A Dance with Dragons
Page 156
That seemed to amuse the sellsword. "Who told you that?"
"No one. Most of the stories you hear about dragons are fodder for fools. Talking dragons, dragons hoarding gold and gems, dragons with four legs and bellies big as elephants, dragons riddling with sphinxes ...
nonsense, all of it. But there are truths in the old books as well. Not only do I know that the queen's dragons took to you, but I know why."
"My mother said my father had a drop of dragon blood."
"Two drops. That, or a c**k six feet long. You know that tale? I do. Now, you're a clever Plumm, so you know this head of mine is worth a lordship ... back in Westeros, half a world away. By the time you get it there, only bone and maggots will remain. My sweet sister will deny the head is mine and cheat you of the promised reward. You know how it is with queens. Fickle cunts, the lot of them, and Cersei is the worst."
Brown Ben scratched at his beard. "Could deliver you alive and wriggling, then. Or pop your head into a jar and pickle it."
"Or throw in with me. That's the wisest move." He grinned. "I was born a second son. This company is my destiny. "
"The Second Sons have no place for mummers," the bravo in pink said scornfully. "It's fighters we need."
"I've brought you one." Tyrion jerked a thumb at Mormont. "That creature?" The bravo laughed. "An ugly brute, but scars alone don't make a Second Son."
Tyrion rolled his mismatched eyes. "Lord Plumm, who are these two friends of yours? The pink one is annoying."
The bravo curled a lip, whilst the fellow with the quill chuckled at his insolence. But it was Jorah Mormont who supplied their names. "Inkpots is the company paymaster. The peacock calls himself Kasporio the Cunning, though Kasporio the Cunt would be more apt. A nasty piece of work."
Mormont's face might have been unrecognizable in its battered state, but his voice was unchanged. Kasporio gave him a startled look, whilst the wrinkles around Plumm's eyes crinkled in amusement. "Jorah Mormont? Is that you? Less proud than when you scampered off, though. Must we still call you ser?"
Ser Jorah's swollen lips twisted into a grotesque grin. "Give me a sword and you can call me what you like, Ben."
Kasporio edged backward. "You ... she sent you away ..."
"I came back. Call me a fool."
A fool in love. Tyrion cleared his throat. "You can talk of old times later ... after I am done explaining why my head would be of more use to you upon my shoulders. You will find, Lord Plumm, that I can be very generous to my friends. If you doubt me, ask Bronn. Ask Shagga, son of Dolf. Ask Timett, son of Timett."
"And who would they be?" asked the man called Inkpots. "Good men who pledged me their swords and prospered greatly by that service."
He shrugged. "Oh, very well, I lied about the 'good' part. They're bloodthirsty bastards, like you lot."
"Might be," said Brown Ben. "Or might be you just made up some names. Shagga, did you say? Is that a woman's name?"
"His teats are big enough. Next time we meet I'll peek beneath his breeches to be sure. Is that a cyvasse set over there? Bring it out and we'll have that game. But first, I think, a cup of wine. My throat is dry as an old bone, and I can see that I have a deal of talking to do."
Chapter Fifty-one
JON
That night he dreamt of wildlings howling from the woods, advancing to the moan of warhorns and the roll of drums. Boom DOOM boom DOOM
boom DOOM came the sound, a thousand hearts with a single beat. Some had spears and some had bows and some had axes. Others rode on chariots made of bones, drawn by teams of dogs as big as ponies. Giants lumbered amongst them, forty feet tall, with mauls the size of oak trees.
"Stand fast," Jon Snow called. "Throw them back." He stood atop the Wall, alone. "Flame," he cried, "feed them flame," but there was no one to pay heed.
They are all gone. They have abandoned me.
Burning shafts hissed upward, trailing tongues of fire. Scarecrow brothers tumbled down, black cloaks ablaze. "Snow, " an eagle cried, as foemen scuttled up the ice like spiders. Jon was armored in black ice, but his blade burned red in his fist. As the dead men reached the top of the Wall he sent them down to die again. He slew a greybeard and a beardless boy, a giant, a gaunt man with filed teeth, a girl with thick red hair. Too late he recognized Ygritte. She was gone as quick as she'd appeared. The world dissolved into a red mist. Jon stabbed and slashed and cut. He hacked down Donal Noye and gutted Deaf Dick Follard. Qhorin Halfhand stumbled to his knees, trying in vain to staunch the flow of blood from his neck. "I am the Lord of Winterfell," Jon screamed. It was Robb before him now, his hair wet with melting snow. Longclaw took his head off. Then a gnarled hand seized Jon roughly by the shoulder. He whirled ...
