Chapter 16 — "Settlement"
The Blackfish looked at the table for a long moment.
He thought about the report. About what was in it and what wasn't. About Ser Aldric and Harys Stone looking at the table. About the garrison soldiers he had passed in the yard standing on the walls watching a column of Painted Dog families walk through the Bloody Gate in silence.
He looked up.
"Where do you put them," he said.
The question that had been sitting in the room since the column came through the gate expressed in five words.
Alaric didn't hesitate.
"Lord Edwyn Starke's territory," he said. "His land near the Gate runs into the lower mountain approaches. Rough ground. Hard winters. Low population — not enough people to work it and not enough fighters to hold the outer approaches without pulling from Gate rotations." He paused. "The Painted Dogs have survived in conditions harder than anything in Edwyn's territory for generations. They know mountain terrain, mountain weather, mountain survival. What kills us settlers is ordinary life to them."
The Blackfish said nothing.
"Edwyn needs the bodies," Alaric continued. "The Gate needs rangers who know the passes from the inside rather than from a map. The Painted Dogs need ground that isn't under another clan's claim." A pause. "Nobody is doing anyone a favour. Every party gets something they needed before this conversation started."
The Blackfish looked at him for a long moment.
"You've have a good head on you," he said.
Alaric said nothing and just shrugged.
Something shifted in the Blackfish's expression. Not surprise. The recalibration of a man who had already revised his estimate once today and was revising it again.
"Lord Edwyn may have opinions about Painted Dog fighters settling on his land," he said.
"He will," Alaric said. "He'll listen to the argument."
"You sound certain of that."
"He fostered me for two years," Alaric said. "He's a practical man. This is a practical argument. This will also benefit him and his lands."
The Blackfish leaned back.
He had known Edwyn Starke for fifteen years. Corresponded many times . The man's qualities were clear to anyone who paid attention — chief among them a practicality that cut through sentiment the way mountain cold cut through inadequate gear.
This was a practical argument.
A fifteen year old Northern lad had walked into the Vale mess and come back with the solution to a clan problem the Vale had been managing badly for decades.
The Blackfish filed that alongside everything else he was filing today.
"I'll write to Edwyn," he said. "Land agreements take time. Arrangements take time. Until Edwyn's response arrives the Painted Dogs remain inside the Gate."
He looked at Alaric directly. "Which means you are responsible for them while they're here. They came through the Gate because of you. They behave because of you. If one of those fighters does something that requires me to explain it to Jon Arryn the explanation comes from you first."
"Understood."
"The families," the Blackfish said. "The children. They came here in good faith. They are not prisoners. They are not curiosities."
He paused. "Make sure your men understand that."
"They already do, you don't need to worry about that. Though some other men may not understand that. But I will take care of it." Alaric said.
The Blackfish looked at him.
"Yes," he said quietly. "I expect you do. You being a trouble maker around here is quite famous."
He picked up his quill.
Alaric stood.
"Snow."
He stopped.
The Blackfish didn't look up from the parchment.
"Get those wounds seen to," he said. "You're no use to me dead from infection."
A pause.
"Ser," Alaric said.
He left.
In the corridor Harys was leaning against the wall where Alaric had known he would be.
"Well," Harys said.
" Lord Edwyn's territory," Alaric said. "It would be a heavy load of work but beneficial also."
Harys was quiet for a moment.
"You have planned things out . Good." he said.
Alaric walked toward the yard.
Harys watched him go.
Shook his head once.
Followed.
The yard had settled into its new shape.
Painted Dog fighters near the inner wall. Garrison soldiers keeping their distance but keeping their eyes. The families in the eastern barracks — a few children visible in the doorway looking out at the unfamiliar world of the lowlands with the wide open faces of people who hadn't yet learned which things were supposed to frighten them.
The senior clan fighter — the last man to kneel on the ridge — was sitting apart from the rest. Watching the gate. Watching the arrow loops in the cliff above where Vale soldiers had been watching his people come through.
He looked at Alaric when Alaric crossed the yard.
Their eyes met.
The man nodded once.
Alaric nodded back.
Kept walking.
In the command room the Blackfish sat alone with two blank pieces of parchment.
The letter to Lord Edwyn Starke first. The practical one. A proposal. A land assessment request. The language of men who understood that the unglamorous work after a campaign determined whether the campaign meant anything.
The letter to Jon Arryn was the other one.
He had written to Jon Arryn for years now. Good news and bad news and everything between. He had never written one quite like this.
He picked up the quill.
Started with Edwyn.
Jon Arryn could wait one more day.
Some letters needed more than one attempt to say what they were actually trying to say. And some men needed more than one attempt to decide how much they wanted the people in power to know about what was living inside their walls.
He looked at the window.
At the yard below.
At the space where Alaric Snow had been.
He turned back to the parchment.
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