ASHA
Asha stumbled outside and threw up.
Gods, she thought bitterly, this is the last thing I need, Ser Clayton will be along to enjoy the view, or Ser Godry or Ser Corliss or any of the bastards – but even as she was thinking, she was retching, and she dropped to one knee in the snow, her shaggy black hair falling in her face. Balon Greyjoy's daughter was no hothouse flower, no fainting lady in an ivory tower, but even so, she wished she could unsee half the things she had seen since Deepwood Motte was taken from her. And unhear almost all.
Her brothers had never mattered much to her. Rodrik and Maron had been drunken boors who liked to torment their little sister whenever she had the misfortune to stray across their path, and if she thought of them at all, it was to hope that the Drowned God had a few minions ramming sharp three-pointed tridents up their arses. Nor was this at all uncommon among the ironborn. With her father dead, the only man who had maintained the fragile standoff between her uncles Euron, Victarion, and Aeron, Pyke and all the rest had gone up in flames. So to speak. Brothers were always more a burden than a boon.
And lastly, Theon. They were the closest of Lord Balon's offspring in age, but Asha could not recall if they'd ever played together much as children. Besides, Theon had been only nine when Lord Balon rose in rebellion and was promptly smote down by King Robert and Ned Stark, resulting in the Greyjoys' last living son being carried away to serve as ward and hostage for the latter.
When they met again on the shores of their homeland, Theon had been a callow, arrogant, insecure, impetuous, lean, dark youth of twenty. Asha had not revealed her identity, had told him that she was Esgred the shipwright's wife, and he had nearly wet himself, in more ways than one, in his eagerness to get into her breeches. She had learned everything she needed to know of him on that ride back to Pyke, while he was attempting to grope her breast and boasting of how he'd come to be the prince again. And how much woe and strife has come of that? There was no way to make him see what foolery this entire plot was, not until it was too late. Not until he'd bled for it himself.
Yet to be sure, there could be absolutely no doubt that her brother had paid the ultimate price for his folly. I told him not to. I told him to leave Winterfell and retreat to the Motte with me, but he would not hear it, he had to have himself a castle, he had to play at being a prince. And take the heads of Bran and Rickon Stark, and mount them on their very own gates. And when the Boltons fell on him there. . .
She could hear Theon's cracked, whispering voice, as he stammered and spat through broken teeth. Telling ghoulish tales of what had happened to him in the Dreadfort, of Ramsay Bolton and flayed fingers and dogs named for dead girls and much more besides, half of which she couldn't understand and all of which she would rather not. He saved Lady Arya from the Bastard, though. He did. He risked what little is left of his life to fly her from the walls. And now he is chained as he was before. Asha jerked once more, but brought up nothing but a few dribs of bile.
Footsteps crunched above her, and she instinctively recoiled, trying to shield her humiliation. A woman, grieving as a woman does. Who was it? Ser Clayton Suggs, nay doubt, come to call her cunt a few more times in case she had missed the point before. Or another. They were all the same, these oh-so-honorable servants of King Stannis.
"My lady." The voice was not Suggs'. Nor were the hands that reached down and pulled her, with surprising gentleness, to her feet. "I'd come to bid farewell to you."
Massey, she thought. "Well then. You've bid it."
"That is not all," said Ser Justin. "I am taking the honorable Tycho Nestoris with me, to assist in gaining gold for His Grace's war from the Iron Bank of Braavos."
"Perhaps you ought try gaining gold from the Lannisters. I am told that is a deal easier."
Ser Justin laughed. "That would be the deuce, wouldn't it? Get the Lannisters to pay His Grace for fighting them? Though to judge from the vigor with which they've shot their own feet as of late, anything is possible. But it's not just that, my lady. I will hire sellswords with this gold, many thousands. And then return to help put an end to this war once and for all. . . and marry you."
That Asha had not expected, but she was not surprised. "I am wed."
"To whom? That old man, who cannot even stand on his own? Wed by proxy on the orders of your uncle Euron, so that you dare not go home lest you be forced into your marriage bed?" Ser Justin casually fingered a lock of his thick white-gold hair out of his face, and gave her one of those charming smiles. "Truthfully, my lady, I am rather insulted."
Don't try your droll little gibes with me, ser. On a purely carnal level, Asha was forced to admit that she would rather have Ser Justin in her bed as husband, rather than the ten-ton corpse of Erik Anvil-Breaker, but if all she wanted in a man was long fair hair and a strong body and tender caresses, she had Qarl the Maid for that. He has never presumed to think that I belong to him, either.
"I thought you had a ship to catch to Braavos," she said instead, stepping away from his arm. "And tides are never known for waiting."
"We do. Eventually. But I have orders to deliver Lady Arya and Alysane Mormont to Castle Black first. Lord Commander Snow will be glad to receive his little sister, no doubt, and remember everything that King Stannis has done for him. Then we continue to the garrison at Eastwatch, inform them of the plan, and navigate south of the island of Skagos, before turning to Braavos."
