A Clash of Kings
Page 53
The woman's mouth hung open, a wet pink cave, but Craster only gave a snort. "We've had no such troubles here . . . and I'll thank you not to tell such evil tales under my roof. I'm a godly man, and the gods keep me safe. If wights come walking, I'll know how to send them back to their graves. Though I could use me a sharp new axe." He sent his wife scurrying with a slap on her leg and a shout of "More beer, and be quick about it."
"No trouble from the dead," Jarmen Buckwell said, "but what of the living, my lord? What of your king?"
"King!" cried Mormont's raven. "King, king, king."
"That Mance Rayder?" Craster spit into the fire. "King-beyond-the-Wall. What do free folk want with kings?" He turned his squint on Mormont. "There's much I could tell you o' Rayder and his doings, if I had a mind. This o' the empty villages, that's his work. You would have found this hall abandoned as well, if I were a man to scrape to such. He sends a rider, tells me I must leave my own keep to come grovel at his feet. I sent the man back, but kept his tongue. It's nailed to that wall there." He pointed. "Might be that I could tell you where to seek Mance Rayder. If I had a mind." The brown smile again. "But we'll have time enough for that. You'll be wanting to sleep beneath my roof, belike, and eat me out of pigs."
"A roof would be most welcome, my lord," Mormont said. "We've had hard riding, and too much wet."
"Then you'll guest here for a night. No longer, I'm not that fond o' crows. The loft's for me and mine, but you'll have all the floor you like. I've meat and beer for twenty, no more. The rest o' your black crows can peck after their own corn."
"We've packed in our own supplies, my lord," said the Old Bear. "We should be pleased to share our food and wine."
Craster wiped his drooping mouth with the back of a hairy hand. "I'll taste your wine, Lord Crow, that I will. One more thing. Any man lays a hand on my wives, he loses the hand."
"Your roof, your rule," said Thoren Smallwood, and Lord Mormont nodded stiffly, though he looked none too pleased.
"That's settled, then." Craster grudged them a grunt. "D'ya have a man can draw a map?"
"Sam Tarly can." Jon pushed forward. "Sam loves maps."
Mormont beckoned him closer. "Send him here after he's eaten. Have him bring quill and parchment. And find Tollett as well. Tell him to bring my axe. A guest gift for our host."
"Who's this one now?" Craster said before Jon could go. "He has the look of a Stark."
"My steward and squire, Jon Snow."
"A bastard, is it?" Craster looked Jon up and down. "Man wants to bed a woman, seems like he ought to take her to wife. That's what I do." He shooed Jon off with a wave. "Well, run and do your service, bastard, and see that axe is good and sharp now, I've no use for dull steel."
Jon Snow bowed stiffly and took his leave. Ser Ottyn Wythers was coming in as he was leaving, and they almost collided at the deerhide door. Outside, the rain seemed to have slackened. Tents had gone up all over the compound. Jon could see the tops of others under the trees.
Dolorous Edd was feeding the horses. "Give the wildling an axe, why not?" He pointed out Mormont's weapon, a short-hafted battle-axe with gold scrollwork inlaid on the black steel blade. "He'll give it back, I vow. Buried in the Old Bear's skull, like as not. Why not give him all our axes, and our swords as well? I mislike the way they clank and rattle as we ride. We'd travel faster without them, straight to hell's door. Does it rain in hell, I wonder? Perhaps Craster would like a nice hat instead."
Jon smiled. "He wants an axe. And wine as well."
"See, the Old Bear's clever. If we get the wildling well and truly drunk, perhaps he'll only cut off an ear when he tries to slay us with that axe. I have two ears but only one head."
"Smallwood says Craster is a friend to the Watch."
"Do you know the difference between a wildling who's a friend to the Watch and one who's not?" asked the dour squire. "Our enemies leave our bodies for the crows and the wolves. Our friends bury us in secret graves. I wonder how long that bear's been nailed up on that gate, and what Craster had there before we came hallooing?" Edd looked at the axe doubtfully, the rain running down his long face. "Is it dry in there?"
