Game of Thrones: The Stag's Storm

Ramsay's thick, moist lips tightened. Reek really had told him everything.

"Kinslaying, murder, raping women, flaying. Ramsay Snow, any one of your crimes would be enough for me to kill you," Gendry said. Every word he spoke mattered, and Ramsay heard them all clearly.

"Where is my Reek?" Ramsay asked, facing his fate head-on. He cared about nothing else, and hated being called Snow above all.

"Reek will be executed," Gendry said with a smile.

Ramsay drew a ragged breath, then grabbed his wooden stool and swung it at Gendry in a storm of blows. Ramsay had never received formal training; his fighting amounted to wild, chaotic hacking.

Thud! Gendry easily dodged Ramsay's attack, then drove a heavy kick into his stomach. Ramsay stumbled and fell, his insides churning. In strength and speed, he was hopelessly outmatched.

"I'll flay you, bastard." The Unsullied stepped forward and pinned Little Skin-Peeler's hands, grinding their riding boots down on his palms. Little Skin-Peeler squealed like a slaughtered pig, fixing Gendry with his cold eyes.

Gendry looked at Little Skin-Peeler. "Let's play a game, Ramsay. Don't you love setting your hounds on people?"

Little Skin-Peeler raised his head, disbelief flashing in his eyes. He rolled up from the floor, unsure whether this was real.

"From now on, you can try to escape this courtyard. But if I catch you, your punishment will be harsher. Now, begin." Gendry left the room with the Unsullied.

"Keep the watch on him loose enough to let him escape. Every time you catch him, give him a good beating. Just don't go too far," Gendry instructed the Unsullied.

"Yes, my lord!" the Unsullied answered.

Silence returned to the room. Even the Unsullied seemed to have vanished. A sense of panic gripped Ramsay. Could this be real?

Ramsay endured his pain, waiting until he felt a little better before slowly pushing the door open. All the commotion seemed to have disappeared, along with the Unsullied guarding him.

Ramsay summoned his courage. He had no time now to worry about Roose's Fanatics; those men were not loyal to him. He pushed the door open and wept with joy. It was all real. He prepared to run for his life.

But Ramsay had barely gone any distance when two Unsullied appeared at the entrance to the house and dragged his fat body back into the courtyard. Ramsay was a fat worm. A man like that could never run far.

Thud! Thud! The Dothraki Unsullied looked at Ramsay, then brought their short-sword hilts crashing down, beating him viciously. Ramsay would not die, but he would always receive a savage beating. Then the Unsullied threw him back into the room. Food and Myrish fireweed remained inside to ensure he would not go hungry.

Ramsay felt as though he had fallen into a dark, eternal night. At last, he understood the suffering of those people-the girls he had once killed and beaten. Now he was suffering the same fate: pain and torment. They struck him with sword hilts and humiliated him with slaps, humiliating the heir to House Bolton.

Ramsay missed everything about the Dreadfort: his hounds, his Good Boys. He had to stay alive if he was ever to escape this hell.

The courtyard was silent. He did not know where House Bolton's fanatics had been imprisoned, and Reek was nowhere to be seen. The Unsullied tossed down his meals, then waited outside the courtyard for their game of cat and mouse.

Ramsay began trying every means of escape. He climbed the courtyard wall, opened the gate, and even tried to bribe the Unsullied. He considered death, but could not abandon his longing for the Dreadfort, his hounds, those girls, his Good Boys.

Yet every attempt earned Ramsay an even more suffocating beating. By day, by night, at dusk, his attempts to escape were helpless.

Once, twice, three times, four times. Ramsay chose to run, only to be dragged back and beaten savagely.

What was hope? Ramsay even began to doubt whether he had any hope of survival. He howled, he feared, and he felt lonely as well. The Unsullied never spoke to him; they only beat him. They did not share a language.

Whenever Ramsay tried, whenever he attempted to flee, the Unsullied's iron fists came crashing down without mercy. They battered him with shields and sword hilts, then sent him back into his room.

No servants, no soldiers. It was like fishing. Ramsay felt trapped in a cycle, a cycle of pain.

"I won't run. I'll never run again." Ramsay curled up in a corner of his room, no longer daring to step through the door.

"Home." Ramsay even felt like a fish with a hook lodged in his flesh. No matter where he fled, he would always be reeled back in.

Ramsay even began refusing food. He dared not eat the meals the Unsullied occasionally tossed at his door, afraid he would suffer another beating.

"Who are you?" Gendry pushed open Ramsay's door and looked at the desolate, broken man. Long hair could make a person look dispirited. Ramsay's eyes, like dirty ice, had begun to lose their luster. There was no light left in them.

"Ramsay. I'm Ramsay Snow." Ramsay looked at Gendry and burst into tears. Snot mingled with his tears, making him look utterly wretched. Gendry seemed like a mountain he could never overcome. Every attempt he made brought nothing but a harsher beating.

"Do you still want to run, Ramsay?" Gendry asked.

