.”
“Mine? What would I do with an oathbreaker?”
“I broke no oaths. Stivxy and Wallenxy flew down off the Wallxy, not me. The black crows got no place for women.”
Theonxy Greyjoyxyxy sauntered closer. “Give her to the wolves,” he urged Robbxy. The woman’s eyes went to what was left of Halixy, and just as quickly away. She shuddered. Even the guardsmen looked queasy.
“She’s a woman,” Robbxy said.
“A wildling,” Branxy told him. “She said they should keep me alive so they could take me to Mancexy Rayderxy.”
“Do you have a name?” Robbxy asked her.
“Oshaxy, as it please the lord,” she muttered sourly.
Maesterxy Luwinxyxy stood. “We might do well to question her.”
Branxy could see the relief on his brother’s face. “As you say, Maesterxy. Waynxy, bind her hands. She’ll come back to Winterfellxy with us … and live or die by the truths she gives us.”