"Drier than out here."
"If I lurk about after, not too close to the fire, belike they'll take no note of me till morn. The ones under his roof will be the first he murders, but at least we'll die dry."
Jon had to laugh. "Craster's one man. We're two hundred. I doubt he'll murder anyone."
"You cheer me," said Edd, sounding utterly morose. "And besides, there's much to be said for a good sharp axe. I'd hate to be murdered with a maul. I saw a man hit in the brow with a maul once. Scarce split the skin at all, but his head turned mushy and swelled up big as a gourd, only purply-red. A comely man, but he died ugly. It's good that we're not giving them mauls." Edd walked away shaking his head, his sodden black cloak shedding rain behind him.
Jon got the horses fed before he stopped to think of his own supper. He was wondering where to find Sam when he heard a shout of fear. "Wolf!" He sprinted around the hall toward the cry, the earth sucking at his boots. One of Craster's women was backed up against the mud-spattered wall of the keep. "Keep away," she was shouting at Ghost. "You keep away!" The direwolf had a rabbit in his mouth and another dead and bloody on the ground before him. "Get it away, m'lord," she pleaded when she saw him.
"He won't hurt you." He knew at once what had happened; a wooden hutch, its slats shattered, lay on its side in the wet grass. "He must have been hungry. We haven't seen much game." Jon whistled. The direwolf bolted down the rabbit, crunching the small bones between his teeth, and padded over to him.
The woman regarded them with nervous eyes. She was younger than he'd thought at first. A girl of fifteen or sixteen years, he judged, dark hair plastered across a gaunt face by the falling rain, her bare feet muddy to the ankles. The body under the sewn skins was showing in the early turns of pregnancy. "Are you one of Craster's daughters?" he asked.
She put a hand over her belly. "Wife now." Edging away from the wolf, she knelt mournfully beside the broken hutch. "I was going to breed them rabbits. There's no sheep left."
"The Watch will make good for them." Jon had no coin of his own, or he would have offered it to her . . . though he was not sure what good a few coppers or even a silver piece would do her beyond the Wall. "I'll speak to Lord Mormont on the morrow."
She wiped her hands on her skirt. "M'lord - "
"I'm no lord."
But others had come crowding round, drawn by the woman's scream and the crash of the rabbit hutch. "Don't you believe him, girl," called out Lark the Sisterman, a ranger mean as a cur. "That's Lord Snow himself."
"Bastard of Winterfell and brother to kings," mocked Chett, who'd left his hounds to see what the commotion was about.
"That wolf's looking at you hungry, girl," Lark said. "Might be it fancies that tender bit in your belly."
Jon was not amused. "You're scaring her."
"Warning her, more like." Chett's grin was as ugly as the boils that covered most of his face.
"We're not to talk to you," the girl remembered suddenly.
"Wait," Jon said, too late. She bolted, ran.
Lark made a grab for the second rabbit, but Ghost was quicker. When he bared his teeth, the Sisterman slipped in the mud and went down on his bony butt. The others laughed. The direwolf took the rabbit in his mouth and brought it to Jon.
"There was no call to scare the girl," he told them.
"We'll hear no scolds from you, bastard." Chett blamed Jon for the loss of his comfortable position with Maester Aemon, and not without justice. If he had not gone to Aemon about Sam Tarly, Chett would still be tending an old blind man instead of a pack of ill-tempered hunting hounds. "You may be the Lord Commander's pet, but you're not the Lord Commander . . . and you wouldn't talk so bloody bold without that monster of yours always about."
"I'll not fight a brother while we're beyond the Wall," Jon answered, his voice cooler than he felt.
Lark got to one knee. "He's afraid of you, Chett. On the Sisters, we have a name for them like him."
"I know all the names. Save your breath." He walked away, Ghost at his side. The rain had dwindled to a thin drizzle by the time he reached the gate. Dusk would be on them soon, followed by another wet dark dismal night. The clouds would hide moon and stars and Mormont's Torch, turning the woods black as pitch. Every piss would be an adventure, if not quite of the sort Jon Snow had once envisioned.