... and woke with a raven pecking at his chest. "Snow, " the bird cried. Jon swatted at it. The raven shrieked its displeasure and flapped up to a bedpost to glare down balefully at him through the predawn gloom. The day had come. It was the hour of the wolf. Soon enough the sun would rise, and four thousand wildlings would come pouring through the Wall. Madness. Jon Snow ran his burned hand through his hair and wondered once again what he was doing. Once the gate was opened there would be no turning back. It should have been the Old Bear to treat with Tormund. It should have been Jaremy Rykker or Qhorin Halfhand or Denys Mallister or some other seasoned man. It should have been my uncle. It was too late for such misgivings, though. Every choice had its risks, every choice its consequences. He would play the game to its conclusion. He rose and dressed in darkness, as Mormont's raven muttered across the room. "Corn, " the bird said, and, "King, " and, "Snow, Jon Snow, Jon Snow. " That was queer. The bird had never said his full name before, as best Jon could recall.
He broke his fast in the cellar with his officers. Fried bread, fried eggs, blood sausages, and barley porridge made up the meal, washed down with thin yellow beer. As they ate they went over the preparations yet again. "All is in readiness," Bowen Marsh assured him. "If the wildlings uphold the terms of the bargain, all will go as you've commanded."
And if not, it may turn to blood and carnage. "Remember," Jon said,
"Tormund's people are hungry, cold, and fearful. Some of them hate us as much as some of you hate them. We are dancing on rotten ice here, them and us. One crack, and we all drown. If blood should be shed today, it had best not be one of us who strikes the first blow, or I swear by the old gods and the new that I will have the head of the man who strikes it."
They answered him with ayes and nods and muttered words, with
"As you command," and "It will be done," and "Yes, my lord." And one by one they rose and buckled on their swords and donned their warm black cloaks and strode out into the cold.
Last to leave the table was Dolorous Edd Tollett, who had come in during the night with six wagons from the Long Barrow. Whore's Barrow, the black brothers called the fortress now. Edd had been sent to gather up as many spearwives as his wagons would hold and bring them back to join their sisters.
Jon watched him mop up a runny yolk with a chunk of bread. It was strangely comforting to see Edd's dour face again. "How goes the restoration work?" he asked his old steward.
"Ten more years should do it," Tollett replied in his usual gloomy tone. "Place was overrun with rats when we moved in. The spearwives killed the nasty buggers. Now the place is overrun with spearwives. There's days I want the rats back."
"How do you find serving under Iron Emmett?" Jon asked.
"Mostly it's Black Maris serving under him, m'lord. Me, I have the mules. Nettles claims we're kin. It's true we have the same long face, but I'm not near as stubborn. Anyway I never knew their mothers, on my honor." He finished the last of his eggs and sighed. "I do like me a nice runny egg. If it please m'lord, don't let the wildlings eat all our chickens."
Out in the yard, the eastern sky had just begun to lighten. There was not a wisp of cloud in sight. "We have a good day for this, it would seem,"
Jon said. "A bright day, warm and sunny."
"The Wall will weep. And winter almost on us. It's unnatural, m'
lord. A bad sign, you ask me."
Jon smiled. "And if it were to snow?"
"A worse sign."
"What sort of weather would you prefer?"
"The sort they keep indoors," said Dolorous Edd. "If it please m'
lord, I should get back to my mules. They miss me when I'm gone. More than I can say for them spearwives."
They parted there, Tollett for the east road, where his wagons waited, Jon Snow for the stables. Satin had his horse saddled and bridled and waiting for him, a fiery grey courser with a mane as black and shiny as maester's ink. He was not the sort of mount that Jon would have chosen for a ranging, but on this morning all that mattered was that he look impressive, and for that the stallion was a perfect choice.
