Chương 34: The Melee Part Two

I woke to talons kneading my chest and a beak tugging, none too gently, at a loose curl of my hair. For a long, strange moment I was in two places at once — here, in my bed, furs heavy and warm around me, and there, high over the kingsroad south of Long Lake, the world spread out silver and black beneath wings that were not mine.

The last thing I remembered clearly from the night was the view from Hedwig's eyes: a long column moving by torchlight along the lakeshore road, Stark banners at its head, Jon's dark figure riding point, and behind them shapes far too large to be wagons, moving with that slow, rolling patience I had come to know well. I had meant to slip out of the bond properly, after setting Hedwig on the wind home, and take myself to bed like a sensible person.

Instead I had fallen asleep inside him somewhere over the Wolfswood, my body asleep in a chair by the fire. Hedwig, for his part, seemed to find this a personal insult. He nipped at my ear once more, then hopped back to the bedpost and fixed me with an offended stare.

"Aye, I know," I muttered, scrubbing a hand down my face, feeling the faint echo of wind still ghosting along arms that had been wings.

"You flew all night, and I half slept through it as you in a weak dream. You've made your point." But the message he shared had come through all the same, carried back with me out of the bond the way such things always were, more feeling than words: Jon would reach Winterfell this afternoon. Him, his escort, and the surprise he had gone to Long Lake to fetch would be coming on time for the last day of the Melee.

Today, Everything I had spent these last few weeks building toward — weeks of which, if I was honest, were sitting atop years of quieter work beneath it — came due today. I lay still a moment longer, letting the shape of the day settle over me, and found my thoughts drifting south the way they so often did in the grey hour before the castle fully woke as I thought of the missing presence.

Somewhere down in King's Landing, Father was doing exactly what I knew he would be doing, because I had watched him do it once before on a screen in another life. He would be pulling at the threads Jon Arryn had left behind — the ledgers, the visits to armorers and brothels, the fat old book of lineages with its quiet, damning litany of black-haired Baratheons. He was hunting for the truth, and I knew he would not like it, but I knew he would find it.

That was the difference no one in this world could see, and the one I could never explain: I wasn't bracing for some shapeless southern trouble. I knew the secret by name. I knew where it slept and what it would do when given power, and I knew — better than Father did, gods help me — how little time the North had to make itself ready before honor took him somewhere I couldn't bring him back from. Which was, in the end, the whole reason for the madness I had put together outside these walls.

To anyone looking at it plainly, the gathering was exactly what it claimed to be: a celebration. A Stark had been named Hand of the King for the first time in living memory, and the future wife to the king was set to be a Stark queen as well as a princess betrothed to Winterfell's heir. So every lord in the North had cause to come drink our ale and eat our stores and shout themselves hoarse at the fighting.

But if I only had a one-day tourney, it would have given me only one day of lords talking, drinking and standing shoulder to shoulder with one another, and I needed and wanted more than a day.

So I had stretched it into three full weeks — a rolling festival of melee bouts and wrestling matches running from morning to dusk, with archery contests scattered through each week to give the bowmen their pride, and, because this was the North and the North enjoys what it enjoys, arm-wrestling tables and slap-fight circles that had proven so absurdly popular I'd had to assign guards to keep the wagering civil.

The Umber men and household in particular had taken to the slap fights and lifting competitions with devotion. The true heart of it, though, was the daily melee. Not one grand crush of two hundred or so men battering each other senseless for a single afternoon, but a tournament every day, open to any man who cared to enter — knights, men-at-arms, household guards, clansmen, second sons with more ambition than land.

Most entered only a day or two in a row before their bodies demanded rest, which was by design; bruises and cracked ribs need time, and I wanted these men bonding over shared ale and shared aches, not nursing grudges over torn shoulders. And bond together they had. Weeks of fighting each other by day and drinking together by night, Manderly men-at-arms learning mountain-clan wrestling holds and everyone, losing money to the Umbers at the slap tables — it had done exactly what I had built it to do.

