38.Unforeseen Consequences

Disclaimer: I don’t own HP, GOT, or ASOIAF. Would have finished the last two properly if I had.
Edited by Bub3loka

12th Day of the 11th Moon, 303 AC

Sarella Sand, the North

“We could still turn back,” Nymeria whispered, her hands trembling beneath the folds of a heavy green cloak.

She was wrapped in layers upon layers of cloth like a newborn babe, but she still shivered. The cold northern wind paid no heed to Dornish finery or womanly grace. Gone were the silks and gauzy cottons they had worn in Sunspear—those garments had been cast aside at Crab Island’s harbour town, replaced with crude cloaks, heavy boots, and fur-lined hoods. Even Tyene had traded her lace gloves for doeskin.

Sarella stood beside her, face half-hidden beneath a bearskin mantle. “You know she won’t change her mind.”

They had passed the Paps a week ago. The Desert Wind was light and swift on the waves, and the sea had been merciful, as if fate itself sought to speed them on to folly. There had been no pirates, storms, or ill omens on the way. Just the cold and Arianne Martell’s stubbornness.

“We’ll be in White Harbour before the hour is out,” Nymeria said, teeth chattering. “There are ships bound for every corner of the world. You could go to Lys or Oldtown. Or back to Dorne.”

“I will not,” Arianne said flatly, her dark eyes fixed on the grey shore looming ahead. “I am weary of waiting in Sunspear while the world moves without me. My father lived half his life behind sandstone walls. I am not him. Even he toured the kingdoms and Essos in his youth. And Uncle Oberyn—”

“—Never came this far north,” Sarella interjected with a groan. “The Free Cities, yes. The Summer Isles. Volantis, even Slaver’s Bay. But not the land of ice and snow. Even the sun is smaller in the North, he used to say. Distant and cold, not fit for a Martell.”

“And with good reason,” muttered Ser Andrey Dalt, his breath frosted in the crisp air. “The wolf’s den is no place for snakes and sands and lemons, my princess. And certainly not when Dorne and the North find themselves on opposite ends of a drawn blade.”

“The wolf may snarl, but he won’t bite. A Snow might Lord over Winterfell, but he would never sit easy there—the bastard will be spent wrangling half his lords into submission, and can ill afford to make enemies beyond his borders.” Arianne’s lips pressed into a stubborn line. “Let them think me a Sand Snake. I will pass as one easily enough.”

It was not the first time she had said it. They had argued the point a dozen times since they left Sunspear, and still she stood unbent. Sarella had suggested half a hundred other paths, east to Braavos, south to Summer Islands, even as far as Yi Ti and Leng, but Arianne would not hear them.

Tyenn snorted. “That disguise depends on no Northman ever having seen Obara.”

“Which is why it’s a good thing my dear cousin has never taken her boots past the Trident,” Arianne said lightly. “Besides, who in the North knows the names of Sand Snakes? Who would know how many daughters Uncle Oberyn fathered?”

Sarella’s patience wore thinner with each word. “They may not know our names, but they know our house. If we are taken, it will not matter what name you give. We are Doran Martell’s blood, and that is enough to see us hostage to those daring enough.”

Arianne only crooned. “How unfortunate. Imagine it! A gaggle of natural-born maidens at the mercy of a cruel bastard. They’ll make a song out of this, I’m sure. A tale of Sands and Snow.”

Sarella got angry.

“This is not a jest,” she snapped, stepping closer. “You treat it like some mummer’s farce, but the North is not a stage for your little games. I wanted to read, to learn. To see Winterfell and the Wall, not court disaster.”

Her voice cracked, and her temper with it. She raised a finger as if to stab her cousin, though her hand only trembled in the air. Arianne, to her credit, had the decency to look ashamed. She turned her gaze to the deck, then back to Sarella.

“I know,” she said, voice low now, full of apology. “I know, Rella. But I can do little else. My father would not see reason. He’s dragging Dorne into this bloody war to place the crown on the head of a mummer and a cheat, all by using our dead cousin’s name.”

Her hands balled tightly into fists, as Arianne continued fiercely, “Going to Winterfell is a means to tear off that veneer. Poke at Aegon’s pretence. Yes, we might become hostages, but so what? Neither House Martell nor Dorne have any feud with the North. Rough and half-savage they might be, but Northmen love their honour, and their word is as good as gold—even my own father agrees. And my presence here, be it as a guest or a hostage, gives my father an excuse to sit out further conflict.”