Out under the trees, some rangers had found enough duff and dry wood to start a fire beneath a slanting ridge of slate. Others had raised tents or made rude shelters by stretching their cloaks over low branches. Giant had crammed himself inside the hollow of a dead oak. "How d'ye like my castle, Lord Snow?"
"It looks snug. You know where Sam is?"
"Keep on the way you were. If you come on Ser Ottyn's pavilion, you've gone too far." Giant smiled. "Unless Sam's found him a tree too. What a tree that would be."
It was Ghost who found Sam in the end. The direwolf shot ahead like a quarrel from a crossbow. Under an outcrop of rock that gave some small degree of shelter from the rain, Sam was feeding the ravens. His boots squished when he moved. "My feet are soaked through," he admitted miserably. "When I climbed off my horse, I stepped in a hole and went in up to my knees."
"Take off your boots and dry your stockings. I'll find some dry wood. If the ground's not wet under the rock, we might be able to get a fire burning." Jon showed Sam the rabbit. "And we'll feast."
"Won't you be attending Lord Mormont in the hall?"
"No, but you will. The Old Bear wants you to map for him. Craster says he'll find Mance Rayder for us."
"Oh." Sam did not look anxious to meet Craster, even if it meant a warm fire.
"He said eat first, though. Dry your feet." Jon went to gather fuel, digging down under deadfalls for the drier wood beneath and peeling back layers of sodden pine needles until he found likely kindling. Even then, it seemed to take forever for a spark to catch. He hung his cloak from the rock to keep the rain off his smoky little fire, making them a small snug alcove.
As he knelt to skin the rabbit, Sam pulled off his boots. "I think there's moss growing between my toes," he declared mournfully, wriggling the toes in question. "The rabbit will taste good. I don't even mind about the blood and all." He looked away. "Well, only a little . . . "
Jon spitted the carcass, banked the fire with a pair of rocks, and balanced their meal atop them. The rabbit had been a scrawny thing, but as it cooked it smelled like a king's feast. Other rangers gave them envious looks. Even Ghost looked up hungrily, flames shining in his red eyes as he sniffed. "You had yours before," Jon reminded him.
"No trouble from the dead," Jarmen Buckwell said, "but what of the living, my lord? What of your king?"
"King!" cried Mormont's raven. "King, king, king."
"That Mance Rayder?" Craster spit into the fire. "King-beyond-the-Wall. What do free folk want with kings?" He turned his squint on Mormont. "There's much I could tell you o' Rayder and his doings, if I had a mind. This o' the empty villages, that's his work. You would have found this hall abandoned as well, if I were a man to scrape to such. He sends a rider, tells me I must leave my own keep to come grovel at his feet. I sent the man back, but kept his tongue. It's nailed to that wall there." He pointed. "Might be that I could tell you where to seek Mance Rayder. If I had a mind." The brown smile again. "But we'll have time enough for that. You'll be wanting to sleep beneath my roof, belike, and eat me out of pigs."
"A roof would be most welcome, my lord," Mormont said. "We've had hard riding, and too much wet."
"Then you'll guest here for a night. No longer, I'm not that fond o' crows. The loft's for me and mine, but you'll have all the floor you like. I've meat and beer for twenty, no more. The rest o' your black crows can peck after their own corn."
"We've packed in our own supplies, my lord," said the Old Bear. "We should be pleased to share our food and wine."
Craster wiped his drooping mouth with the back of a hairy hand. "I'll taste your wine, Lord Crow, that I will. One more thing. Any man lays a hand on my wives, he loses the hand."
"Your roof, your rule," said Thoren Smallwood, and Lord Mormont nodded stiffly, though he looked none too pleased.
"That's settled, then." Craster grudged them a grunt. "D'ya have a man can draw a map?"
"Sam Tarly can." Jon pushed forward. "Sam loves maps."
Mormont beckoned him closer. "Send him here after he's eaten. Have him bring quill and parchment. And find Tollett as well. Tell him to bring my axe. A guest gift for our host."