Somewhere in those crowded fields, an army was quietly learning each other's names before it ever learned it was an army. Each evening I gave a short speech after the day's final bout, crowning the day's melee victor before the crowd, and each victor ate at my table that night. That habit I had taken straight from Father — he'd always kept a place at his table for a different member of the household, a servant one night and a guardsman the next, and I had kept the custom at my own lunches since he rode south.

Extending it to the tourney had seemed only natural, and it had repaid me tenfold. Over almost three weeks of suppers I had taken the measure of near two dozen of the finest fighting men in the North — their tempers, their wits, how they held their drink and how they spoke of the men they'd beaten. Some were merely strong. But more than a few had the makings of captains, and when the army that didn't yet know it was an army finally learned what it was, I would already know which men could lead and who could not.

I'd pushed Theon toward the same work in his own way, and Jon before he left — a jest here, a shared table there, faces learned and remembered for it, would all matter, later. And today the Melee would come to its peak, because today, the last day of the melee, I would finally enter it myself. I had been hesitant to join the tournament these past few weeks, not because my days were too busy. Instead, the waiting itself was the challenge.

Now, however, most of the great lords had arrived, and the fields were as crowded as they would ever be. Three weeks of conversation and drinking in Winterfell had accomplished what I had hoped for. Almost every man had heard the rumors—about the snow owl I kept, the family's direwolves, the scar on my cheek and the Free Folk chieftain who had given it to me, and the duel with the Kingslayer that those who witnessed it swore was something out of a song, despite it being just a spar.

Half of the North had spent a fortnight asking whether I would fight at my own tournament, and the longer I waited, the more the talk grew. Let them ask. Let them crowd the rails and the melee grounds today, hoping to see it for themselves when it was time. I would compete today. When the moment came, I wanted every eye in that field already focused on me.

The speech I would give tonight would be one of my most important, and the surprise I had planned near the end needed to hit at just the right time—on a crowd that was full of morale and wonder, reminiscing about Northern traditions and history, with nostalgia fresh in their minds about what a Stark and the North could achieve. I rose, dressed, and gave Hedwig a strip of dried venison he had thoroughly earned.

He took it with the dignity of a king accepting overdue tribute, and I left him to his sulk and eat on his perch as I left. The godswood was empty at that hour, as it usually was, which was one of the reasons I had made a habit of it. Mist hung between the trees, and the heart tree's carved face wept its red sap in the stillness the way it had for a few thousand years before me and would, if I did my work well, for a few thousand after.

I knelt on the cold ground before it, Grey Wind settling at my side with a huff, and let the quiet take hold. I still couldn't honestly say what I believed—two years in this world had shown me things that no rational person from my old life could easily dismiss. There was the bond humming in the back of my mind that allowed me to ride on the wings of an owl; a child of the forest, reborn from a dying root, who had named itself Change, and I, the reason, had also labeled me as blessed. Something was real here.

Something watched from behind those carved eyes, or perhaps through them. Whether it was gods as understood by men, old magic wearing a god's face, or something even stranger, I had stopped pretending that the question had an easy answer. So, each morning, I came and knelt. Part of it was for the lords and servants who noted the heir's devotion and spread word of it—I never lied to myself about that.

Yet a greater part of my reason was simply this: the stillness, the weight of the ancient presence in the grove, and the undeniable fact that whatever power stirred in this world's roots had given me a fantastical second chance. Courtesy alone would have compelled me to keep showing up with some effort and faith.

"Be with me today," I said quietly, in the Old Tongue, resting my palm against the pale bark.

"If any of what I have done and have planned pleases you, I will respect the nature and balance of the world, but I will not let the world forget the magic and wonder that rests here in the north or the first men who call it home with my honor as a Stark." And though I meant those words, part of me still wondered whether anything truly listened. The face wept on, and only Grey Wind's ears twitched toward the trees, though that was it.

By midmorning I was walking out through the east gate with Jory at my shoulder and Grey Wind pacing between us, the sounds of the tourney grounds reaching us before the sight of them did — a low, constant sea-roar of voices, punctuated by the crack of tourney steel and the crowd's rolling response to it. We passed Wylis leading two of the destriers stabled overnight in the castle back out toward the horse lines, each animal calm as a plow horse in his enormous hands. He gave me a wide grin as we passed each other.