"There is no one better than you at posing as the champion of damsels in distress the world round." Asha tried to spit out the lingering foul taste in her mouth. "Goodbye, then."
Ser Justin bowed, kissed her hand before she could stop him, then strode away. Asha would be more grieved to lose the company of the She-Bear rather than Massey, truth be told. But to judge from the state that Lady Arya was in, she could use at least one caring female companion, and Alysane Mormont, for all her gruffness, had a blunt, honest soul. Jon Snow will shield her too, at least. We Greyjoys may have killed your little brothers, Lord Commander, but we saved your sister from a monster's clutches. That must count for something.
Asha stood in the mud in the middle of the camp. More snow was swirling out of the dim sky. Theon thinks the Bastard of Bolton will fall on us at any moment. So why were the Baratheon forces, such as remained of them, not yet at muster? Why no call to arms, why only Ser Justin sneaking out the back with his highborn girls and his Braavosi banker, and not –
"Cunt!"
Asha grimaced. She turned, suddenly wishing that Massey hadn't hared off so quickly after all, and met the eyes of three of the worst: Ser Clayton Suggs, Ser Corliss Penny, and Ser Richard Horpe. They were staring at her as they customarily did: as if she was a half-rotted but still choice slab of meat they'd found hanging in a smokehouse somewhere. Ser Clayton and Ser Corliss were, at least. The only thing she had ever known Ser Richard to care about was death.
"Aye?" she said, icily regal.
Ser Clayton smirked at her. "We've had a thought, the three of us. And you'll be coming with us to present it to the king."
Asha almost came back with the retort that this must surely be due to the fact that even the three of them together were unable to manage one thought, but restrained. She had no wish to lose as many teeth as Theon, and she might, if she gave Ser Clayton a chance to start hitting her.
"As it please you, sers," she said, and grimaced as they turned back toward the holdfast. The king will not enjoy this. But then, neither will any of us.
Her brother was still dangling in his chains when they entered, Stannis still sitting at the table with his parchments. Sure enough, he glanced up with a thunderous frown. "What is the meaning of this? Did I summon you?"
"Your Grace." Ser Richard took a knee. "You did not. But we had a notion. The turncloak will be given to the fires before we march on the Bastard, is that not the arrangement?"
"Ramsay," Theon's voice hissed, small and distant as the wind through trees. "Ramsay Bolton. Call him by his name."
Ser Richard paid no attention. Neither did Stannis. The king rose from his chair, glared around at the knights and Asha. "What I do with my prisoners is mine own concern."
"Take his head off, if you must kill him," Asha blurted out, even though she had asked Stannis this same favor not an hour before and had it just as cursorily rebuffed. "By your own hand, before the old gods. The old way. He says. . ."
"He says much and more. None of which I am suffered to listen to, if it does not please me." Stannis ground his teeth. "Since you ask, Ser Richard, yes. I did intend to burn Theon Turncloak as a sacrifice, to ask the blessings of R'hllor upon our attack. And it will hearten the northmen back to my side after they saw me deal with the treacherous Karstarks, remind them that I have no quarrel with any loyal man."
"It won't, Your Grace." Asha could have bit her tongue as the king's eyes trained stonily on her. "Not if you give him to the red god. The Flints and the Liddles and the Wulls, all the mountain clans. The only gods they bow to are the – "
"The trees. Yes. I was not born yesterday, Lady Asha, nor do I recall asking your counsel. What matter? God is god. And if the northmen will continue to follow me as king, they will accept R'hllor as their own."
Never, Asha thought. Not even if the Long Night should come again tomorrow. She had learned something of the ways of the north, during her time in Deepwood and from the Glovers, and from Theon's various disastrous mummeries in Winterfell. "My lord, you need every man against the Boltons. Do not give them any desire, not even a glimmer, to turn away from you at the hour of the wolf."
"As to that, my lady." Stannis turned away, went to a trunk, and pulled something out of it, wrapped in dark cloth. "I intend a subtler gambit for this Ramsay."
"Aye, Your Grace," Ser Clayton said eagerly. "And that was our idea. The kraken whore here, she's pleaded for her brother. Said she'll pay a ransom. He himself has sworn to serve you, if you let him down from his chains."
"Did you mishear at the first, Suggs? He is for the flames."
"But – Your Grace, listen. Let the Greyjoys prove that they are no traitors. Let Asha take Karstark's place."
Stannis turned to stare at him. "What madness?"
"It was Arnolf Karstark you intended that bracelet for, wasn't it? If he was so eager to become Ramsay's man, you said, you'd see to it that he was sent back to him. But if Asha was willing to submit herself instead. . . demonstrate their loyalty, if they have a shred of it. . ."
"You rave, Suggs." Stannis set down the cloth-wrapped object. "Firstly, Lady Melisandre was quite clear on this matter. It is not a sorcery, nothing that can change a form entirely. Only glamour and bits of shadow and flame, a suggestion, so that a man sees what he is told to see. Strong enough for a working, but nothing that would convincingly disguise Lady Asha as myself. Secondly, it was Arnolf Karstark who did the crime, and Arnolf Karstark who must bear the sentence. I will not send Lady Asha to die in his place for sins which are not hers. And besides, I need her. I must show the northmen that all the ironborn have been broken, crushed under my power."
