Wolf's Den
He woke to the clamor of iron-shod boots and harsh voices echoing off stone. The guards were calling for the day's toil, though within the bowels of the Wolf's Den, no sun ever touched these walls. The cell was black as pitch, rank with damp, and the air so cold it gnawed the marrow. Whether it was dawn or dusk, he could not have said.
He rose slowly, the weight of the chain about his ankle dragging him down. The ring was rusted and cruel, biting into his skin. His clothes were little more than rags, coarse and threadbare, the badge of the condemned. Shorn of hair, shaven raw, his scalp itched and burned. The mark of shame was seared into the meat of his hands. P.
The gaolers wore steel washed in blue and green, the colors of House Manderly, their faces were hard and pitiless. They herded the chained men forth, one file after the other, toward the day's meager rations, a crust of black bread, a ladle of thin broth, scarcely enough to warm the belly. Then came the labor.
They were taken to the docks, where the great warships of White Harbor rested in their berths. The prisoners were yoked to ropes thicker than a man's arm, and made to haul the leviathans from water to shore. It took scores of men to drag them across the shallows, straining till their backs bent and blood ran from their hands. The ropes cut as deep as whips, and every pull tore sinew from bone.
Some labors they had broke bodies faster, like shattering stone in the quarries, scrubbing the gutters with frostbitten hands, but none weighed so heavily on the spirit as heaving those behemoths of oak and iron, hour after hour, with the sea wind in their faces and the lash at their backs.
This was the Wolf's Den, and he was its prey.
The rain came down in knives. Cold from the sky, colder still from the sea that lapped at their legs as they strained upon the ropes. The galley loomed above them like some great sea-beast, a monstrous shape of tar and timber, its painted merman's prow leering down as though mocking the men who dragged it from the water. The chains rattled with each heave, iron biting flesh, and the salt stung every blister raw.
A song rose, low at first, like the groan of men near to breaking.
"Look down, look down, don't look'em in the eyes,
Look down, look down, you're here until you die."
He found the words upon his own lips before he knew it, drawn into the rhythm of the chant. The pull of the rope, the lash of rain, the roar of the sea, they all found strength in the song.
The walls of rose sheer upon the dockside, grey and wet, and along the parapets the guards stood watching, swords at their hips, and the gaolers cloaked in sable and seafoam. Their faces showed no warmth, no more than the stone they stood upon.
Another voice took the song, harsh and hoarse, yet strong enough to carry above the storm.
"No gods above, and hells alone below—"
The rest answered as one, voices raw with pain and tears:
"Look down, look down, there's twenty years to go."
Chains clanked in time to the words. Ropes strained, muscles screamed. The galley moved, inch by inch, a leviathan dragged to shore. A third voice rose, cracked with age and sorrow.
"I've done no wrong, O Father hear my prayer—"
And the answer came, as bitter as gall:
"Look down, look down, your Father doesn't care."
The prisoner shut his eyes, the chant throbbing in his skull like a heartbeat. He could taste the words as much as hear them, bitter as iron, cold as the sea spray on his lips. Then another sang, younger than the rest, the voice of some boy taken too soon from hearth and kin.
"I know she'll wait, I know that she'll be true—"
But they cut him down like a lash:
"Look down, look down, they've all forgotten you."
The chains weighed no less heavy for the song, yet still they sang, for to sing was the only fire left to warm them. He hauled with the rest, throat raw, hands bleeding, and thought, This is how men are broken.
The galley was finally chained in its berth when the gaolers loosed them from the ropes. By then, their limbs trembled like reeds in a gale, and more than one man sagged into the muck only to be lashed back onto his feet. They were driven to the docks once more, and there the rations were cast out like scraps for dogs.
The rain had soaked their ragged wool so thoroughly that steam rose from their bodies as they sat huddled together, gnawing and slurping in silence. The sea wind was cruel, the gulls crueler still, swooping down to snatch crumbs from their hands.
He sat among them, his back to the slick wall, the iron ring about his ankle cold as ice. His fingers shook as he tore at the bread, though whether from hunger or the chain he could not say. Around him the other wretches muttered, voices cracked and low.
It was the red-bearded one who spoke loudest. A man thick in the shoulders, though gaunt as any of them, with a beard gone wild and patchy, the color of rust. His eyes gleamed as he leaned close.
"I've heard tell," he rasped, tearing at his crust with yellowed teeth, "that they let some go. Every month. One or two at least."
A bitter laugh came from an older prisoner, a man with a face cut deep by lines of age and misery. His head was scarred, and his lips curled around the word like a curse.
"Horseshit. Look about you, boy. You are condemned to hell. We all are. This Wolf has no limit in its hunger. Her den has no doors that open outward."