I noticed it early on that Hodor was never Hodor in this world, so I left it at that, though I did have him start training with the guard while still performing his duties around the castle; even if he was not as skilled with a sword, his build and physique would make him an intimidating opponent for anyone. He could swing a heavy mace just as well as anyone else; he would just do much, much more damage with it. I had plans to make him one of my sworn shields before leaving and having him fully outfitted.

The tourney fields spread across the flat ground beyond Wintertown, a temporary town in their own right by now: fighting rings and the wrestling circles, rows of pavilions in multiple colors of all the houses, ale tents from our own storage and Wintertown making no little amount of money, and rails packed three-deep with smallfolk and soldiers alike.

"They know that you will be competing today, Robb; word went round the camp before dawn that you would participate for the last day. I'd wager there are men at those rails who've been holding their places since first light," Jory said.

"Good," I said, and meant it.

"Though you could at least pretend to be nervous," he said.

"It would be more seemly."

"I'll pretend to be nervous if you pretend to believe it." He gave a quick, short laugh at that, and we walked on through the growing press, men making way and calling greetings, more eyes on me with every step. They were waiting for me near the arming pavilion, as I'd hoped they might be. Arya reached me first, Nymeria at her heel, and delivered my luck in her usual fashion — an attempted punch to my ribs and a fierce "I know you won't, but still I will say it. Everyone's watching, so don't lose."

Dacey stood behind her with Wynafryd and Myrcella and Mother, who only asked I be careful. Myrcella came forward next, quieter. She had a ribbon in her hands — pale grey, Stark grey, which I suspected was no accident and suspected further that Wynafryd and Mother had helped her choose it — and she held it out with the grave, careful formality of a girl who had grown up watching tourneys in the South and knew precisely what the gesture meant in front of a crowd.

"For luck, Robb," she said.

"Though Arya and the rest say you won't need it."

"A wise man takes luck wherever it's offered, princess," I said, and knelt so she could tie it round my upper arm, which she did with great concentration while the nearest hundred onlookers made a low, appreciative noise that turned her ears pink. Behind her, Tyrion caught my eye and inclined his head while lifting a wine cup. Beside him, Domeric gave me a nod of his own, warm and entirely readable, already grinning like a man about to watch his friend do something he'd been waiting for him to do all along.

I donned my armor as I had planned: good mail and plate over padded leather, and an open-faced half helm that revealed my face, as I wanted the crowd to see me clearly. I carried a stiff round shield crafted by Mikken himself, iron-rimmed and one of many that our forges had been producing with the help of the other craftsmen from Wintertown. My dulled tourney axe was ready, its edges blunted but still maintaining the same familiar weight and balance that I relied on.

I chose not to carry a lance or a longsword, as I had never preferred them, even though my proficiency was the same as with an axe; I personally thought the axe offered superior striking power and armor penetration, and, though swords did provide greater agility, I would be fighting armored men more often than not, and with my extra strength, the axe became that much deadlier.

Also, the weapons I intended for my armored core contingent of Stark men-at-arms, whom I would equip with axes, shields, and javelins, would make replacing my most used weapons a non-problem if needed. After getting fully outfitted, I rolled my shoulders, took a deep breath, and let my mind go quiet, preparing for the many bouts to come. I knew no one on these grounds could defeat me—this awareness was not born of vanity, but from two years of training and the gifts bestowed upon me.

I had surpassed every limit that the world imposed on a normal body, except for those favored by other gods or the few individuals, like Jamie or Gregor Clegane, and the many other skilled legendary fighters who could easily best three or five men at once. But that was not the challenge I faced today. The true challenge was the day itself: winning bout after bout, hour after hour, without rushing or stalling, while captivating the crowd.

As far above them, Hedwig soared on the winds to the northeast, letting me know how long I needed to draw this out. I brushed the edge of the bond and felt Hedwig's lazy reassurance returning to me. The column was still on the lake road, hours away—time enough for what lay ahead. I fought my first bout before noon. Of the day's fighting, I can say this: I have never, in either of my lives, worked so hard at something to make it look effortless.