"No, I'll never dare run again. I'll never leave!" Ramsay huddled into himself, afraid to look at Gendry's face or hear his voice again. He was a demon and a butcher.

"Power is power, Ramsay." Gendry watched Ramsay, who even tried to lick his boots, only to be stopped. "Whatever it is, if I don't give it to you, you cannot take it. You cannot escape my grasp."

"Yes. Yes," Ramsay answered.

"Write down what you've done, Ramsay."

"Yes, Lord Gendry," Ramsay said respectfully, crawling across the floor. He took Gendry's pen and paper. He knew that if what he wrote spread, Roose would abandon him. But he had no choice. He was frightened, terrified. He only wanted to live.

"Who am I?" Gendry continued.

"You are the king!" Ramsay cried, but the sight of Gendry's face immediately changed his expression.

"You are my master. Ramsay will always be your servant," Ramsay wailed, arranging his face into a pleading expression. He knelt on the floor like a dog trying to please its master.

Chapter 102: The Wolves' Parting

The wolves howled through Winterfell, making sleep difficult.

Ever since Bran's fall, his direwolf had howled beneath his window without cease.

That morning, Tyrion left Winterfell's library after spending the night reading. After giving the ill-mannered Joffrey two slaps, he ignored The Hound's threats. Tyrion walked into the guest quarters. The food in the breakfast room was cold and lifeless. Such a terrible event at Winterfell had indeed dampened everyone's spirits.

Tyrion saw Jaime and Cersei sitting with the princes and princess, speaking quietly.

"Robert isn't up yet?" Tyrion sat at the table without waiting for an invitation.

His sister glanced at him with the same contempt she had shown him since his birth. "The king never slept. He spent the whole night with Lord Stark, grieving until his heart nearly broke." Everyone knew how deep the bond between the king and Eddard ran.

"Our good Robert does have a rather large heart," Jaime said with a lazy smile.

Tyrion knew his brother's indifference toward everything all too well, so he did not care to argue. Throughout his long, painful childhood, Jaime alone had shown him any affection or respect. For that alone, Tyrion was unwilling to quarrel with him over anything.

"You should really be keeping watch in the sickroom too." Tyrion thought that if Joffrey truly became betrothed to the Stark girl, the families would be joined by marriage, and Cersei ought to make some gesture. But everyone knew Lord Eddard was at odds with House Lannister, and his siblings' pride left them unwilling to put on a show of false concern.

A servant approached. "I'll have bread," Tyrion began, "two of those little fish, and a cup of good dark beer. Oh, and a few slices of bacon, cooked crisp." Though Lord Tywin would grant him no additional privileges, the name of House Lannister at least ensured he never lacked gold or good food, rather than being reduced to a dwarf jester.

Tyrion had now noticed the twins before him, his sister and brother. Both wore deep green to match their eyes. Their golden curls were another hallmark of House Lannister. Gold adorned their wrists, fingers, and necks, making them glitter like sculptures cast from the same mold.

Then Prince Tommen, the plumper boy, spoke. "Uncle, how is Bran now?"

"When I passed the sickroom last night, he was neither better nor worse. In any case, the maester said there was still hope," Tyrion answered.

"I hope Bran doesn't die," Tommen said timidly. He had always been a good child, unlike his elder brother Joffrey.

"Bran isn't a very lucky name. Eddard had an elder brother who was killed by the Targaryens. The boy was named Bran in memory of his uncle," Jaime remarked curiously.

"You'll see, brother. The name isn't quite so unlucky after all." Tyrion tore off a piece of bread as he looked at the meal the servant had brought.

Cersei suddenly regarded her younger brother warily. "What do you mean by that?"

Tyrion looked at his sister and smiled. "Nothing else. I'm simply congratulating Tommen on getting his wish. The old maester says the boy has a good chance of surviving."

Tyrion saw Tommen and Myrcella smile happily, but the children's joy was a small matter. What caught his attention more was the glance Jaime and Cersei exchanged, fleeting though it was. Like bastards, dwarfs had to learn to observe how people treated one another. In that respect, Tyrion felt much like his young bastard friend.

"The gods of the North are cruel, letting a young child linger like that. It's truly vicious." Cersei lowered her eyes.

In Bran's room, Lady Catelyn sat beside his bed, keeping watch over her child almost day and night. She had meals brought into the room. Though there was a hard bed of her own inside, she had scarcely closed her eyes.

Catelyn's once-thick auburn hair had become a tangled mass, as though she had aged overnight. The red-haired beauty who had once dazzled the Seven Kingdoms was now slowly withering.

Catelyn insisted on feeding Bran a drink of honey, boiled water, and herbs herself. She would not leave his side for even a moment.

Eddard and the king stood beside her. Eddard's heart was heavy. His beloved son Bran lay in that bed, suffering such pain.

Bran looked wasted, thin as a skeleton, his legs twisted beneath the blanket into a sickening shape. He had yet to wake. His eyes were sunken, stripped of their usual brightness, like two black holes. The slightest force from the cold winds of the North seemed enough to scatter the child.