His tail was waiting too. Jon had never liked surrounding himself with guards, but today it seemed prudent to keep a few good men beside him. They made a grim display in their ringmail, iron halfhelms, and black cloaks, with tall spears in their hands and swords and daggers on their belts. For this Jon had passed over all the green boys and greybeards in his command, choosing eight men in their prime: Ty and Mully, Left Hand Lew, Big Liddle, Rory, Fulk the Flea, Garrett Greenspear. And Leathers, Castle Black's new master-at-arms, to show the free folk that even a man who had fought for Mance in the battle beneath the Wall could find a place of honor in the Night's Watch.
A deep red blush had appeared in the east by the time they all assembled at the gate. The stars are going out, Jon thought. When next they reappeared, they would be shining down upon a world forever changed. A few queen's men stood watching from beside the embers of Lady Melisandre'
s nightfire. When Jon glanced at the King'
s Tower, he glimpsed
a flash of red behind a window. Of Queen Selyse he saw no sign. It was time. "Open the gate," Jon Snow said softly.
"OPEN THE GATE! " Big Liddle roared. His voice was thunder. Seven hundred feet above, the sentries heard and raised their warhorns to their lips. The sound rang out, echoing off the Wall and out across the world. Ahoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo. One long blast. For a thousand years or more, that sound had meant rangers coming home. Today it meant something else. Today it called the free folk to their new homes. On either end of the long tunnel, gates swung open and iron bars unlocked. Dawn light shimmered on the ice above, pink and gold and purple. Dolorous Edd had not been wrong. The Wall would soon be weeping. Gods grant it weeps alone.
Satin led them underneath the ice, lighting the way through the gloom of the tunnel with an iron lantern. Jon followed, leading his horse. Then his guardsmen. After them came Bowen Marsh and his stewards, a score of them, every man assigned a task. Above, Ulmer of the Kingswood had the Wall. Two score of Castle Black's best bowmen stood with him, ready to respond to any trouble down below with a rain of arrows.
North of the Wall, Tormund Giantsbane was waiting, mounted on a runty little garron that looked far too weedy to support his weight. His two remaining sons were with him, tall Toregg and young Dryn, along with three score warriors.
"No one. Most of the stories you hear about dragons are fodder for fools. Talking dragons, dragons hoarding gold and gems, dragons with four legs and bellies big as elephants, dragons riddling with sphinxes ...
nonsense, all of it. But there are truths in the old books as well. Not only do I know that the queen's dragons took to you, but I know why."
"My mother said my father had a drop of dragon blood."
"Two drops. That, or a c**k six feet long. You know that tale? I do. Now, you're a clever Plumm, so you know this head of mine is worth a lordship ... back in Westeros, half a world away. By the time you get it there, only bone and maggots will remain. My sweet sister will deny the head is mine and cheat you of the promised reward. You know how it is with queens. Fickle cunts, the lot of them, and Cersei is the worst."
Brown Ben scratched at his beard. "Could deliver you alive and wriggling, then. Or pop your head into a jar and pickle it."
"Or throw in with me. That's the wisest move." He grinned. "I was born a second son. This company is my destiny. "
"The Second Sons have no place for mummers," the bravo in pink said scornfully. "It's fighters we need."
"I've brought you one." Tyrion jerked a thumb at Mormont. "That creature?" The bravo laughed. "An ugly brute, but scars alone don't make a Second Son."
Tyrion rolled his mismatched eyes. "Lord Plumm, who are these two friends of yours? The pink one is annoying."
The bravo curled a lip, whilst the fellow with the quill chuckled at his insolence. But it was Jorah Mormont who supplied their names. "Inkpots is the company paymaster. The peacock calls himself Kasporio the Cunning, though Kasporio the Cunt would be more apt. A nasty piece of work."
Mormont's face might have been unrecognizable in its battered state, but his voice was unchanged. Kasporio gave him a startled look, whilst the wrinkles around Plumm's eyes crinkled in amusement. "Jorah Mormont? Is that you? Less proud than when you scampered off, though. Must we still call you ser?"
Ser Jorah's swollen lips twisted into a grotesque grin. "Give me a sword and you can call me what you like, Ben."
Kasporio edged backward. "You ... she sent you away ..."
