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The music was terrible.
"Little Bee, Little Bee, won't you dance with me?" Cousin Amerei giggled, her cheeks pink from dancing and wine. Usually Amerei's father, Uncle Merrett, was the only one drunk at dinner, but with the wedding celebration it seemed everyone was drunk. Could none of them hear the awful screeching coming from the gallery? The fiddlers and pipers seemed to be having a competition to see who could play more off key, but everyone was dancing anyway.
"What happened to your squire?" Much as she liked cousin Ami, ever since she turned fifteen she had acquired a bad habit of abandoning her cousins the moment she saw a passing youth. Little Bee couldn't entirely blame her; she supposed squires and knights were much more exciting than eight year old girl cousins. Still, it was nice to have Ami back now that she was a widow.
"Who cares about squires?" Ami laughed, twirling Little Bee in a circle. "I danced with the king, Little Bee!"
Little Bee looked across the hall. The bronze crown glimmered atop the King Robb's red-brown curls as he danced with Arwyn. She wrinkled her nose. Even from this distance she could see the sheen of sweat on the king's pale face. The King knew the dance but the way he moved was more stiff than graceful, nothing like the smooth steps of the northman beside him.
"Who's that?" Little Bee asked, squinting at a blue and yellow badge too small to make out from across the hall. The northman's dark hair brushed his shoulders as he made an elegant bow to a blushing Marissa, a maid of fourteen and Ami's little sister. A hooded mantle covered Issa's head; she was very embarrassed that Maester Brenett had to shave her hair off because she fell out of a tree and into a burdock thicket. Little Bee sniffed; it served Issa right, climbing trees was for boys.
"A Flint, I think?" Ami said, turning to look. "Robert? Robett? No, Robin." Ami giggled. "He was carrying Emberlei around on his shoulders earlier, until Uncle Lothar sent her to bed. Aunt Leonella took Tysane and Walda too."
"Why?" Little Bee demanded.
Lord Grandfather was happier than she'd ever seen him, now that Roslin was wed to Lord Edmure Tully. It wasn't fair to make her cousins go to bed so early! Now that she thought of it, she looked around, searching for the cousins closest to her in age. Cynthea and Ryella and Perra and White Walda and Edwyn's Walda were gone, as were sweet Merry and sour Shirei. No one liked Shirei. Though she was a year younger than Little Bee, Shirei was a daughter, not a granddaughter, and very high-and-mighty about it. Little Bee did feel sorry for Merry though; she hadn't even come to the feast, not after lord grandfather told the handsome young king that her name was "Noisy." Poor Merry.
"The bedding will be soon," Ami confided, bending over to whisper in Little Bee's ear before twirling her again.
Little Bee looked up at the dais. Lord Grandfather sat upon his high seat, talking to Queen Jeyne and the king's mother, Lady Catelyn Tully. All the Frey women and wives had spent half their girlhoods trying to live up to the example of Lord Hoster Tully's eldest daughter, or so Aunt Tyta said. Little Bee could see why; Lady Catelyn was beautiful in her silk gown of parti-colored Tully red and blue, poised and elegant even though she didn't look very happy. Maybe she was upset because Princess Arya had run away; Merry had heard Petyr Pimple telling his wife all about it.
At least Lady Catelyn looked happier than the bride did. Aunt Roslin was whiter than she'd been the time her brother Benfrey got kicked in the head by an angry horse. Little Bee would never be so ungrateful; she would have laughed and smiled all night if she got to wear silk and wed a lord paramount. Lord Tully, on the other hand, was as giddy as if he was the bride, beaming proudly at Roslin and toasting the lords who sat beside him.
"What's the point of a bedding?"
"None of your concern, Cersei," a stern voice said. Little Bee whirled. Her mother, Beony Beesbury, stood behind her, arms crossed. A long braid encircled her head in a sad imitation of a crown, the color neither honey nor chestnut but a dull shade somewhere in between, the same dull shade she'd given Little Bee and her sisters. To her dismay the twins stood beside her mother, as haughty as if their gowns were silk, not wool. Silk was much too costly for the wife and daughters of Ser Raymund Frey, Lord Walder's eleventh son.
"You're too young for the bedding," said Serra with a mournful sigh as false as it was dramatic.
"Time for you to join the other babies," added Sarra, smirking.