The redbeard only shook his head, rain dripping from his brow. "No, I swear it. I heard the guards speaking. They say their young lord, Arthur, they call him. Says he takes pity on some. Lets 'em go, if they swear words before the heart tree, here, in the Den."
That made him look up. The bread was still in his hand, though he could not taste it now. His voice came out hoarse from salt and smoke. "What words?"
The red-bearded man turned his eyes on him, a grin of broken teeth. "A vow to renounce all your old gods. The Seven, the drowned one, the burning lord, whatever wretch you prayed to. You speak the words before the weirwood, and take the old gods for your own. The tree's roots bind you, and so they let you go."
Around them, some laughed, others muttered prayers. The old man spat into the sea, as if to rid himself of the thought. Yet the prisoner sat silent, his fingers clenched tight upon the bread.
Renounce the gods. Accept the tree. And freedom.
The next day brought stone-breaking. The prisoners were taken to the quarry in the mountains, iron hammers thrust into their chained hands. The sound was endless, crack of stone, grunt of breath, the clatter of chains dragged across the rock. The cold lingered, clinging to their bones, and every strike sent shocks of pain from palm to shoulder. The guards stood with pikes and crossbows, to kill any who tried to run or rebel.
He found himself beside the red-bearded man once more, sweat running down through the grime of his shaven scalp. Between blows, when the gaolers' eyes were turned, he muttered low.
"How does a man ask for the vow?"
Redbeard struck another stone, the hammer's edge biting deep, before answering in a rasp. "You beg it to the gaolers. Loud enough for all to hear. They'll laugh and beat you, aye. But then the sound goes up, and the chief gaoler tells the lord. When the moon is full and high, they say Lord Arthur himself comes to hear the words. You kneel before the heart tree and swear, and the chains fall away."
That night, lying on the damp straw of his cell, the words burned in him. Freedom. He could taste it, even as his belly gnawed itself hollow. He thought on it as the rats skittered in the dark, as the sea crashed against the Den's black foundations, as the chain pressed his ankle to raw flesh. Freedom was worth any pain.
On the morrow, when the guards came with their lash and their commands, he begged to be taken to the gaolers. The guards only laughed, great booming laughs that stank of mockery.
"On your knees, dog, beg harder," one sneered, before driving the butt of his spear into the prisoner's gut. He fell to the stones, breathless, but when he could gasp again, the words returned. "Take me to the gaolers," he rasped.
The boot came down, again and again. Iron-shod. His ribs screamed, his lips split. Blood filled his mouth, but still he said it. Still, he begged.
And so it went for days. Work and hunger, lash and laughter, beatings that left him near broken. Yet each day, when he could draw breath, he asked. Each night, he whispered to the dark, Freedom was worth the pain.
At last, on the fourth night, the cell door creaked open. The torchlight cast long shadows, and into them stepped a gaoler clad in dark mail, a ring of keys clattering at his belt. His face was stern, his voice low and hard as stone. "Are you certain you seek this, prisoner?"
His throat was ruined, his body broken, yet the words found him still. "Aye, my lord. I would do anything."
The gaoler studied him for a long moment. At last, he gave a single nod. "We'll see."
The door closed, and the darkness swallowed him once more.
They came for him at dawn.
Not the gaolers in their blue-green steel, nor the guards with their whips and boots. These men were strangers, clad in long gowns the color of old dried blood, hoods drawn low to shadow their faces. Their silence was more fearsome than any curse, and when they beckoned him from his straw and chains, his belly clenched with dread. He thought the beatings would begin again, some fresh torment devised for the stubborn.
Yet the red-gowned men did not strike him. Their hands were gentle as they lifted the iron from his ankle. They bathed him in warm water until the filth of months was gone, scrubbed his bruised skin clean, and anointed him with oils that smelled faintly of pine and gillyflower.
They fed him then, meat, and bread soft as a pillow, and thick broth rich with barley and turnip. The taste near brought him to tears, for he had forgotten what food was. Afterward, they clothed him in white linen, soft and plain, a garb of purity. He scarcely knew himself in such raiment, his shaven scalp gleaming pale above the cloth.
When, at last, he was ready, they led him from the dungeons, down through some stone corridors he had not ever seen, until the air turned sweet with the smell of earth and rain. Then the trees rose before him.
The godswood of the Wolf's Den was no kindly grove. It was a tangle of oak and elm, birch and pine, all crowded close, their limbs strangling each other for the taste of sky. Yet it was the heart tree that ruled there, vast and terrible, a white giant that had choked the rest to silence.
Its roots were as thick as a man's waist, writhing over earth and stone alike, tearing through walls and windows of the old fortress as if no mortar could bind it. Its pale boughs clawed at the heavens, and its face, carved deep into the wide trunk, was slick with sap the color of blood. Its eyes wept red, its mouth twisted in a grimace of rage.