Bout after bout, they came — a knight from the Cerwyn household, quick and precise, but utterly unprepared for how hard a shield can hit back; a Glover man who fought intelligently and low; one of the polished men-at-arms from the Manderlys, whose beautiful footwork I complimented even as I took his legs out from under him. There was even one of the Greatjon's uncles, Mors Umber, who informed me that the Greatjon had told him about what came south of the Wall.

He also mentioned that, although he respected House Stark and me, he would never trust the wildlings after they kidnapped his daughter. The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation. So I let him take out his frustrations on my shield as I knew the story of his daughter lost in a raid, and after going back and forth with him for what I perceived to be ten minutes, allowing the crowd to cheer through each of those minutes before I ended it.

He had given me one last hard look while I helped him to his feet, but laughed harder than anyone when he got up and walked out of the ring to loud applause from the crowd. Between rounds, as the opponents thinned out faster than the sun, I did what I had told Jory I might: I began issuing challenges of my own. I called out the names of the day's and previous weeks' best-performing fighters, house by house, creating a spectacle.

It was reckless by any sane standard of a fighter's stamina, but that was precisely the point. Let them count the bouts. Let them see that the Stark heir had fought more matches in an afternoon than most men had fought in three weeks, never slowing, never staggering, and never once sitting down between rounds. I could hear the rumors growing in real time, passed along the rails between every match, the words drifting to me in fragments as I drank water and pretended not to listen. The scar.

The chieftain beyond the Wall. The Kingslayer. Blessed. That last word I heard more and more as the afternoon wore on, with Mors being the one who visibly was the closest to besting me but still the phrase — blessed by the old gods- said with more wonder each time and less doubt, and each time it landed I thought: good. Let it grow.

Not because the legend flattered me, though I'd be lying if I claimed it didn't, but because every man repeating it was a man learning, in his bones and before any of it was ever asked of him, that when a Stark stood up in the North and spoke, the North would do well to listen. The South held its power with gold, secrets and politics, and sure the North did as well.

Still, it had always been at a different scale, and one thing the South had never managed as well as the Starks and never understood — was that, besides the vale, the most self-unified of the kingdoms was the North under the Starks, which had let the Starks rule the North for over 8 thousand years. Hedwig's touch brushed my mind as the light began to slant gold: the column had left the lake road. Close now. Time to end it.

The last bout of the last day, and the crowd knew it, and I could not have asked for a better final opponent. A towering Flint came into the ring. Torvin was his name, and he was kin, in some winding mountain fashion, to the Old Flint himself, and thus — as Flints had spent the afternoon happily reminding each other and everyone else — distant kin to the Starks through me as well, by way of my great-grandmother's blood.

Jory had marked him for me weeks ago, the biggest man of the mountain clans any of us had ever seen, most likely the biggest man in the assembly besides maybe Wylis or the Lannisters' Mountain himself, and I had watched him fight enough since to know that his size was the least of him. He carried a blunted iron spear and a small shield, and from the first exchange I saw of him, he fought nothing like a man his size is supposed to fight. There was no bull in him at all.

He moved with a flexibility and grace that would have been remarkable in a man half his size and was very nearly unfair if I were a normal man. His style was all aggression made patient — that spearpoint darting for my eyes, my throat, my leading knee, a constant vicious poking pressure that never overcommitted and never stopped coming, as he attempted to herd me around the ring like we were on a cliff's edge.

The crowd, which had roared through every bout of the afternoon, went just as loud as it had with Mors, thinking someone might finally be a match for me.

"You've been holding back all these weeks," I called to him in the Old Tongue, turning another thrust off my shield rim, and his teeth flashed white in his beard.

"For you, Stark," he called back, and came on again. He was, I thought with real pleasure, one of the finest fighters I had faced in this world save Styr and Jaime Lannister. He had also given the crowd a long, glorious few minutes of honestly believing I might lose. Which meant he had served his purpose better than he could know, and it was time.