"Who's this one now?" Craster said before Jon could go. "He has the look of a Stark."
"My steward and squire, Jon Snow."
"A bastard, is it?" Craster looked Jon up and down. "Man wants to bed a woman, seems like he ought to take her to wife. That's what I do." He shooed Jon off with a wave. "Well, run and do your service, bastard, and see that axe is good and sharp now, I've no use for dull steel."
Jon Snow bowed stiffly and took his leave. Ser Ottyn Wythers was coming in as he was leaving, and they almost collided at the deerhide door. Outside, the rain seemed to have slackened. Tents had gone up all over the compound. Jon could see the tops of others under the trees.
Dolorous Edd was feeding the horses. "Give the wildling an axe, why not?" He pointed out Mormont's weapon, a short-hafted battle-axe with gold scrollwork inlaid on the black steel blade. "He'll give it back, I vow. Buried in the Old Bear's skull, like as not. Why not give him all our axes, and our swords as well? I mislike the way they clank and rattle as we ride. We'd travel faster without them, straight to hell's door. Does it rain in hell, I wonder? Perhaps Craster would like a nice hat instead."
Jon smiled. "He wants an axe. And wine as well."
"See, the Old Bear's clever. If we get the wildling well and truly drunk, perhaps he'll only cut off an ear when he tries to slay us with that axe. I have two ears but only one head."
"Smallwood says Craster is a friend to the Watch."
"Do you know the difference between a wildling who's a friend to the Watch and one who's not?" asked the dour squire. "Our enemies leave our bodies for the crows and the wolves. Our friends bury us in secret graves. I wonder how long that bear's been nailed up on that gate, and what Craster had there before we came hallooing?" Edd looked at the axe doubtfully, the rain running down his long face. "Is it dry in there?"
"Drier than out here."
"If I lurk about after, not too close to the fire, belike they'll take no note of me till morn. The ones under his roof will be the first he murders, but at least we'll die dry."
Jon had to laugh. "Craster's one man. We're two hundred. I doubt he'll murder anyone."
"You cheer me," said Edd, sounding utterly morose. "And besides, there's much to be said for a good sharp axe. I'd hate to be murdered with a maul. I saw a man hit in the brow with a maul once. Scarce split the skin at all, but his head turned mushy and swelled up big as a gourd, only purply-red. A comely man, but he died ugly. It's good that we're not giving them mauls." Edd walked away shaking his head, his sodden black cloak shedding rain behind him.
Jon got the horses fed before he stopped to think of his own supper. He was wondering where to find Sam when he heard a shout of fear. "Wolf!" He sprinted around the hall toward the cry, the earth sucking at his boots. One of Craster's women was backed up against the mud-spattered wall of the keep. "Keep away," she was shouting at Ghost. "You keep away!" The direwolf had a rabbit in his mouth and another dead and bloody on the ground before him. "Get it away, m'lord," she pleaded when she saw him.
"He won't hurt you." He knew at once what had happened; a wooden hutch, its slats shattered, lay on its side in the wet grass. "He must have been hungry. We haven't seen much game." Jon whistled. The direwolf bolted down the rabbit, crunching the small bones between his teeth, and padded over to him.
The woman regarded them with nervous eyes. She was younger than he'd thought at first. A girl of fifteen or sixteen years, he judged, dark hair plastered across a gaunt face by the falling rain, her bare feet muddy to the ankles. The body under the sewn skins was showing in the early turns of pregnancy. "Are you one of Craster's daughters?" he asked.
She put a hand over her belly. "Wife now." Edging away from the wolf, she knelt mournfully beside the broken hutch. "I was going to breed them rabbits. There's no sheep left."
"The Watch will make good for them." Jon had no coin of his own, or he would have offered it to her . . . though he was not sure what good a few coppers or even a silver piece would do her beyond the Wall. "I'll speak to Lord Mormont on the morrow."
She wiped her hands on her skirt. "M'lord - "
"I'm no lord."