The prisoner's breath caught. He had seen dark things in his time, battlefields strewn with entrails, the pyres of the vanquished, but never had he looked upon such a god. What manner of men prayed to this, he could not guess, save that they were cruel as they came.
Before the weirwood knelt six others. The red-bearded man was among them, his wild beard combed neat, his face solemn. Five more knelt with him, gaunt men all, though clean now, clad in the same white linen. Together, they were six. He was the seventh. The red-gowned men guided him to his place beside them. His knees pressed into the damp earth, and he bowed his head though his heart thundered.
Then a young man came barefoot through the trees.
Lord Arthur was younger than he'd thought, yet he walked as one who was well beyond his years. His hair was pale as wheat, and the robe he wore was white and unadorned, though plain cloth could not strip him of the lordling's air. The White Knight, they called him here in the north. Whether for his hair or his tunics, the prisoner did not know.
At his hip hung a sword unlike any the prisoner had seen, a black blade that drank the torchlight and gave none back. Even in the dim of the godswood, it seemed alive, as if it whispered to the weirwood itself.
The prisoners shifted uneasily as he drew near. Here, there were no mailed guards, no iron gaolers, only the red-robed men, with candles that guttered in the damp wind. Their flames licked red against the pale skin of the weirwood, as if eager to kiss its bloody mouth.
One of the red-gowned stepped forward bearing a wide bowl of iron. What lay within glistened dark and viscous, thicker than wine, redder than any paint.
Blood, the prisoner thought. Whose blood? He did not wish to know.
The boy lord dipped his fingers into the bowl. When he drew them forth, crimson dripped from his hand, and with it he marked each man in turn. Across each bare scalp he drew runes that seemed older than the stones beneath their knees, shapes that meant nothing to the prisoner yet filled him with dread. The red beard bowed his head, silent and still as the boy scrawled upon him. One by one they were branded, not with burned steel, but with this strange script that seemed to seep into the skin itself.
Then Lord Arthur raised his eyes, blue-green and sharp, and began to speak. The words poured from his lips like water over stone, harsh in places, lilting in others. His tongue chilled the prisoner's heart.
"Be'lal mfnen sin e cuendar, Corenne sanasant, Corenne soe, Corenne sora, shar ciyat dalae, labani mi mirhage."
The godswood seemed to listen. The branches of the weirwood creaked though no wind stirred, and a bead of crimson sap ran fresh from the face, thick and wet as blood newly spilt.
The boy lord lowered his hand. His eyes swept over them, hard as steel.
"Say your words," he commanded, voice soft but carrying. "Say them, and mean them in your heart, should you crave freedom. Renounce the gods you served. Deny them. Offer yourself to the heart. Give yours to them, and you shall walk free."
The red-bearded man was first. His voice trembled, yet the words came swift, "I renounce the Seven, who turned their faces from me. I renounce the Father, the Mother, the Warrior, the Smith, the Maiden, the Crone, the Stranger. I take the heart for mine."
The others followed, one by one, voices breaking, muttering vows into the cold air. Some spat out their gods' names with hate, others wept as they said them, but all bent to the boy's command.
At last it was his turn. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth. His heart beat like a drum. The Merling King, god of his father, his father's father, and all the men of his coast. He had prayed to the deep in the hour of battle, when the Manderly fleet fell upon them like a tide. He had prayed as their ship was rammed and broken, as the sea claimed his brothers in salt and foam. And now he was to cast that god aside for a tree with a face of rage.
He could hear the sea in his blood still, whispering. Do not.
Yet the boy's cold eyes were upon him, and the black blade at his hip seemed to thirst. Freedom was worth any pain, he told himself once more. Even this.
His voice cracked as he forced the words out. "I renounce the Merling King. He is no god to me. I give myself to the heart. Let the tree be mine, if it will have me."
The weirwood loomed above, its face slick with tears of red. For a moment he thought he saw its mouth twist, as if it smiled. Then it happened all at once.
A light, faint as a spark at first, shimmered upon the scalps of those who knelt beside him. The runes scrawled there by the boy's hand glowed red, brighter and brighter still, until they burned like brands. The five men convulsed as one. Their limbs shook, their mouths gaped wide, yet no cry escaped. Their silence was more terrible than any scream.
He tried to rise, but his body betrayed him. His tongue swelled like stone in his mouth, his legs rooted fast in the damp earth. Terror clawed at him as he watched the others writhe, their eyes bulging, their veins standing stark beneath their skin as if some unseen fire ran through them.
Then the roots stirred.
The heart tree's pale limbs shivered, and its roots writhed like serpents. They slithered across the sodden ground, coiling about the fallen men, piercing cloth and flesh with equal ease. One root slid through a thigh, another pierced a chest, and another burrowed into a gaping mouth. Blood welled, black in the moonlight. The tree drank.