"I would gladly take you as one of my sworn shields after this is over," I said to him in the Old Tongue, thinking of him and Wylis behind me with my own height; we would make for an imposing group, and they would make for great guards and sworn shields.

"I would be glad to accept," he replied, his tiredness evident. He thrust his spear toward my shoulder once more. I let the spearpoint glide off my shield, and instead of circling away as I had in every previous exchange, I charged at him. I drove straight down the line of the spear, moving inside its reach where its carefully managed cruelty couldn't hurt me. My shield surged up and out in a powerful bash aimed at his chest. As his own shield swung to intercept, I let the bash fade away.

It was a feint, executed with all my might. His guard was left wide open when the butt of my axe struck the side of his helmet, staggering him and knocking the wind out of him. Before the ringing in his ears faded, I swept his leading ankle out from under him. The ground shook for what would not be the last time this day as Torvin Flint fell on his back, with my knee coming down and landing firmly on his chest.

The head of my axe rested softly, like a snowflake, right between his eyes as I grinned widely at him and the crowd. The crowd held silent for one perfect heartbeat. Then the field made a sound I felt in my teeth. I stood, took his hand, and hauled him up — which to his credit took some effort — and I let them see me laugh while I thumped him on the back as he shook the bells from his head and grinned ruefully at the crowd, who were cheering and chanting both our names after the last match.

I held his arm up beside mine, gave him his due in a voice pitched to carry, and told him before all of them that his seat was beside mine at table tonight. I then, as I did at the end of every day of melee since it started, stepped up onto the victor's platform, while I pulled off my halfhelm, and raised a hand. They quieted enough for me to start my speech.

"My lords. My friends." My voice carried; I had learned long ago how to make it carry.

"Tonight we feast to the last day of the Melee and celebration, so I'll try not to keep you from your food and drink; you all know why we've gathered. For the first time in living memory, there is a new Hand in the South again, and though the North usually does not care for the goings on of the South, this Hand of the King is my father, a Stark of Winterfell.

Which means, my lords, that the South is finally about to learn what the North has always known: how much simpler everything runs when a Northman is minding it." The roar at that shook the rails. And I chuckled with a grin.

"Now, now. To be fair to the southron kingdoms. They can't all help being somewhat pompous when food and shelter come a bit easier than it does in the north, and only the vale deals with raiders as much as we do; they're not so bad, truly — so long as their extra grain keeps coming north, we'll forgive them their silks.

And we must remember that not all southerners are the same, wish more of them had half the measure of the Manderlys, who came north thousands of years ago and became as true a Northern house as any born to it." That landed exactly where I'd aimed it; I saw Manderly men-at-arms straighten along the rails, and older heads among the lords nodding at the point beneath the courtesy: the North remembers who it takes in, and the North makes them its own.

"But hear me now, because this next part I mean with all I am." I let the laughter settle, and my voice settle with it.

"The North is strong when the North is one. Our histories know it, and the Starks know it well that the wolf alone dies, but the pack survives. When the Andals came with fire and seven-pointed stars and broke every southron kingdom that stood alone against them, they came then to the Weeping Water too — and there they found the Hungry Wolf waiting. And who stood beside Theon Stark that day a bit more prominent than others? House Bolton.

Stark and Bolton, side by side, and the Andals never took one foot of Northern soil, not in a thousand years of trying." I did not look for Roose in the crowd as I said it. I did not need to; the words were not really meant for him.

"That is what we are when we stand together. My own father is proof enough of what one Northman can do — Eddard Stark, who faced the Sword of the Morning himself, who helped lead a rebellion to avenge my grandfather Rickard, my uncle Brandon and my stolen aunt Lyanna — and even he, the finest man I know, will tell you plainly he did none of it alone. The North rode with him even if he spent most of his early years in the vale.

The North has always been strongest when it remembers itself — its gods, its tongue, its old ways. And I've heard it these weeks in this very camp, lords and men-at-arms trading words in the Old Tongue that has been dying to most lords and houses not of the mountains or the Crannogmen. Our traditions are not relics to be forgotten, my lords. They are to be sought out and reclaimed and remembered." I paused, and let the pause stretch a breath longer than comfort.

