Part 63 (1/2)

”Man and boy I've served the Watch, and ranged as far as any,” said Ebben. ”I've seen the bones of giants, and heard many a queer tale, but no more. I want to see them with my own eyes.”

”Be careful they don't see you, Ebben,” Stonesnake said.

Ghost did not reappear as they set out again. The shadows covered the floor of the pa.s.s by then, and the sun was sinking fast toward the jagged twin peaks of the huge mountain the rangers named Forktop. If the dream was true . . . Even the thought scared him. Could the eagle have hurt Ghost, or knocked him off the precipice? And what about the weirwood with his brother's face, that smelled of death and darkness?

The last ray of sun vanished behind the peaks of Forktop. Twilight filled the Skirling Pa.s.s. It seemed to grow colder almost at once. They were no longer climbing. In fact, the ground had begun to descend, though as yet not sharply. It was littered with cracks and broken boulders and tumbled heaps of rock. It will be dark soon, and still no sight of Ghost. It was tearing Jon apart, yet he dare not shout for the direwolf as he would have liked. Other things might be listening as well.

”Qhorin,” Squire Dalbridge called softly. ”There. Look.”

The eagle was perched on a spine of rock far above them, outlined against the darkening sky. We've seen other eagles, Jon thought. That need not be the one I dreamed of.

Even so, Ebben would have loosed a shaft at it, but the squire stopped him. ”The bird's well out of bowshot.”

”I don't like it watching us.”

The squire shrugged. ”Nor me, but you won't stop it. Only waste a good arrow.”

Qhorin sat in his saddle, studying the eagle for a long time. ”We press on,” he finally said. The rangers resumed their descent.

Ghost, Jon wanted to shout, where are you?

He was about to follow Qhorin and the others when he glimpsed a flash of white between two boulders. A patch of old snow, he thought, until he saw it stir. He was off his horse at once. As he went to his knees, Ghost lifted his head. His neck glistened wetly, but he made no sound when Jon peeled off a glove and touched him. The talons had torn a b.l.o.o.d.y path through fur and flesh, but the bird had not been able to snap his neck.

Qhorin Halfhand was standing over him. ”How bad?”

As if in answer, Ghost struggled to his feet.

”The wolf is strong,” the ranger said. ”Ebben, water. Stonesnake, your skin of wine. Hold him still, Jon.”

Together they washed the caked blood from the direwolf's fur. Ghost struggled and bared his teeth when Qhorin poured the wine into the ragged red gashes the eagle had left him, but Jon wrapped his arms around him and murmured soothing words, and soon enough the wolf quieted. By the time they'd ripped a strip from Jon's cloak to wrap the wounds, full dark had settled. Only a dusting of stars set the black of sky apart from the black of stone. ”Do we press on?” Stonesnake wanted to know.

Qhorin went to his garron. ”Back, not on.”

”Back?” Jon was taken by surprise.

”Eagles have sharper eyes than men. We are seen. So now we run.” The Halfhand wound a long black scarf around his face and swung up into the saddle.

The other rangers exchanged a look, but no man thought to argue. One by one they mounted and turned their mounts toward home. ”Ghost, come,” he called, and the direwolf followed, a pale shadow moving through the night.

All night they rode, feeling their way up the twisting pa.s.s and through the stretches of broken ground. The wind grew stronger. Sometimes it was so dark that they dismounted and went ahead on foot, each man leading his garron. Once Ebben suggested that some torches might serve them well, but Qhorin said, ”No fire,” and that was the end of that. They reached the stone bridge at the summit and began to descend again. Off in the darkness a shadowcat screamed in fury, its voice bouncing off the rocks so it seemed as though a dozen other 'cats were giving answer. Once Jon thought he saw a pair of glowing eyes on a ledge overhead, as big as harvest moons.

In the black hour before dawn, they stopped to let the horses drink and fed them each a handful of oats and a twist or two of hay. ”We are not far from the place the wildlings died,” said Qhorin. ”From there, one man could hold a hundred. The right man.” He looked at Squire Dalbridge.

The squire bowed his head. ”Leave me as many arrows as you can spare, brothers.” He stroked his longbow. ”And see my garron has an apple when you're home. He's earned it, poor beastie.”

He's staying to die, Jon realized.

Qhorin clasped the squire's forearm with a gloved hand. ”If the eagle flies down for a look at you . . .”

”. . . he'll sprout some new feathers.”

The last Jon saw of Squire Dalbridge was his back as he clambered up the narrow path to the heights.

When dawn broke, Jon looked up into a cloudless sky and saw a speck moving through the blue. Ebben saw it too, and cursed, but Qhorin told him to be quiet. ”Listen.”

Jon held his breath, and heard it. Far away and behind them, the call of a hunting horn echoed against the mountains.

”And now they come,” said Qhorin.

TYRION.

Pod dressed him for his ordeal in a plush velvet tunic of Lannister crimson and brought him his chain of office. Tyrion left it on the bedside table. His sister misliked being reminded that he was the King's Hand, and he did not wish to inflame the relations between them any further.

Varys caught up with him as he was crossing the yard. ”My lord,” he said, a little out of breath. ”You had best read this at once.” He held out a parchment in a soft white hand. ”A report from the north.”

”Good news or bad?” Tyrion asked.

”That is not for me to judge.”

Tyrion unrolled the parchment. He had to squint to read the words in the torchlit yard. ”G.o.ds be good,” he said softly. ”Both of them?”

”I fear so, my lord. It is so sad. So grievous sad. And them so young and innocent.”

Tyrion remembered how the wolves had howled when the Stark boy had fallen. Are they howling now, I wonder? ”Have you told anyone else?” he asked.

”Not as yet, though of course I must.”

He rolled up the letter. ”I'll tell my sister.” He wanted to see how she took the news. He wanted that very much.

The queen looked especially lovely that night. She wore a low-cut gown of deep green velvet that brought out the color of her eyes. Her golden hair tumbled across her bare shoulders, and around her waist was a woven belt studded with emeralds. Tyrion waited until he had been seated and served a cup of wine before thrusting the letter at her. He said not a word. Cersei blinked at him innocently and took the parchment from his hand.

”I trust you're pleased,” he said as she read. ”You wanted the Stark boy dead, I believe.”

Cersei made a sour face. ”It was Jaime who threw him from that window, not me. For love, he said, as if that would please me. It was a stupid thing to do, and dangerous besides, but when did our sweet brother ever stop to think?”

”The boy saw you,” Tyrion pointed out.

”He was a child. I could have frightened him into silence.” She looked at the letter thoughtfully. ”Why must I suffer accusations every time some Stark stubs his toe? This was Greyjoy's work, I had nothing to do with it.”

”Let us hope Lady Catelyn believes that.”

Her eyes widened. ”She wouldn't-”

”-kill Jaime? Why not? What would you do if Joffrey and Tommen were murdered?”

”I still hold Sansa!” the queen declared.

”We still hold Sansa,” he corrected her, ”and we had best take good care of her. Now where is this supper you've promised me, sweet sister?”

Cersei set a tasty table, that could not be denied. They started with a creamy chestnut soup, crusty hot bread, and greens dressed with apples and pine nuts. Then came lamprey pie, honeyed ham, b.u.t.tered carrots, white beans and bacon, and roast swan stuffed with mushrooms and oysters. Tyrion was exceedingly courteous; he offered his sister the choice portions of every dish, and made certain he ate only what she did. Not that he truly thought she'd poison him, but it never hurt to be careful.