"The boy's injuries..." The king could not help asking Maester Luwin for confirmation once more. Though he yawned, he had stayed with Eddard and Catelyn throughout the night, as though watching over his own child.

A White Knight stood a short distance behind the king. To better attend to him, two White Knights took turns guarding him.

"Your Grace, forgive me. Young Bran has a good chance of surviving, but he will most likely forget what happened when he fell. The greater difficulty lies in his future. He will not be able to walk or ride, nor will he have children of his own." Luwin's aged face was full of pain. He had delivered every one of the lord's children and watched them grow. He hated announcing such grim news.

"Gods of the Seven," the king sighed. Thinking of Bran's future, he did not know whether to call the gods cruel or merciful. If they were truly merciful, they should give the child a swift end.

"I pray to the Seven day and night, praying that Bran will stay with me. Perhaps the gods have granted my wish," Catelyn said absently, feeling her strength and spirit drain away little by little.

"Your Grace! Lord Eddard, may I come in?" Jon knocked and entered. The staircase had seemed so long that he had counted every step. He knew Lady Catelyn did not welcome him, but he still wanted to see Bran. He had not yet decided whether to go north or south, but either road meant it would be difficult to return to Winterfell. His father was going south to prepare for war, to face that fierce young king.

"Come in, child," Eddard said, beckoning Jon over to see Bran.

The king looked startled at the sight of Jon. Up close, he truly looked just like Eddard. "He's certainly yours. The spitting image."

Catelyn's face remained expressionless. She wanted to lash out, but with the king and Lord Eddard present, this was not the time to drive the bastard away.

"Forgive me for only coming to see you now. I was so afraid," Jon said, tears running down his cheeks. He knew he could not control them. "Please don't die, Bran. Robb and I, our sisters-we're all waiting for you to wake up."

The direwolf's mournful howl came through the window again. Bran had not yet had time to give the little wolf a proper name.

"The lad has courage," the king said quietly to Eddard. "Will he be going south with you too?"

"That hasn't been decided. The Wall or the south," Eddard answered. Whatever happened, once he went south, Catelyn would not tolerate Jon remaining at Winterfell, especially now.

"Damn it, don't send the boy to the Wall. It's so cold there a man can't even piss. Besides, he's still a child. He doesn't even know what a woman is yet. One day he'll regret it. King's Landing has room for another bed, anyway. Surely you can bring your own son," the king suggested. Leaving him in King's Landing would be better than letting Catelyn vent her temper on him here.

"We'll discuss that later." Eddard frowned. His original plan had been to take his two daughters and his second son, Bran, but now Bran could no longer move. As for Jon, would taking him to the Red Keep be good or bad?

"Your Grace, you've stayed with us another night. Your health will suffer too. And the queen..." Eddard said cautiously.

"She's impatient? That's her problem. That insufferable Lannister woman," the king bellowed, his voice ringing like a bell.

"Even so, you must look after your health, Your Grace," Eddard said again.

"I'm perfectly well. It's you two who need to take care," the king replied.

"By the way, Eddard, we cannot linger here too long," the king could not help saying. He worried deeply about Eddard, but he still needed to take him away from the North.

There was no telling when the distant fires of war would return to Westeros. Every report Varys brought frightened the king. Soldiers, fine weapons-he had to prepare as soon as possible.

"I will obey your commands, Your Grace," Eddard answered gloomily. Only the Old Gods could understand his feelings.

Eddard had never wanted to go south. Bran's tragedy deepened the gloom in his heart and disrupted his thoughts. He no longer had the inclination to study Lord Cregan's strategy for marching south. His only thought was to bring more guards when he left.

Eddard hoped the king would withdraw his appointment as Hand of the King, allowing him to stay at Winterfell and keep his son Bran company. But as things stood, the king still would not abandon his determination.

Winter is coming. The pack survives, but the lone wolf dies, Eddard thought. Yet he had to leave his beloved Winterfell and the North, taking Sansa and Arya with him.

Chapter 103: Deer’s Plans

Loras helped Renly into his armor, a suit of fine steel in a deep green as rich as a dense forest.

Working color into armor required extraordinary smithing skill. In King's Landing, only Gendry's master, Tobho, possessed it. Such armor was expensive, and few people in the city were willing to pay for it, but Renly had always been lavish.

Renly stood before the mirror and examined himself. He was renowned throughout King's Landing for his good looks, tall and powerfully built, with shoulder-length hair as black as jet framing his neatly groomed face. His smiling blue eyes made a pleasing contrast with the color of his armor. There was also his antlered helm, its two magnificent antlers gleaming gold.

"Thank you, Loras." Lord Renly kissed Loras's fingers. Ser Loras was also acknowledged as a handsome man throughout the Seven Kingdoms. He had long, flowing brown hair and a pair of beautiful golden eyes.

Loras smiled shyly but did not pull away. Renly was like his sun.