"The Old Gods have always watched over the North," I said, quieter now, so they had to lean in for it.

"But I'll tell you a hard truth, one that's weighed on me: House Stark, keeper of those old ways, had lost some of its own and most important pacts and bonds since the time of heroes." I saw the confusion move through them — lords glancing at one another, wondering where I was going with this, whether they'd misheard. I had them.

"You've all heard the rumors about this." I touched the scar along my cheekbone.

"I'll tell you now they're true. I crossed beyond the Wall, and I fought a chieftain of the Free Folk in single combat before his whole clan, and he gave me this before I put him on his knees. But hear what matters in it: the clan I found was no band of raiders. They had settlements, and they had laws of their own — and most importantly, they are First Men, my lords, the same blood as every man and woman standing in this field.

They speak the Old Tongue and keep a pact that we ourselves had let slip, farming and building beyond the Wall, keeping the oath the Starks did not, though they were cut off from us by seven hundred feet of ice and thousands of years of forgetting how that wall was built in the first place. And with the help of my uncle the First Ranger, along with the Night's Watch, finding them reminded my Father and me of what else we Starks had forgotten."

I began to pace the platform slowly, and somewhere beneath the crowd's growing silence, the faint sound of tremors began to approach, growing louder, coming right on time. I did not look toward the road, for I felt Hedwig approaching and with him the surprise.

"Every child in the North knows the name Bran the Builder—the greatest of my house — raiser of Winterfell, raiser of the Wall itself. But the oldest tales, the true tales, tell it plainly: even Brandon the Builder did not raise the Wall alone. The giants and the children of the old gods' forest raised it with him." The tremor again, stronger, a slow rhythm now, sounding like distant cavalry. Heads were beginning to turn at the edges of the crowd.

I raised my voice and rolled straight on, feeling Hedwig land on my shoulder.

"For thousands of years the giants stood with the Starks and the First Men — they helped raise our walls, they fought the Long Night at our side — and then somewhere down the long years we let that bond die. We let them dwindle beyond the Wall and told ourselves they were only stories for children. That, my lords, was House Stark losing its way, and when I understood it — when I saw them for the first time south of the Wall — I felt the shame of it like a brand. It drove me.

It drove me to train harder, to be better, to be worthy of mending what my house had let break, but with it restored the Old gods themselves were happy the Starks had forgotten no more. They gave our family direwolves, protectors, and the very sigil of our great house, one for every child with Stark blood," I said, pointing to Grey Wind, standing tall at the platform's edge, and beyond him Nymeria, Lady and Shaggy Dog with them already larger than any wolf they had likely seen.

However, every eye soon went from the direwolves to the entrance of the tourney field. For the shaking was unmistakable now, the whole field trembling with slow, enormous footfalls, and the crowd broke — men turning, pointing, voices rising in alarm and awe together as they saw what came up the road in the last red light of the day. A detachment of Stark men-at-arms in good order, Jon Snow riding at the front, his head high.

And behind them, looming out of the dusk like the hills themselves had pulled up roots and learned to walk: the giants. A dozen and more of them, furred, hairy and vast, with two mammoths behind them with their tusks gleaming, one much bigger, though the smaller was still massive. Mag Mar was in the lead with his walking-staff taller than almost three men combined. Screams came first from some, and I let them come; men pressed back from the rails, hands went to sword hilts, a horse shrieked somewhere in the lines.

But the giants only walked on, calm and slow and following Jon like the sworn men they were, up the road and through the parting, stunned crowd to the open ground at the center of the field. And there, before every assembled lord of the North, Mag Mar looked to me, and with a rumbled Stark, the giants knelt. I never stopped speaking.

Through the shaking, through the screams turning to stunned silence, my voice rolled over all of it, steady as a heart tree:"My lords of the North — I give you House Vernth, sworn before the old gods to my father of House Stark, and in doing so the Giants will not go down into the earth or into the stones and trees! They will not be forgotten, left only to songs beyond the Wall!

