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That fool of a Clifton proclaims, “If death is our fate, let us die with swords in hand.”
Is the man expecting an applause from all and sundry? The look on his face certainly says so. Justin Massey resists the urge to roll his eyes to high heaven. Let us die with swords in hand? Oh, for shame! Humfrey Clifton never had an original thought in his life. He mouths the most banal of platitudes believing them to be the drollest of wit.
“Feel free to perish as you wish, Humfrey,” Justin drawls, languidly. Now there is wit for you. It’s a shame very few in this hall would know how to appreciate it.
“Myself, I would sooner live to see another spring,” he adds. He sneaks a glance at Lady Asha. She offers him a smile. Very slight, admittedly, but the smile is there nonetheless. A man must take these little victories, while awaiting the greatest prize to come to him.
I would sooner live to see many springs with you, my lady. He will tell her that, once they are alone. Oh yes, he will. He will –
An unwelcome voice offers an unsolicited opinion, “Some might call that craven.”
Craven? Peasebury? Who is Peasebury to call anyone craven? The lord who said not a single word to defend his own men, despite sharing in their crime, the crime for which they were punished with burning, while he walked away unmolested?
“Better a craven than a cannibal,” Justin replies, with a sardonic smile on his lips.
Peasebury’s face turns beet red. “You … you –“
Aye, aye, it is I. What will you do to me, Peasebury? Nothing, I’m sure.
An even more unwelcome voice interjects, “Death is part of war, Justin.”
Who says you can call me Justin? The overfamiliarity is Horpe’s way of putting Justin in his place. A place lower in rung than Horpe’s own. Ser Richard Horpe, the king’s second-in-command, the king’s familiar. But only because Davos Seaworth is not present. Horpe resents being reminded of that fact. He resents the fact itself even more.
And now Horpe is yammering to the hall at large about sharing plunders and glories. The man really does not know his audience. The northmen, proud of their honor, do not like it to be said that they are marching for plunders and glories. We are marching to rescue Ned’s girl from Bolton’s bastard. We are marching to liberate Winterfell from the Boltons.
Ned’s girl. Ned’s Winterfell. Ned, Ned, Ned. Stannis must be grinding his teeth to oblivion. When Justin was serving as Robert’s squire, he had been privy to the late king’s musings on the subject of his brother’s jealousy of Ned Stark. Robert was not above taunting his brother about it. He would refer to Ned Stark as “the brother I chose” in front of Stannis.
Justin’s sympathy is very much with the younger brother, on this particular matter. Not that he would ever tell Stannis that. He is not a fool with a death wish.
Horpe is finally ending his speech. “We shall send food once we have taken Winterfell,” he declares, full of unearned confidence.
Oh the fool! Surely Horpe knows better by now. “You will not take Winterfell!” Justin bellows, losing patience with this charade. This mummer’s farce. This long suicide march.
I have lost faith in more than that, but I still believe in supper, he had replied earlier, when the She-Bear asked him if he had lost his faith in R’hllor. He had meant it as a jape, to put the ladies at ease, he told himself at the time. He is not so certain now.
Before Horpe could reply to Justin’s words (and reply furiously, no doubt), Arnolf Karstark steals the center stage. “Aye, we will,” the old man pronounces, barely able to stand without clutching his son’s shoulder for support. His laughter sounds like the cackling of a wood’s witch. “We’ll take Winterfell for Ned, and for his daughter.”
Ned again? I should have taken a wager on how many times Ned Stark’s name would be bandied about tonight.
Karstark continues, “Aye, and for the Young Wolf too, him who was so cruelly slaughtered.”
Justin narrows his eyes. The Young Wolf had taken the head of Arnolf Karstark’s nephew, for the crime of slaying two child prisoners. The Karstarks had abandoned his cause after that. Are they now claiming that they are fighting to avenge Robb Stark’s death? You have to admire their shamelessness, Justin supposes. Or not, if you’re Stannis Baratheon.
“Me and mine will show the way, if need be. I’ve said as much to His Good Grace the King.”
His Good Grace? Justin snorts. He could well imagine how ungraciously Stannis had reacted to such a flagrant attempt at flattery. He loses the thread of Arnolf Karstark’s speech while imagining the contemptuous look on Stannis’ face. Old Arnie is saying something or other about bathing in the blood of Freys and Boltons. Is that what is causing the northmen to cheer?