Sarella said nothing. Arianne’s motives were never simple. She believed the words she spoke, yes, but there was more beneath them, like a viper buried in the sand. The thrill of danger. The lure of power. The hunger to be more than her father’s cast-off daughter.

And perhaps a desire to tame the direwolf.

At last, Sarella asked, “And why would the Snow in Winterfell even entertain a band of Sands like us?”

Arianne grinned, sly as a cat in heat. “Have you not heard, cousin? Lust runs strong in those born of sin. I refuse to believe that the frozen hearts of the Northmen will remain unmoved by the flowers of Dorne.”

Sarella rolled her eyes and muttered a prayer to the Father. Part of her still considered taking the next ship, away from this madness—perhaps to Eastwatch, and from there she could purchase some mule to tide her all the way to Castle Black in her old disguise. She could turn south, too. The Citadel still awaited her, and knowledge had never led her into folly, at least not yet.

White Harbour loomed ever closer, a pale city shrouded with snow. It looked almost pretty, in its cold, ethereal way, but Sarella had no heart to appreciate its beauty.

“No ship sails north o’ the Bite ’til the next moon’s turn, girl,” the harbormaster rasped. He was an old, bow-legged man with a wild mane of grey and a weather-worn face. “Ain’t nought but snow and death up there. The Shivering Sea’s cruel in summer, but in winter…” He shook his shaggy head. “She turns into a cold grave even for the most daring of fools.”

Sarella pulled her cloak tighter, but it was already wrapped snug about her.

“The further you go,” the man went on, “the ice comes up in the water like a hungry lizard-lion from a bog. Chunks big as ships, some of ’em. The white wind’ll flay your skin, and the cold’ll freeze your blood, taking you quickly—should the gods smile upon you.”

“And if they don’t?” she asked, voice cracking.

The harbormaster spat into the black water lapping at the dock’s edge. “Then the cold takes its time. First goes the ship. Frost creeps into her woodwork, and you can’t burn fire anyway; the cold would grow so deep that even kindling won’t burn. Even a dozen layers of fur and wool won’t save you then. Next, the cold will take your digits. Then the ears would freeze, and the nose. You’ll feel the warmth drain out, bit by bit, ’til you’re half a corpse and still breathing. If you live long enough to make land, you’ll need a good cleaver and a strong stomach. Aye, you’ll be lopping off what’s blackened if you hope to keep breathing, and you’ll count your blessings for it.”

His eyes squinted against the distant grey horizon, where sea and sky became one. Sorrow crept into his voice, then. “Best to ask yourself, girl—what’s worth that sort o’ death?”

There was a story there, but not one she cared to uncover.

“My brother,” Sarella lied with practised ease. “He serves at Eastwatch.” The tale was easy to spin, simple in a way that wouldn’t be questioned too closely.

The old man grunted. “The Wall’s no place for a girl. Once the vows are said, ties of kinship are cut. Lord Commander won’t let you in unless you bring a noble’s name or enough grain and steel to fill the stores. And even then…” He paused, giving her a long look. “You know the song of Brave Danny Flint?”

Her throat tightened. “I do.”

“Then you know better. Go home, girl. Find yourself a merchant’s son, or a knight with some village and half a wit. You’re pretty enough. Leave the Watch to the black brothers.”

Sarella said nothing. She turned from the pier, boots crunching on the snow-slick planks, and made her way back into White Harbour. The snow was falling again, drifting from the sky in a steady hush, dying her cloak white.

No ship, then, not unless she waited for the moon and dared death on the Shivering Sea.

There was another way. Going through the snow-locked North—with Arianne. Truth be told, Sarella would not part with her foolish cousin and her sisters, not without saying a farewell, at least. But the other roads forward were now closed to her. Winterfell had books too, and perhaps she could read through the collection there before moving on to Castle Black.

She reached Jeff’s as the sky darkened. The inn stood like a squat manse of oak and stone, its carved sign swaying above the door—two crossed spears, and a faded crown beneath. The tale was that Jeff had been a pikeman made rich by killing a pirate lord during the Ninepenny Kings’ war, though Sarella suspected most of it was a drunken boast. The food was good, the rooms warm, as long as the coin flowed—Arianne had ensured that much.

Inside, the smoke hung low in the air. The ruddy fire crackling in the hearth valiantly fought off the creeping cold. Sarella passed through the quiet dining hall and climbed to the second floor, where their private parlour lay behind a heavy oaken door.