"I came back. Call me a fool."
A fool in love. Tyrion cleared his throat. "You can talk of old times later ... after I am done explaining why my head would be of more use to you upon my shoulders. You will find, Lord Plumm, that I can be very generous to my friends. If you doubt me, ask Bronn. Ask Shagga, son of Dolf. Ask Timett, son of Timett."
"And who would they be?" asked the man called Inkpots. "Good men who pledged me their swords and prospered greatly by that service."
He shrugged. "Oh, very well, I lied about the 'good' part. They're bloodthirsty bastards, like you lot."
"Might be," said Brown Ben. "Or might be you just made up some names. Shagga, did you say? Is that a woman's name?"
"His teats are big enough. Next time we meet I'll peek beneath his breeches to be sure. Is that a cyvasse set over there? Bring it out and we'll have that game. But first, I think, a cup of wine. My throat is dry as an old bone, and I can see that I have a deal of talking to do."
Chapter Fifty-one
JON
That night he dreamt of wildlings howling from the woods, advancing to the moan of warhorns and the roll of drums. Boom DOOM boom DOOM
boom DOOM came the sound, a thousand hearts with a single beat. Some had spears and some had bows and some had axes. Others rode on chariots made of bones, drawn by teams of dogs as big as ponies. Giants lumbered amongst them, forty feet tall, with mauls the size of oak trees.
"Stand fast," Jon Snow called. "Throw them back." He stood atop the Wall, alone. "Flame," he cried, "feed them flame," but there was no one to pay heed.
They are all gone. They have abandoned me.
Burning shafts hissed upward, trailing tongues of fire. Scarecrow brothers tumbled down, black cloaks ablaze. "Snow, " an eagle cried, as foemen scuttled up the ice like spiders. Jon was armored in black ice, but his blade burned red in his fist. As the dead men reached the top of the Wall he sent them down to die again. He slew a greybeard and a beardless boy, a giant, a gaunt man with filed teeth, a girl with thick red hair. Too late he recognized Ygritte. She was gone as quick as she'd appeared. The world dissolved into a red mist. Jon stabbed and slashed and cut. He hacked down Donal Noye and gutted Deaf Dick Follard. Qhorin Halfhand stumbled to his knees, trying in vain to staunch the flow of blood from his neck. "I am the Lord of Winterfell," Jon screamed. It was Robb before him now, his hair wet with melting snow. Longclaw took his head off. Then a gnarled hand seized Jon roughly by the shoulder. He whirled ...
... and woke with a raven pecking at his chest. "Snow, " the bird cried. Jon swatted at it. The raven shrieked its displeasure and flapped up to a bedpost to glare down balefully at him through the predawn gloom. The day had come. It was the hour of the wolf. Soon enough the sun would rise, and four thousand wildlings would come pouring through the Wall. Madness. Jon Snow ran his burned hand through his hair and wondered once again what he was doing. Once the gate was opened there would be no turning back. It should have been the Old Bear to treat with Tormund. It should have been Jaremy Rykker or Qhorin Halfhand or Denys Mallister or some other seasoned man. It should have been my uncle. It was too late for such misgivings, though. Every choice had its risks, every choice its consequences. He would play the game to its conclusion. He rose and dressed in darkness, as Mormont's raven muttered across the room. "Corn, " the bird said, and, "King, " and, "Snow, Jon Snow, Jon Snow. " That was queer. The bird had never said his full name before, as best Jon could recall.
He broke his fast in the cellar with his officers. Fried bread, fried eggs, blood sausages, and barley porridge made up the meal, washed down with thin yellow beer. As they ate they went over the preparations yet again. "All is in readiness," Bowen Marsh assured him. "If the wildlings uphold the terms of the bargain, all will go as you've commanded."
And if not, it may turn to blood and carnage. "Remember," Jon said,
"Tormund's people are hungry, cold, and fearful. Some of them hate us as much as some of you hate them. We are dancing on rotten ice here, them and us. One crack, and we all drown. If blood should be shed today, it had best not be one of us who strikes the first blow, or I swear by the old gods and the new that I will have the head of the man who strikes it."