The cheering, foot-stomping and fist-pounding goes on and on, interminably. Asha Greyjoy is carefully watching the reaction of the men who are sitting silently on their benches, southerners all. Justin watches with her. He wants to yell, “Enough!” to the northmen. The loudest of cheers will not feed any of them, will not take them any closer to Winterfell.
Lady Asha’s gaze turns to Justin. My champion, she had called him earlier. He is not such a dunderhead to believe that she truly meant it. The woman is undoubtedly clever. She would not have survived as Balon Greyjoy’s de facto heir for so long otherwise.
We need each other. We want something from one another. A mutually beneficial alliance, sealed with the vows of matrimony. Would it be better to directly propose such a thing to Asha Greyjoy? No, that smacks too much of Richard Horpe’s crude and vulgar ways. Justin would continue to court her favor instead. It is not pointless courtesy, as Horpe would have it. Form is substance, and substance is form.
Why is Lady Asha stealing another glance at him? Is she expecting him to make some sort of rejoinder to Arnolf Kastark?
The clamor in the hall has finally receded. Karstark’s words must not go unchallenged, Justin decides. It has nothing to do with Asha Greyjoy. Nothing at all. He is not trying to impress her, as Horpe has accused him of doing more than once. Not in the least. No, no, no.
“Your courage is admirable, Lord Karstark,” Justin begins. A praise costs you nothing, and it may even serve to lull your adversary into complacency, his mother had taught him. Someone should have taught Stannis Baratheon that lesson as well.
Justin continues, “But courage will not breach the walls of Winterfell.” And now for the kill. “How do you mean to take the castle, pray? With snowballs?”
A smattering of laughter greets his question. Lady Asha is not among those who laughs, Justin notes, with a slight tinge of disappointment. That is a particularly witty and biting remark, if he could say so himself. Though the Iron Islanders, like the northerners, are not known for their sense of humor.
One of Karstark’s brood replies, “We’ll cut down trees for rams to break the gates.”
“And die,” Justin retorts.
“We’ll make ladders to scale the walls.”
“And die.”
“We’ll raise siege towers.”
Justin has forgotten all about impressing Asha Greyjoy. His patience is well and truly tested. He loses his temper, something he allows to happen very infrequently. “And die, and die, and die,” he mocks, mercilessly. He does not resist the urge to roll his eyes this time. “Gods be good, are all you Karstarks mad?”
Richard Horpe sees an opening. “Gods? You forget yourself, Justin. We have but one god here.”
Fool, fool, fool! I walked into the trap un-baited. It was a trap of his own making. God. God be good. R’hllor be good. He should have said that instead. Justin curses his own recklessness.
“Speak not of demons in this company. Only the Lord of Light can save us now.”
Says the man who only believes in the Lord of Light when it is convenient for himself. Even Stannis sees through Horpe’s counterfeit piety. Justin is about to make a remark hinting at that, but Horpe strikes first.
“Wouldn’t you agree, Justin?”
It is Horpe’s hand on the hilt of his sword and not the sharpness of his gaze that warns Justin to take a step back. His pride will be bruised, aye, but no matter. Guard your temper, boy, or it will be your undoing. Smile, when you feel like scowling.
“The Lord of Light, aye,” he replies, mildly enough, though he could not manage a smile this time. “My faith runs as deep as your own, Richard, you know that.”
Which is to say, not very deep at all.
“It is your courage I question, Justin, not your faith.”
Say nothing! Do nothing! Do not react in any way. He is baiting you. Deliberately baiting you. Challenging his courage and thus his manhood in front of Asha Greyjoy, who is watching the whole thing very intently.
“You have preached defeat every step of the way since we rode forth from Deepwood Motte.”
It was not defeat he had been preaching. It was survival. And Horpe knows well enough that Justin had not been the only one opposed to this futile march to Winterfell.
Horpe’s parting shot is, “It makes me wonder whose side you are on.”
Justin could feel the blood rising to his face. His hand starts reaching for the hilt of his own sword. Guard your temper, boy. Walk away, if you must, but guard your temper, or it will be your undoing.
Would you have me look like a craven in front of Asha Greyjoy, Father?
Better a craven than a fool.
“I will not stay here to be insulted,” he tells Horpe, with mounting fury. His sword hand, itching for a fight, yanks his cloak from the wall with a tremendous force. He could hear the cloak ripping. Lady Asha could hear it too, judging from the look on her face. That completes his humiliation. Somehow, the torn cloak is the worst part of it all. It seems to stand for so much more than merely itself. Form is substance, and substance is form.
Justin Massey stalks away, more desperate to put a distance between himself and Asha Greyjoy than between himself and Richard Horpe.