It was a big chamber for an inn, clean yet cosy, with a rare yellow-glass window that allowed in light without letting the cold in. In the centre was a long oaken table, filled with half a feast: wooden bowls filled with thick steaming soup, fresh bread with melting butter, slices of roasted apples glistening with honey arranged like a flower on a platter, and cups of dark beer that smelled of spice.

“They don’t even have Dornish red here,” Tyene had complained earlier, glaring at the barrel of beer by the wall as if it had slighted her.

Yet she was still sipping from a tankard, looking quite content.

Arianne looked up from her seat by the hearth. “Rella,” she said, smiling sweetly. She patted the empty seat beside her. “Come sit. Any luck?”

“No.” Sarella dropped into the chair with a sigh, her limbs still stiff from the cold. “No ship will sail north. I’m coming with you to Winterfell.”

Her cousin’s smile deepened. “Of course. The seat of the old kings of winter must be interesting. I wonder what old secrets lie waiting for us there?”

“Winterfell’s been rebuilt more than once,” Sarella said, taking a long swallow of beer from one of the cups before her. “The walls are newer than the tales claim. Maester Kennet writes that they had been built long after the Andals first landed in the Vale.”

“Such a spoilsport,” Arianne pouted. “Still, it’s not the stones I came to see, but the men that dwell between them. Nymeria just returned with word of the roads.”

Nymeria was seated beside Arianne, nursing a bowl of what looked like rich chicken stew. “They say there are no outlaws on the King’s road. The king’s men swept them all out, and hanged all who dared think of brigandry.”

“But the roads themselves are nearly impassable now,” Arianne added. “Snow up to your thighs, and worse the deeper in you go. Horses and wheelhouses cannot pass.”

“We have two options,” Nymeria said. “Hire a barge up the White Knife—or find someone mad enough to take us by sledge.”

“Then we take the river,” Sarella murmured. “The barges were moving when I came through the harbour. We can buy a passage. Still planning to play your mummer’s farce?”

“At least for the travel,” Arianne said, voice light. But nothing was said for Winterfell, Sarella noticed. “I thought of visiting the Merman’s Court, but Lord Manderly has gone to Winterfell, and so have his granddaughters. Only the castellan remains—some old knight of no interest. Still, the gossip flows thick through the whole city, each rumour spicier than the last. Tell her, Tyene.”

“Oh, it’s madness,” Tyene giggled. “They say the Snow King wed a wildling spearwife, or maybe a shieldmaiden from the mountain clans. Some swear he took a Baratheon bastard to wife. One even said he wed the Mad King’s lost daughter! And then—” her words were choked by peals of laughter.

“—There’s the tale,” Arianne continued with relish, “that Jon Snow took his sister to bed and placed a crown atop her head. Lady Sansa, not the younger one—not that it matters!”

The room erupted with laughter, but Sarella allowed herself a small laugh and focused on stirring her soup, the scent of sage and fowl rising into the air.

Every ounce of warmth and sustenance seemed important in the cold North, and she did not even want to think of what trouble her royal cousin would manage to find herself in. But there was no doubt in Sarella’s mind—Arianne had come here, in the North, to make some trouble, be it for Aegon or her father. The Northmen would not be spared from it, either, Sarella suspected.

17th Day of the 11th Moon, 303 AC

Sansa Stark

Half a day had passed since Sansa was left in charge of the North, and already trouble had come knocking.

“The Blackwoods have landed at Barrowton,” said Lord Manderly, his plump face heavy with unease. “Lord Dustin writes that they come seeking refuge in the North.”

Sansa pinched the bridge of her nose, weary already. “What do you mean, the Blackwoods? How many?”

“All of them,” said Manderly, draining a goblet of dark wine before continuing. “Lord Tytos, his lady wife, their children, cousins, sworn swords, household retainers, even the most loyal smallfolk… Two thousand or more, by the count. The whole house.”

A faint murmur passed through the councillors—they were as confused and troubled as she was.

Her younger self would have wept with joy to sit in on a royal council and lord over it like a ruler. But now she only wished to tell that girl how much the songs had lied. There was no mention of war councils, scheming lords, lying knights, false smiles, and hunger. Sansa had no room for fear and even less room for error; thousands of lives now rested on her slender shoulders.

Jon was supposed to sit here and rule over the North, he and Shireen. They both carried the crown’s burden well, and they carried it with grace. Yet they were not here, and these hard choices now fell to Sansa. She was not ready. She doubted she ever would be, but holding out until Jon returned should have been easy.