But others had come crowding round, drawn by the woman's scream and the crash of the rabbit hutch. "Don't you believe him, girl," called out Lark the Sisterman, a ranger mean as a cur. "That's Lord Snow himself."
"Bastard of Winterfell and brother to kings," mocked Chett, who'd left his hounds to see what the commotion was about.
"That wolf's looking at you hungry, girl," Lark said. "Might be it fancies that tender bit in your belly."
Jon was not amused. "You're scaring her."
"Warning her, more like." Chett's grin was as ugly as the boils that covered most of his face.
"We're not to talk to you," the girl remembered suddenly.
"Wait," Jon said, too late. She bolted, ran.
Lark made a grab for the second rabbit, but Ghost was quicker. When he bared his teeth, the Sisterman slipped in the mud and went down on his bony butt. The others laughed. The direwolf took the rabbit in his mouth and brought it to Jon.
"There was no call to scare the girl," he told them.
"We'll hear no scolds from you, bastard." Chett blamed Jon for the loss of his comfortable position with Maester Aemon, and not without justice. If he had not gone to Aemon about Sam Tarly, Chett would still be tending an old blind man instead of a pack of ill-tempered hunting hounds. "You may be the Lord Commander's pet, but you're not the Lord Commander . . . and you wouldn't talk so bloody bold without that monster of yours always about."
"I'll not fight a brother while we're beyond the Wall," Jon answered, his voice cooler than he felt.
Lark got to one knee. "He's afraid of you, Chett. On the Sisters, we have a name for them like him."
"I know all the names. Save your breath." He walked away, Ghost at his side. The rain had dwindled to a thin drizzle by the time he reached the gate. Dusk would be on them soon, followed by another wet dark dismal night. The clouds would hide moon and stars and Mormont's Torch, turning the woods black as pitch. Every piss would be an adventure, if not quite of the sort Jon Snow had once envisioned.
Out under the trees, some rangers had found enough duff and dry wood to start a fire beneath a slanting ridge of slate. Others had raised tents or made rude shelters by stretching their cloaks over low branches. Giant had crammed himself inside the hollow of a dead oak. "How d'ye like my castle, Lord Snow?"
"It looks snug. You know where Sam is?"
"Keep on the way you were. If you come on Ser Ottyn's pavilion, you've gone too far." Giant smiled. "Unless Sam's found him a tree too. What a tree that would be."
It was Ghost who found Sam in the end. The direwolf shot ahead like a quarrel from a crossbow. Under an outcrop of rock that gave some small degree of shelter from the rain, Sam was feeding the ravens. His boots squished when he moved. "My feet are soaked through," he admitted miserably. "When I climbed off my horse, I stepped in a hole and went in up to my knees."
"Take off your boots and dry your stockings. I'll find some dry wood. If the ground's not wet under the rock, we might be able to get a fire burning." Jon showed Sam the rabbit. "And we'll feast."
"Won't you be attending Lord Mormont in the hall?"
"No, but you will. The Old Bear wants you to map for him. Craster says he'll find Mance Rayder for us."
"Oh." Sam did not look anxious to meet Craster, even if it meant a warm fire.
"He said eat first, though. Dry your feet." Jon went to gather fuel, digging down under deadfalls for the drier wood beneath and peeling back layers of sodden pine needles until he found likely kindling. Even then, it seemed to take forever for a spark to catch. He hung his cloak from the rock to keep the rain off his smoky little fire, making them a small snug alcove.
As he knelt to skin the rabbit, Sam pulled off his boots. "I think there's moss growing between my toes," he declared mournfully, wriggling the toes in question. "The rabbit will taste good. I don't even mind about the blood and all." He looked away. "Well, only a little . . . "
Jon spitted the carcass, banked the fire with a pair of rocks, and balanced their meal atop them. The rabbit had been a scrawny thing, but as it cooked it smelled like a king's feast. Other rangers gave them envious looks. Even Ghost looked up hungrily, flames shining in his red eyes as he sniffed. "You had yours before," Jon reminded him.