The giants are back into the Northern fold, back to their right place — standing with us First Men and the Starks — because the North Does Not Forget. It remembers!!!" For a brief moment, time seemed to stand still. I held my breath as I watched a field of the hardest men in the North staring at the kneeling giants in the fading red light. Jon dismounted to take his place alongside the rest of the family, with Ghost at his side.

For the first time, all these Northern lords were hearing the truth directly from me — Robb Stark, son of Ned Stark. With my snow owl perched on my shoulder, a scar on my cheek, my direwolf by my side, and having demonstrated my skills to all those gathered. That Legends were no longer legends; that Giants once more walked south of the Wall; that giants once more were under House Stark. The Greatjon and Mors were the first to break the moment of silence the lords were in.

And I was grateful for it — the two of them surging to their feet with a roar you could have heard at the Wall, bellowing STARK, STARK, STARK, STARK until their whole section took it up, and then the Karstarks were up, Harrion's voice cracking with it, and the Manderlys, and the Flints of the mountains shouting in the Old Tongue itself with Torvin loudest of them all, and then it was everyone, the whole field on its feet, the sound crashing over the platform in waves — STARK, STARK, WINTERFELL, and THE NORTH DOES NOT FORGET THE NORTH DOES NOT FORGET, THE NORTH DOES NOT FORGET threaded through it, as some men stood still in shocked silence their mouths opened, others laughed and chanted, and a few even wept.

Somewhere in the back, the two mammoths trumpeted, and the crowd roared louder to answer them. I stood in the middle of it and made myself see everything, take it all in; this was fantastical, this was everything I wanted this second life to be like the fantasy, the reality of it was almost too much, looking out at all the faces of the Northern lords along with the Stark household and my family.

Tyrion, on his feet with the rest, his forgotten wine cup slipped from his hands as he stared at the giants with his mouth agape. Myrcella beside him, both hands pressed to her mouth, eyes enormous — and shining. Dacey with her head thrown back, laughing; Arya standing on the rail itself, held steady by a grinning Tom, screaming my name with the rest of the crowd. And then there was Mother.

Mother, who had been told only a bit of it by Father but had never seen the giants like father had in person before now, stood pale among them with shock written plain across her face, one hand gripping Jory's steadying arm and the other clutching Wynafryd's, the Manderly girl's own shouting decorum long since abandoned and now abandoned again as she felt Lady Stark sway beside her and held her fast.

And then, moving along the faces of the high seats, I saw Domeric, cheering himself hoarse, so purely and openly now standing among the Bolton men. However, from Domeric I found with my eyes one lord who was not cheering, who had not stood up, and who was not even looking at the giants.

He sat exactly as he must have sat through the whole of it, still and neat amid his own now roaring bannermen, the flayed man of the Dreadfort spread proud across his breast, and his face — pale, cold, smooth as a frozen pond — held no awe or fear as some others at the sight of the giants. No, his face and his dark dead eyes, with a hint of calculation, if anything at all, stared at me as if he could see everything I had planned, even though I knew he could not.

Roose Bolton wore a face that gave me the chills the northern weather had not done in years. Then our eyes caught each other's. He did not glance away. Instead, holding my eyes across the whole width of the roaring crowd, he began only then, to slowly clap — soft, deliberate, each stroke of it somehow distinct to me beneath the screaming voices — and then, just as slowly, he rose to his feet, still clapping, still watching before finally turning away to speak to his son. The cheers went on rolling around me.

Hands found my shoulders and back, men shouting praise for Robb Stark, for House Stark, for the giants, praise be to the old gods — and I heard all of it from very far away, because at the moment, even with the fantastic way my plans had gone — the giant surprise revealed to the Northern lords not in the know, the gathering, the bonding the other houses and men had done with one another other came second in that moment — after staring into Roose Bolton's dead black eyes, there was only one thought I could hold.

I would never give him a chance, nor an opportunity, nor a reason to think he might gain a single thing by turning on me or plunging a knife in my heart.