“Two thousand mouths,” echoed Glover grimly. “And winter’s barely begun. What drove the Old Raven from his beloved Raventree Hall?”

“Bracken, of course.” Manderly looked at the roll of parchment in his hand. “That and dragons, I would wager. With House Tully gone, he has nobody to rely on for fair arbitration. Fleeing as he did was risky but not unwise.”

Glover scratched at his beard. “Tytos was loyal to King Robb, even after the Red Wedding. He was the last to lower the direwolf banner. The Blackwoods are an old, storied house, and still follow the Old Gods as we do.”

It was a clever move. The Blackwoods, like the Manderlys before them, sought sanctuary in the North. And just like the Manderlys, they doubtlessly hoped for a strong castle and fertile lands in return for their shown fealty. But Sansa was no king. The right to enfeoff land, to raise a House anew, belonged to Jon—and she would not presume, even if she were to rule in his name.

“They may shelter in the North,” she said at last. “But any question of land or titles must await the king’s return.”

It was the right decision, but only more trouble came with it.

“And who will feed them in the meantime?” Glover asked sharply.

“They must have brought coin enough—” Wolkan began, but Sansa’s thoughts wandered as the talk turned to grain stores and wagon trains. Wyman Manderly was more than capable of sorting such matters, and she trusted him to do so. The Hand was there to serve at the pleasure of the crown, after all.

Still, unease gnawed at her. The North was weak now, like a string stretched taut—a little more and it would snap. If Daenerys swooped in to attack now, they would be done. Bloodfyre was too small, too young to fight off the terrible black beast the dragon queen commanded. They had scorpions and marksmen aplenty, but would they be enough? Sansa did not know.

She had lost too much, and she feared losing what little she had left. She’d feasted herself on grief and sorrow, and wanted no more of it.

What if Jon failed? What if he perished?

Her last brother-cousin was like an immovable rock in the storm that was the Seven Kingdoms. He warded off the wind and the rain, and his presence alone scared off the vultures that wanted to feast on what little was left of House Stark. He was the last memory of those warm, sunny days when the summer felt endless, and her family was still whole. Without him, it would just be two sisters left, alone against the realm that would want to devour them whole…

They settled the Blackwood matter quickly enough. The lord and his immediate family would be received at Winterfell. The rest would be housed at Barrowton, Torrhen’s Square, and Castle Cerwyn—Houses that had not ridden to her brother’s call against the Boltons and were now gently pressed to make amends.

Sansa thought the council was done, but Glover cleared his throat.

“There is another matter,” he said. “Lords Knott and Burley both lay claim to a small spring valley on their borders. And now, both are marching to Winterfell for a Stark to settle it.”

Edwyle merely laughed. “Even the winter snow can’t halt the hillmen’s feuds, eh?”

“Who held the valley before?” she asked.

“The Leiths. A small mountain clan. Mostly slain fighting for Robb Stark, and what was left withered by a bad chill this past year. The last Leith—a greybeard—died in the Battle for Winterfell.”

“And now their bones are barely cold, and already the vultures squabble.” Sansa took a sip of ale to chase the bitterness from her mouth. How many had died for her father and her brother, only to be forgotten? “I will hear their claims when they arrive.”

Unlike Robb and Jon, her father had not taken her when riding out to solve the clan disputes. She had to consult some scrolls in the library, but already had a good idea of how to resolve the matter.

“There’s one more thing, Princess,” said Manderly, sounding uncertain.

Sansa looked at him askance. “The mountain clans again?”

“No, nor the Blackwoods. It’s the dragon.”

She blinked. “Bloodfyre?”

Manderly nodded. “In the king’s absence, she’s taken to roosting atop the tallest roofs and walls. The men are… wary.”

The image made her smile despite herself. “Are the roofs in danger of collapse?”

“No, not until the drake grows for some more years. But the guards refuse to patrol the wall walks where he sleeps. Even the ravens fly wide around her.”

“There’s no danger,” Sansa reassured, voice soft. “Bloodfyre is calm by nature, unlike her brothers. Let it be known—no man is to disturb or try to touch her. She will not harm them unprovoked.”

But they were wise to fear. Even a gentle dragon could burn a man to ash or crush him with a swipe of its tail. Sansa would be no less worried if she did not know Bloodfyre. The red drake was like an overgrown scaly cat with wings, but quick to purr once you scratched the right place.

