The embers had nearly gone out. Ser Alton Gyles was poking at the coals with a stick he had found at the base of a tree. The others were busy getting breakfast ready over what heat remained. Three rabbits and a handful of roots to share between them. Kael was starving — the past days had offered nothing in the way of good food, nor filling food either. They had been seven days on the road, and the mood had not improved since they left.
Ser Harlon sat down beside him on a fallen trunk, drawing a whetstone along the edge of his short knife.
"Do you think he'll come? The King."
"I hope so," Kael answered. "Otherwise we're in serious trouble."
Hugh lifted the rabbit meat over the fire, skewered on a sharpened stick. The smell of it moved through the air. The men watched their mouths watering as the flesh slowly reddened. The spit and crackle of it was music to their ears.
Ser Harlon put down the whetstone and began stripping the bark from a twig to sharpen it.
"Shall I build up the fire?" Ser Alton called over.
"No. We can't afford to draw attention."
Ser Harlon looked up, then glanced at the others — worn out and hungry.
"My lord, if I may. The men are exhausted and cold. A little warmth would go a long way toward getting their strength back. I know it's not entirely safe, and I know we're pressed for time — but it's better than freezing."
Kaelverion let out a breath, and allowed himself a small smile. He nodded.
Ser Alton and the others set about gathering what burnable, reasonably dry wood they could find.
"With any luck, we'll reach the meeting place by tomorrow," Kael said, with a short huff.
Ser Harlon nodded slowly.
"And then?"
"And then the gods know. Maybe the King has some task for me. Or maybe he simply wants to see me," Kael answered.
Though I doubt it.
Hugh leaned over the fire and breathed in deeply.
"Ahh!"
Chitt stepped closer, tore off a piece of the meat, and tasted it. A faint smile crossed his face.
"Still a bit tough, but not far off."
When supper was done, they settled in for the night. Ser Alton took the first watch.
Kael had a very strange dream. He was sparring with his half-brother, Maeron Snow, in the yard at Winterfell. They were children again — at least their bodies were.
"It's been a long time," Maeron said, slashing at the air with the sword in his hand.
Kaelverion gave a nod and a smile.
"Where have you been?"
"Here and there. But my road isn't over yet, and you know it."
"When will it be?" he pressed.
"When I've grown tired of the wandering life and the whores."
Kaelverion laughed and brought his sword down. Maeron parried. He tried to sweep Maeron's legs out from under him, but it didn't work.
"So never," Kael said.
"Or when the time comes," Maeron answered, straining to hold off his brother's blows.
"Do you remember that whore?" his half-brother went on. "What was her name?"
"Beth," Kaelverion said, with a grin.
"Beth! Gods, that woman. I've never met another one like her since. — Believe me, Essos is full of whores. Beth had a rare gift."
They both broke into laughter. The yard of Winterfell stood empty around them. Kael tried again to sweep Maeron's legs — and this time it worked. Maeron hit the ground with a great thud, a blade at his throat.
Kael reached down a hand to help him up.
"Still better than you."
Maeron smiled.
"But not smarter."
As Kaelverion stepped back, a loop of rope caught his ankle. It yanked him off his feet, and the next moment he was hanging upside down above the training ground, from the ceiling of the gallery overhead. Maeron started laughing. Kaelverion struggled to free himself — without success.
"Get me down!" he called to his brother.
"I'm sorry, little brother. It's time for me to go."
"No, wait!" Kael called after him.
His half-brother turned, and the light into which he stepped began to grow. Kaelverion could not stop it, no matter how he tried. The rope was too tight around his ankle.
"My lord!" — Ser Harlon's face greeted him as he opened his eyes. "Time we were moving."
It was already morning. The horses stood saddled a few feet from where the campfire had been.
Kaelverion nodded.
"We need to reach the place by nightfall," he told Ser Harlon.
They had been riding for several hours. The sun was out — by northern standards, at least. Then they heard it: a rumbling in the ground.
"Riders!" called one of the soldiers, spurring toward them.
Kaelverion had sent him ahead to the top of a rise that looked out over the valley cupped between the hills.
By the time everyone had their wits about them, they could already see the riders coming in the distance.
"Ser Alton, Chitt — mount up!" Ser Harlon shouted, already in the saddle. "The rest of you, take the spare horses behind us — keep them safe."
Kaelverion judged them to be southern soldiers at a glance. No banners. They didn't care who they attacked. They didn't care about houses. Their orders were to kill everyone they found — so they would. They would be particularly pleased to butcher this group, riding as they were beneath unmistakable Targaryen colours.
"I see them!" Ser Hugh called out.
Kaelverion raised a hand to shade his eyes and got a better look at the riders closing on them. A dozen horses, perhaps more — and there were only ten of them.
The soldier who had come down from the rise jumped from his horse, still breathing hard, almost at Kaelverion's feet.
"Eighteen, maybe twenty-two. If I saw right, these aren't common bandits. Some of them are wearing decent armour, and their horses have never pulled a plough. Could be scouts — outriders. They know we're here."
Vayon was trying to get his breastplate on.
"You — come here!" one of them shouted at Shadd. "Help me with this damned thing!"
Kaelverion swung up into the saddle, drew Winterflame, and rode to join Ser Harlon and the others.
"You lot, stay back! They won't be on horseback for long."
Ser Hugh was still fiddling with his helmet. A slot had been cut into the visor so he could see properly. A blue feather stood from the top of it.
There was no warning. No banner, no herald. A trumpet call or a drum would have been a courtesy they did not bother with. Only the snap of bowstrings and the hiss of arrows, mixed with the thunder of hooves and the roar of men shouting to frighten their enemies.