"You'll do that quick enough, if you lop off the Turncloak's head or toss him shrieking on a pyre."
"No, I said. It is not just. And I promised Ser Justin that if he did me good service in Braavos, he could have the woman to wife. I will not sunder that word with him not yet even sailed."
"Her?" Ser Corliss gawked. "Give Massey a tumble with one of those Braavosi courtesans, he'll forget about the Greyjoy cunt quick enough. Your Grace – "
"I will hear no more from any of you. We waste time in this fool's palaver. Horpe, bring me Lord Karstark."
Ser Richard bowed and retreated. The rest of them were abruptly left with naught to do but wait, and try to avoid looking at Theon in his chains. Asha felt a sudden wateriness in her stomach. She was not entirely certain what fate she had just avoided, but she did know beyond all doubt that it was a horrible one. What was that about disguising myself as the king? What is in that cloth?
At last, Horpe returned with Karstark. Having had a few hours at his leisure to contemplate his poor life choices, Lord Arnolf was even more disheveled and wild-eyed, and he fell to his knees on sight of Stannis. "Your Grace, I've thought it all over, I'll be your liege man, I'll never waver my course again – spare me, spare my life, the others, the one who was stabbed, he's dying slow – please – "
"To your feet, my lord."
Arnolf Karstark remained a puddle. Horpe helped him up, not gently.
"I have a different fate in mind for you," Stannis said grimly. He reached for the cloth, and opened it to reveal a bracelet of hammered black iron, set with a dark cabochon ruby. "Your arm, my lord."
Karstark quailed. Horpe presented it.
Stannis took the bracelet, and snapped it around Lord Arnolf's wrist. "You will be at much leisure to discuss this over with your fellow prisoner, my lord. As we have of late been informed, the Bastard has made prisoner Mance Rayder, formerly King-beyond-the-Wall, and killed and flayed the six washerwomen with him. Mance has been hung in a crow cage, but a gentler fate may await you – or it may not."
Asha opened her mouth to ask – the gods alone knew what. But instead it caught in her throat.
Lord Karstark was changing. Flesh seemed to melt away, and hair, and he grew nearly half a foot at once. It was hard to look at him straight; there was a black mist undulating up his legs and face, making all hard and sharp and brittle, and coiling about his temples in a sparse fringe. Hollow cheeks and eyes like punctures in a deep blue sky beneath the strong brow. And in a moment more, it was King Stannis himself who stood there, staring back at King Stannis with a completely blank expression of shock.
Ser Corliss whistled. Ser Clayton took an involuntarily step backwards. Only Ser Richard did not move.
"Lady Melisandre knows her craft well." There was a quiet pride in Stannis' voice as he regarded his doppelganger. "Now, we must do this quickly. Ser Richard, escort Lord Karstark back, and give him command of the decoy host."
"But Your Grace – he's – I mean, he won't – "
"The ruby binds his thoughts and his tongue so well as his flesh. And no man's knife or forge can remove that bracelet – only the one who sealed it there. Karstark will only do as commanded, has no ability to say anything that might betray his true identity. He will act as myself until it kills him. Which it very well might, when he falls into the Bastard's hands."
Even Ser Richard looked briefly boggled at that, but recovered apace. "Very well, Your Grace. And the host – ?"
"Is to meet up with Mors Umber and his green boys. Remember, take the ragged, the sick, the oathbreakers, and any man who was caught feasting on the flesh of a fallen brother and who has not yet been given to the flames. In his lust for blood, I do not expect the Bastard to be looking closely. Lord Karstark, the decoys, and the Umbers will meet his attack."
Ser Richard hesitated. "Your Grace, if this is done, rumors of your demise will spread across the Seven Kingdoms. Your own supporters might – "
"I suspect altogether that they will." The king finally turned his eyes from his own face, and the false self which stood before him. "That is what one might call the point. Once I – which is to say, Lord Karstark – am fallen into Ramsay Bolton's hands and my so-called army is destroyed, there is no reason for the Bastard to think that aught else remains to conquer in the north. But there will be. There will be."
"What is this, Your Grace?" Ser Corliss broke in. "I beg you, help me understand."
Stannis gave a thin, hard smile. "That might be beyond my talents, Penny. But listen. If my loyal men at Castle Black receive word of my capture and likely death at Winterfell, what do you think they will do?"
"March on it at once?" Penny ventured.
"One can dearly hope. And so – with one army coming from Castle Black, and another coming from Eastwatch once Ser Justin delivers the signal, and then a third, led by myself, while the Bastard of Bolton is flaunting Mance and myself in the crow cages and threatening the Night's Watch to return his stolen bride – "
And then, Asha saw. Gods save us, she thought. This madness might actually work.