They answered him with ayes and nods and muttered words, with
"As you command," and "It will be done," and "Yes, my lord." And one by one they rose and buckled on their swords and donned their warm black cloaks and strode out into the cold.
Last to leave the table was Dolorous Edd Tollett, who had come in during the night with six wagons from the Long Barrow. Whore's Barrow, the black brothers called the fortress now. Edd had been sent to gather up as many spearwives as his wagons would hold and bring them back to join their sisters.
Jon watched him mop up a runny yolk with a chunk of bread. It was strangely comforting to see Edd's dour face again. "How goes the restoration work?" he asked his old steward.
"Ten more years should do it," Tollett replied in his usual gloomy tone. "Place was overrun with rats when we moved in. The spearwives killed the nasty buggers. Now the place is overrun with spearwives. There's days I want the rats back."
"How do you find serving under Iron Emmett?" Jon asked.
"Mostly it's Black Maris serving under him, m'lord. Me, I have the mules. Nettles claims we're kin. It's true we have the same long face, but I'm not near as stubborn. Anyway I never knew their mothers, on my honor." He finished the last of his eggs and sighed. "I do like me a nice runny egg. If it please m'lord, don't let the wildlings eat all our chickens."
Out in the yard, the eastern sky had just begun to lighten. There was not a wisp of cloud in sight. "We have a good day for this, it would seem,"
Jon said. "A bright day, warm and sunny."
"The Wall will weep. And winter almost on us. It's unnatural, m'
lord. A bad sign, you ask me."
Jon smiled. "And if it were to snow?"
"A worse sign."
"What sort of weather would you prefer?"
"The sort they keep indoors," said Dolorous Edd. "If it please m'
lord, I should get back to my mules. They miss me when I'm gone. More than I can say for them spearwives."
They parted there, Tollett for the east road, where his wagons waited, Jon Snow for the stables. Satin had his horse saddled and bridled and waiting for him, a fiery grey courser with a mane as black and shiny as maester's ink. He was not the sort of mount that Jon would have chosen for a ranging, but on this morning all that mattered was that he look impressive, and for that the stallion was a perfect choice.
His tail was waiting too. Jon had never liked surrounding himself with guards, but today it seemed prudent to keep a few good men beside him. They made a grim display in their ringmail, iron halfhelms, and black cloaks, with tall spears in their hands and swords and daggers on their belts. For this Jon had passed over all the green boys and greybeards in his command, choosing eight men in their prime: Ty and Mully, Left Hand Lew, Big Liddle, Rory, Fulk the Flea, Garrett Greenspear. And Leathers, Castle Black's new master-at-arms, to show the free folk that even a man who had fought for Mance in the battle beneath the Wall could find a place of honor in the Night's Watch.
A deep red blush had appeared in the east by the time they all assembled at the gate. The stars are going out, Jon thought. When next they reappeared, they would be shining down upon a world forever changed. A few queen's men stood watching from beside the embers of Lady Melisandre'
s nightfire. When Jon glanced at the King'
s Tower, he glimpsed
a flash of red behind a window. Of Queen Selyse he saw no sign. It was time. "Open the gate," Jon Snow said softly.
"OPEN THE GATE! " Big Liddle roared. His voice was thunder. Seven hundred feet above, the sentries heard and raised their warhorns to their lips. The sound rang out, echoing off the Wall and out across the world. Ahoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo. One long blast. For a thousand years or more, that sound had meant rangers coming home. Today it meant something else. Today it called the free folk to their new homes. On either end of the long tunnel, gates swung open and iron bars unlocked. Dawn light shimmered on the ice above, pink and gold and purple. Dolorous Edd had not been wrong. The Wall would soon be weeping. Gods grant it weeps alone.
Satin led them underneath the ice, lighting the way through the gloom of the tunnel with an iron lantern. Jon followed, leading his horse. Then his guardsmen. After them came Bowen Marsh and his stewards, a score of them, every man assigned a task. Above, Ulmer of the Kingswood had the Wall. Two score of Castle Black's best bowmen stood with him, ready to respond to any trouble down below with a rain of arrows.
North of the Wall, Tormund Giantsbane was waiting, mounted on a runty little garron that looked far too weedy to support his weight. His two remaining sons were with him, tall Toregg and young Dryn, along with three score warriors.