Some of the attackers wore fine, well-kept armour; others wore nothing but scraps of leather. Their faces were hidden behind chainmail coifs. Gloved hands gripped axes, scythes, spears, short swords. At the head of the group rode a huge man in the finest armour of all, a great sword in his hand carved with ancient patterns.
When the two groups met, the air filled with the screams of frightened horses, the metallic ring of steel, and the hiss of arrows. Chitt drove his sword through one of the leather-clad men from belly to chin. Ser Harlon crashed into two men in chainmail. Their horses screamed at the impact.
Kael found himself suddenly face to face with the great armoured man and his stallion. Their horses circled each other. Shadd vaulted onto a horse and swept through the bandits, cutting left and right. The smell of blood came quickly. As Shadd rode past the big man, he landed a solid blow — but misjudged it, and struck the horse instead. The horse screamed and collapsed, pinning the man beneath it. Only his upper body was visible. Then an arrow found his throat, blood spurting forward — and the life went out of his eyes.
Kael leapt from his horse, and a spiked mace swung past his head. He disarmed the man with a few hard strikes, then drove his sword through his chest.
Things began to blur even for the battle-hardened Kaelverion. Arrows whipped past him and clattered off rocks. He heard screaming, the cry of horses, men shouting. He saw Ser Harlon gutting a man. Two fighters had surrounded Chitt. Kael came at them from behind. He caught one above the thigh — a single clean stroke separated his left leg from the rest of him. The man fell, screaming. The other blocked Kael's blow and struck back — Kael ducked, then drove Winterflame into his stomach. When the man tried to come again, Chitt caught him and opened his throat.
Kael looked around. The fight was over. Every one of them was down. The soldiers started to cheer — he did not. When they saw that Kaelverion was not sharing in the celebration, they fell quiet. Ser Alton lay on the ground before him. He knelt and took the dying man in his arms. He watched the life leave his face.
"How many did we lose?"
"Four, my lord," Ser Harlon answered.
Kaelverion got to his feet and looked around. There were not many of them left — and those who remained were spent.
"We bury them," Kael said firmly.
"My lord, that wouldn't be wise. More could come from wherever these ones came from. No one knows who saw us. There could be a party headed our way right now — we wouldn't survive another fight like this."
However much it galled him, Kaelverion had to admit the man was right.
"Then at least we raise cairns for them," he said. "Everyone carry what they can."
At the stream he crouched and plunged his hands into the ice-cold water, scrubbing at them. The blood had dried and stuck. The water washed it away as if it had never been. When he came back he took a long last look at the men they had lost and at the cairns above them. Then he looked at the enemy — a quarter of them in proper armour, the rest in mismatched leather, chainmail and rough coats, their weapons barely worth speaking of.
Why don't they arm them better? he thought.
The sun was already low when they spotted the light in the abandoned watchtower. The words from Cregan's letter came back to him: "The wind still cuts through the gaps in those old abandoned walls the same as it did the night we found no trail at all — only Storm."
Alongside the grief, a small warmth came — he would see the man who had raised him as a son since boyhood, in place of a father.
"The tower!" Shadd called out.
"At last," Ser Harlon added quietly.
He could make out about a dozen horses. When they arrived, the King, the Warden of the winter— Ser Duncan Earthen — with his men, and the Prince were all waiting at the foot of the tower that loomed above them. Kaelverion dismounted with a smile, and everyone in his company went to one knee. The King waved them up with a firm gesture.
"You've lost weight," he greeted the King.
"And you've got old," Cregan Stark shot back, and the laughter broke out among all of them.
He embraced Cregan, then went to the Prince — the brother he had never had by blood — and they held each other.
"You've filled out," the Prince said.
Three men from the Warden of the Winter's company had come, along with seven of Winterfell's finest soldiers.
"I hoped you'd come," the King said.
"So did I," Kael answered.
When the greetings and the handshakes and the embraces were done, they went inside the tower to talk through the reason for the meeting. They settled around a fire that had been coaxed back to life, while the soldiers kept watch outside.
"What is it, Your Grace? What has happened?"
The King let out a long breath.
"A great deal," he began. "The southerners are moving, Kael. The real war may only be starting now. I have done everything I could to avoid it, but…"
"But… there's something else, isn't there?"
"There is… The North is not what it was. One of the houses is selling information to the Thief King."
"But that's not why you called me here," Kael said, coming to it.
"No… There is something I need you to do. House Baratheon and House Arryn are planning a match — they mean to wed the girl whom much of the south considers the rightful queen to the Arryn heir, and so create the strongest alliance in the south. This serves the North's interests, in part. The Vale, the Stormlands, part of the Riverlands, Dorne — all of them together could finish the Thief King, which would end the raiding in the North. The betrothal is to take place at Winterfell."
Kaelverion could not believe what he was hearing. He thought for a moment that he was still dreaming.
"But… Winterfell?" Kael said. "Your Grace, the North must stay out of this — that is the only way to keep things calm. The people are hungry. The raiding parties are killing the livestock, there isn't enough food, and winter is coming. We are not ready for a war."
"We have to be, Kael. If Westeros doesn't stand together, the Six Kingdoms will fall — and the North with them." He went on: "You will meet them at the Cerwyns and escort them to Winterfell. I'm asking you this, Kael — not as your king, but as your friend."
Kaelverion said nothing for a moment.
"When?"
"I don't know, but sooner than I would like," Cregan answered. "You'll ride with me to Winterfell, and there we'll put together your escort before you set out for the Arryns."
Kaelverion said nothing. He only nodded.
"I knew you wouldn't let me down, Kael."