The prisoner saw the red-bearded man beside him, still breathing, his wild eyes wide with horror. Only the two of them remained, trembling lambs before the slaughter, as their fellows were swallowed by the hungry white roots.
And the boy lord.
Arthur stood with his eyes closed, his pale lashes resting softly, while tears ran down his cheeks. The prisoner thought him listening, though there were no sounds but the whispers of the heart's leaves. As if the gods there spoke to him. It felt like he could hear the writhing men's silent screams with every twitch and shudder. As if he felt their pain, and still, fed from it.
Like the pain a man might feel for his favored sheep.
The last man was drawn under. The earth closed, roots winding tight until only soil remained, slick with blood. The godswood was still again, save for the crimson tears dripping from the weirwood's carved eyes.
Gods… what have I done?
Arthur muttered something under his breath. Then he opened his eyes and spoke. His voice was gentle, almost kind.
"There are always a few who do not believe," he said. "And I admire you. You doubt, and so you remain." His eyes swept across them both, glimmering in the torchlight. "You must think me a monster. Mayhaps I am. But tell me, what is a few lives weighed against the lives of millions? There is a price for all things, and this… this is mine for my ambition."
He stepped closer, redbeard shuddered, his body shaking with the effort to move, but still he could not. Arthur's pale hand reached to touch the man's face. "Fear not death," the boy murmured, voice as soft as a mother's. "Death comes to us all. Fear life instead, life without purpose."
Arthur rose from his knees, brushing soil from the hem of his white robe. He lifted his pale face to the moon, swollen and bright above the ragged crown of the godswood. The silver light fell soft upon his pale hair, but his shadow stretched long and black across the roots.
"In ten years," he said, voice calm and clear, "I have brought knowledge, prosperity, wealth, and glory to this city and to my house. Many ask how I did it. Who aids me?"
He paced before the weirwood as a father might before his children. His tone was soft, but his words carried.
"They whisper that I am favored. That King Robert and Lord Eddard look kindly on me, granting me privileges above my station. And mayhaps they do. And mayhaps I am fortunate." He said as he turned towards the bloodied tree.
"Yet, still to this day, blood remains the true price," Arthur said, almost to himself. "Blood and silence, my toll for the future. If they knew, I would be the one condemned. I would kneel the same as you. Lord Stark would bring Ice down upon my neck, and it would be well deserved."
The prisoner felt his breath falter. The boy lord spoke of damnation with such calm, as though it were an old friend he had long since accepted.
Arthur paused, his eyes turning skyward again, as though he sought judgment from the moon. "Worry not for your lost fellows. For they are not lost. They are to become gold and glory. Had you believed, you would be the same. But belief cannot be feigned, and the Heart knows truth."
Arthur turned again, walking slow, his bare feet soundless on the sodden ground. "Silence is as vital as blood, and silence demands its tithe," he said softly. "Here in these woods, there can be no voice save the whispers of the tree. I wish there were another way, a better one. Alas! I can't. Not yet. Life is not as merciful as death." He turned back to them and softly whispered, "Forgive me if you can." As if he truly meant it.
The prisoner's heart thundered, every beat a hammer against his ribs. The red-bearded man whimpered beside him, though still his limbs were frozen fast, his body bound as surely as by iron chains. His lips moved, but no sound came.
The White Knight drew his sword.
Black it was, black as midnight water, the runes along its edge glowing faintly as though they drank the light from the moon itself. Its edge shimmered with some cruel fire, its weight seemed to pull at the air around it, and the godswood itself seemed to hush as the blade left its sheath.
At that moment, the prisoner knew. The boy's name might match his robes, pure, unblemished, shining as the snows of the North. But his blade surely matched his heart, dark, scarred, cold as the winters they feared.
The dark lord stepped close. The red-bearded man's eyes rolled back in terror, but the sword fell swift and sure.
The head came free as cleanly as a branch from rotted wood, rolling across the roots before coming to rest at the foot of the weirwood. Blood sprayed hot and bright, running down into the soil, and the pale roots drank greedily, like worms in their feast. The body sagged, twitching, then lay still. The red-gowned men moved at once, quick and silent, lifting it away as one might carry an offering to an altar.
Arthur turned to him then.
The prisoner could not look away. Those soft blue-green eyes fixed upon him, shimmering with reflected moonlight. The torches had been doused, and only the moon and the glowing runes upon the black blade lit the godswood now. The dark lord stepped closer.
His voice was a whisper, kind and warm, like a song his mother might have once sung, "Sleep."
The sword gleamed. The runes pulsed once, faint and cruel. And the prisoner's eyes closed, heavy as stone. The last thing he felt was the damp earth beneath his knees, and the gaze of the bloody tree upon him.