"You have shamed the Karstark name."
"Father—the Mountain was too strong. I couldn't—"
"Then you should have died fighting! As your brothers did! Not lived as a captive!"
Harrion jolted upright, breath scraping his throat. The hearth had guttered out; sweat slicked his skin despite the chill. Ever since the Green Fork he woke this way—back on Lannister straw, his father's white beard bristling like a lion's mane, the old man chasing him with a sword to cleanse the stain.
"It's a good thing Jon is here," he muttered, peering toward the Tower of Dread—only to find his view blocked by the looming Tower of the Wailing where Roose Bolton held court.
A rattle at the window. A raven pecked the panes with brisk authority.
Jon's raven.
Harrion worked the latch. The bird hopped inside, bronze message tube glinting at its leg. He fumbled out a tight roll of paper and, as he unfolded it, marveled that the creature had found his chamber rather than merely the castle rookery.
In a neat, spare hand:
Mountain clan warriors and your men have clashed. Put on your hidden mail and make it bigger. Burn after reading.
"Make it… bigger?" He held the scrap to the gray light, certain he'd misread. He hadn't.
Harrion tossed the note into the cold hearth, struck spark to tinder, and watched words curl into ash.
"I understand," he told the raven.
It canted its head, beat its wings, and vanished into the courtyard dusk. Halfway out, it wheeled back—almost as if it had meant to listen—and then arrowed away.
Harrion hauled on his hidden mail, threw a tunic over it, and headed for camp. As he neared the Karstark lines he heard it first: throats roaring, fists thudding. A knot of men were already brawling—his ice-bred Karhold spears against Jon's mountain clansmen by the look of their rough accents and wild eyes.
Make it bigger, the note had said.
Without Jon's order, Harrion would have frozen the melee, separated fools from fools, and sent for Snow. Today, he drew breath and let his father's voice stiffen his spine.
"Enough!" he bellowed, beard quivering like Rickard's in his youth. "You sons of whores—do you want your heads on my walls?"
A Karhold man lurched forward. "My lord, the wildlings stole our meat! They stink of grease and gristle!"
Harrion squinted through the press. Many of the clansmen sported glossy stains in their beards—as if displayed on purpose. One he knew at once: powerfully built, neck scarred, eyes like a wolf's.
Harken. Jon's man.
"Wildling," Harrion snarled, stepping toward him. "Drop what you stole or you don't leave standing."
"Who are you calling wildling?" Harken shot back, hitting every bruise on purpose. "We gave what we owed. Not happy? Go sob to Lord Jon—captive."
"What did you say?" Heat surged behind Harrion's eyes.
"I said stinking captive."
"We're the Northern army," a Karhold spear snapped. "Try that again."
"What if I do?" Harken spread his hands. "Harrion Karstark is a stinking captive."
There'd be no gentle staging needed. Some insults a man cannot leave unanswered.
Harrion unclasped his swordbelt and let steel drop in the dirt. "I'll knock out your teeth."
Harken tossed his own blade aside. "I'll pull out your beard."
They crashed together, the first blows landing with wet pops. No guards, no feints—just punishment. Faces reddened, then bled; mouths leaked crimson down their chins. Around them, men surged, grabbing, grappling, swinging helmets as cudgels. Smarter lads sprinted off to rouse more.
Harrenhal was a stone sea; one skirmish was a ripple. Yet ripples grow.
Elsewhere, Meiqi Saiwen was finishing breakfast when a raven clacked his shutters. Jon's bird, again. He slid out the scrap: Fight beneath the Tower of the Wailing. Come. Burn this.
He crumpled the paper, but tucked it in his breast rather than setting it alight. The raven watched him like a steward tallying accounts. He ignored it, unlatched the window, and hurried to the noise.
Wendel Manderly soon received the same summons—and kept the note as well. The Lord of Hornwood burned his.
By the time the northern lords converged on the Karstark lines, the bout neared its end. This was Karstark ground; Harken and his handful were down and groaning, faces pulped, ribs heaving.
"What in all seven hells?" Meiqi Saiwen demanded.
Harrion gave the plain truth. Meiqi grunted. "Why in the name of sense did Jon set wildlings to ration carts? I'd not have expected so green a blunder."
Then he remembered the raven's command and fell quiet. Perhaps not a blunder at all.
"Look! They're coming again!" a Karhold man cried.
A new wave of fierce men approached—some with weapons in hand. Meiqi's hand dropped to his hilt, but then he saw the standard at their head and exhaled.
Jon Snow rode with them.
He knelt by Harken. The clansman, still wheezing, grabbed Jon's sleeve and pointed at Harrion. "My lord, they beat us for giving too little, and that lord there hit me hardest!"
"A lie," Harrion said quickly. "They skimmed the rations—"
Jon cut a look at him that said play it through. Harken, gods bless him, had committed to the mask so wholly he'd forgotten there was a mask.
"Then we shall have Lord Bolton arbitrate," Jon declared, loud enough for every watching ear.
"Arbitrate? Jon!" Harrion blurted. "Your men started it! And why that flayed old fox—?"
It puzzled the onlookers as well. The quarrel could be settled in a yard. None of them had much love for Roose Bolton. Why carry this mess to his throne?
Jon ignored the grumbling and gestured. Men in white-slung stretchers stepped forward, lifting the injured. On the black churned mud, the linen gleamed like bones.
"Must we?" Harrion asked under his breath.
"I won't have my men maimed for nothing," Jon snapped—and then he turned, blocking the crowd's view, and bent to Harrion's ear.
"Weapons in the stretchers," he whispered. "Don't ask. Follow."
Harrion swallowed, palm finding the hard comfort of hidden mail beneath his tunic. Ravenwings beat through his chest.
He nodded once. And the column rolled toward the Tower of the Wailing.
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