Lynn released Lyanna's hand. Her palm was warm and faintly sweaty, and the short sword she held aloft gleamed coldly in the firelight.
She was not putting on an act. She truly wanted to cut off Frey's head!
The wildest blood of the North coursed through this woman's body.
"For the glory of the North!"
Greatjon Umber grabbed the whole roast lamb he had kicked off the table, then seized a cup in his enormous hand and poured the ale down his throat.
Ale ran down his thick beard, soaking the leather armor over his chest.
"To Lord Lynn! To Lady Mormont!"
"To the King in the North!"
"Fuck the Southerners!"
Ned Stark stood at the place of honor, watching the almost uncontrollable scene before him with a complicated look in his eyes.
He glanced at his wife beside him.
There was not a trace of surprise on Catelyn's face, only the calm of someone who had expected this all along.
On his other side, Roose Bolton had already slipped silently back into his seat.
His head lowered, he leisurely sliced the mutton on his plate with a small knife, as though none of what had just happened concerned him.
But Ned knew the Earl of the Dreadfort was nowhere near as calm as he appeared.
He, too, had worried that Roose Bolton's words would lodge like a poisoned thorn in the lords' hearts.
Duty.
Yes, following their lord into battle was a vassal's unquestionable duty.
But duty could not fill stomachs, nor could it keep soldiers alive.
A war that offered no gain, only expenditure and sacrifice, could drain even the most loyal house's reserves and breed the most terrible resentment.
Not a single word Roose Bolton had spoken was wrong. He had merely voiced the private calculations everyone