At last, the council was done, and the lords began to stream through the door, leaving her in silence. But she caught Lord Manderly by the sleeve before he could depart.

“How fare the wedding plans for your granddaughter?”

The merman’s face lit up. “Splendidly, Princess. Young Lord Hornwood has accepted, and we’re already going over the details. The match will be sealed within the fortnight, of that much I’m certain.”

“A valiant warrior for a beautiful maiden,” Sansa said, generously. “A match for the songs. Send her my regards.”

“I shall. I can hardly ask for a better match for my precious Wylla,” Manderly all but boasted, but his smile was a bit dimmer.

Both of them knew Wylla had been set to become the Northern queen if not for the caprice of the gods. Had Shireen not claimed a dragon, Manderly’s granddaughter would have had a crown on her head now. Wylla could not have forgotten, and this match was not made out of her eagerness, that much was certain.

Such was the fate of noble maidens—love was often out of reach, and they all wedded for an alliance, for swords and spears, for lands and titles or even influence. Sansa would have been doomed to the same fate if it were anyone else sitting on the Northern throne other than Jon.

“Hold the wedding here,” she said. “At Winterfell.”

Manderly blinked. “Princess?”

“A gesture of goodwill,” she said with a faint smile. “Let the North see our Houses stand united.”

The plump lord bowed and nearly lost his balance from the effort, making Sansa stifle a laugh.

Letting Manderly hold the wedding here was a gesture of goodwill. Perhaps the celebration would bring some cheer to the now-glum halls. Or at least, distract her from the thought of Jon’s grim quest in the South, even though House Stark’s future depended on it.

Sansa spent the evening in the quiet company of her sworn shield. Despite her original misgivings, the Tarth Maid had remained loyal. She was like a tall, silent shadow whose presence had become part of Sansa’s life.

“Brienne,” Sansa began. “You are heir to Evenfall Hall, are you not?”

Brienne shifted her weight, uncomfortable. “Aye,” she said shortly, unstrapping her helm. “My father’s only child.”

Sansa tilted her head. “No brothers?”

“None that lived. I had a brother, but he drowned young, and two sisters that never made it past the cradle.”

Sansa’s throat tightened. It was easy to forget how cruel the gods could be when her own family had been so fortunate. Her brothers were hale and strong, and treachery had taken them, not illness.

But now was not the time to mourn what had been.

“Do you not wish to return, then? To Tarth?” Sansa clasped her hands before her, hoping to cover her trepidation. “To take up your father’s seat, and rule when he is gone?”

It was a question that had been gnawing at her for some days now. And Sansa had grown to dislike surprises. If Brienne were to leave, she would rather know now.

The warrior maiden frowned, her mouth twisting.

“Nay. I have no taste for lordship, nor any skill for ruling. I was never meant for silken gowns and childbearing, but swords and battle.” There was a bit of fondness in her words. “My father tried to find me a match, but none would have me. Father above, I know he tried so hard, but never quite managed to hold a suitor. I shall never marry, and I have made my peace with it. My cousin Androw has a mind for lordship—more than I do, and he will inherit. Best it happen sooner than later.”

With that, the armoured maiden strapped back her helmet and returned to her post by the door. Sansa, however, felt only relief. Perhaps it was selfish of her, but she wanted to be selfish just this once.

Shaking her head, the eldest daughter of Catelyn Stark headed back to her embroidery. Working on the tapestry of the Battle of Winterfell was the thing that occupied her mind the most and calmed her heart the best. Even so many years later, it was embroidery that steadied her fingers. One stitch at a time, slow and steady in a way that could help you forget everything else. Weaving a tapestry was a tad harder, but no less rewarding for it.

It was petty, perhaps. But Sansa had never denied the truth to herself, not in the privacy of her thoughts.

She wanted the world to remember what had happened. She wanted her tormentor’s ignoble death immortalised and would do it by her own hand.

19th Day of the 11th Moon, 303 AC

Westwatch by the Bridge

In the shadowed depths of the Gorge, far below Westwatch’s frozen ramparts, the sun barely graced the ground for more than half an hour a day. There, in that cold and cheerless place, black brothers of the Night’s Watch laboured beneath the looming spectre of the Bridge of Skulls, faces grim but filled with purpose.

“Harder!” barked a weary sergeant, his voice hoarse. “Harder, damn you!”

Pickaxes and hammers rose and fell with dull, rhythmic clangs against one of the three great stone piers that held the bridge aloft. Seven men swung with all the strength they had left—black-cloaked wretches with blistered hands, sore backs, and aching shoulders, their breaths coming in ragged puffs that steamed in the chill air. Their tools clanged and scraped, and the Gorge rang with their sound, echoing off the rock.

The wights came unceasingly, a stream of shambling carcasses that never ended, be it day or night. Burned or butchered, still they came, crawling over the charred bones of their ilk as if guided by an unseen master.

Commander Denys Mallister had ridden from the Shadow Tower with two hundred men. Devyn Sealskinner and his wildlings had answered the call, but it was still not enough. For every wight they felled, three more seemed to take its place. Supplies were thinning—oil, pitch, torches, arrows. Fatigue came slowly and insidiously, spreading through their hearts and minds. They fought in shifts: a third resting, a third guarding, a third killing. But after five days, even the strongest arms began to falter.

The Old Eagle knew they would not hold on for long like this and had ordered the bridge brought down. Collapse the span, and perhaps stem the tide until aid arrived.

But the stone was stubborn, thicker than a giant’s leg and as hard as iron. Cracks had spread through it like cobwebs, yes, but the pillar still held fast after nearly nine hours of hammering. Nearby, a dozen men sprawled around a pitiful fire, easily mistaken for wights if not for the steady fall and rise of their chests. Others stood watch on the slope, torches flickering as their eyes scanned the dark.

Below them, the Milkwater sang its cold dirge, rushing toward the Bay of Ice, in an angry current.

Then a pickaxe shattered with a sharp clang, and a man fell, his head jolting back like struck by an invisible fist.

“He ain’t movin’,” muttered one of the brothers, stooping low by the fallen. Sweat streaked his face beneath the soot, only to frost over as soon as it reached his beard.

Another turned the man’s head, and they saw the bloody mess where his eye had been. No one spoke.

CRACK.

The stone groaned. The men leapt back, leaving tools where they lay. Fissures widened with a sound like splintering bone. Then came a deep shudder, and the Gorge trembled.

The pillar cracked apart. The bridge began to fall.

Stone thundered downward in slow, grinding collapse. The Gorge filled with the groan of tumbling rock, and the bridge broke apart like rotten wood. The Watchmen ran for the narrow mouth of the slope, fleeing the onrush of snow and shattered stone. One was too slow and was smashed by a falling rock.

When the rumbling died, all that remained was a churning cloud of dust and snow. Silence followed, then a cheer tore from the tired mouth, hoarse and weary but full of joy and triumph.

Yet from the haze, shapes began to stir, and the laughter froze cold in their throats.

One emerged first: a cadaver, limbs twisted, dragging one foot behind it, broken bones poking through its rotted skin. It was half a wreck, but it continued moving anyway. Then came another. Five. Ten. A score. Half a hundred.

The wreckage of the bridge had not stopped them—it had merely given them a new footing. Now they crossed the Milkwater on the broken corpses of the bridge itself.

“Seven save us.”

“We can’t stop that many—”

“We have to tell the commander!”

At the wall at Westwatch, the grimness was drowned by watchmen and wildlings cheering at the bridge’s collapse.

Yet Denys Mallister watched the veil of dust shrouding the Gorge impassively. He was an old man, a veteran of half a hundred rangings, a knight, and a greybeard who lived far longer cloaked in Black than in House Mallister’s silver eagle. His eyes watched the drifting veil of snow down the Gorge, as it stirred and moved.

The joyful clamour, however, quickly died out when corpses continued flowing down the mountain pass across and started falling over the broken bridge like a waterfall of flesh and bones. They kept pushing each other relentlessly, as if jumping into their demise. But Denys knew better—a fall and a few broken bones would not kill them, for they were already dead.

“How wide is the goat path down the Gorge?” he asked.

A voice behind him answered. “Wide enough for two men to pass shoulder to shoulder, if they’re thin.”

He nodded. “That will do.”

“The fall didn’t kill them,” he said then, flatly. “You all know what that means. Burn them or smash them to splinters, or they won’t stop moving. Ser Mern, Ser Perryn, Rory—take thirty men and hold the goat path. I want its entrance manned.”

The men saluted and moved without question.

“Brynden,” Mallister called, without turning. “Take six good eyes and scout the ridge. Find me every trail, hole, crack, and crevice that leads out of that Gorge. I want them all mapped out and plugged yesterday!”