"At least babies don't get pimples." The mark hit home; Serra and Sarra turned an ugly red that made the white bumps scattered across their faces look even worse. For a moment Little Bee imagined their faces were nothing but pimples; it would serve them right.
"That's enough," her lady mother snapped, taking Little Bee by the hand. Serra and Sarra waved smugly as Mother dragged her from the room, not even letting her say goodbye to Father, who was hovering awkwardly by the dais.
"I don't want to go," Little Bee whined as her mother pulled her up the stairs that wound around the western keep. "Why can Issa stay and I can't?" Little Bee would never be stupid enough to turn herself bald right before a king came to visit.
"Your lord grandfather wanted all the unflowered girls out of the way before the bedding. Besides, you're not missing anything," her mother said tersely. "Do you really want to be underfoot while Fat Walda and Gatehouse Ami fight over who gets to strip Lord Tully first?"
That reminded Little Bee of a question that had long confused her. "Why is she called Gatehouse Ami? Uncle Merrett's chambers are across from ours, not by the gatehouse." Lady Beony frowned, tsked, and yanked harder as Little Bee struggled to keep up. At least it was a short walk.
Whenever Little Bee forgot who outranked who, the easiest way to remember was to go by their chambers. Lord Grandfather's chambers were at the very top of the western keep; Ami said they were enormous. Little Bee had never seen her lord grandfather's chambers, but Ami had been up there more than once, to answer for some offense. The next highest chambers belonged to Uncle Stevron and his sons. Stevron was nice enough, if nearly as old as grandfather, but he had died fighting for the Young Wolf, and now the chambers belonged to his eldest son, Ser Ryman.
Little Bee shivered. Uncle Stevron had kept his grandsons in line, but Ser Ryman had no interest in curbing them. Petyr Pimple was mostly harmless, but Edwyn was mean to everyone except his daughter Walda, and Black Walder was even worse, with his quick temper and quicker hands. Everyone knew that he beat the servants whenever they displeased him, and he was always roaming the western keep at odd hours of the night. Even Serra and Sarra went in fear of him, and they weren't scared of anything except Lord Grandfather and Father.
It took Lady Beony multiple attempts to open the door to their chambers, which were always getting stuck. No wonder Mother hated their chambers almost as much as Father did. As the eleventh son, Raymund Frey had the last, lowest, and smallest set of chambers in the western keep; all the younger sons who came after him lived in the eastern keep.
It didn't seem fair to Little Bee that Lame Lothar had the top of the eastern keep; he was the twelfth son, after all, even if he was lord grandfather's steward. Why should she have to sleep crammed in the same bed with two elder sisters and two younger brothers? Tysane didn't have to share with anyone, and Walda only had to share with Emberlei.
At least there was a window, even if it was a small one. While her mother checked on the twins, Little Bee looked down at the arched stone bridge her ancestors had built, the Green Fork rushing by so swift and strong that no man could cross without paying their toll. At the center of the bridge stood the Water Tower, its four sides straight and solid, lights glowing in the windows of the guest rooms prepared for King Robb and Lord Tully and their bannermen.
Little Bee had not been waiting long when she saw a gaggle of women dragging a man across the bridge toward the Water Tower, bits of clothing flying through the air into the river below. She must have missed the men carrying Roslin. One by one the Frey maidens poured into the Water Tower, and when the last was through, the men-at-arms shut the door behind them. No doubt Serra and Sarra would wake her when they came back giggling and gossiping as if they were the ones getting married.
Ser Raymund's chambers were not far from the Great Hall; Little Bee could still hear the tuneless screeching of fiddle and pipe as she crawled beneath her sheets, careful not to wake Tywin and Jaime. The twins already slept, curled up in the middle of the wool stuffed mattress that lay on the floor beside their parents' bed with its wooden frame and soft wool drapes.
She had just closed her eyes when the music stopped and the screaming began.
It was two long days before anyone came to check on them, two days of growling bellies and crying babies. The chamberpot was filled almost to the brim, even though Serra and Sarra had never returned, no more than Father had.
She did not see her sisters until late afternoon, when all the sons and daughters and grandchildren and great-grandchildren were summoned to the Great Hall. Little Bee stood with her mother and sisters, the babes left back in their chambers with a serving maid. She wondered where Father was; Lord Grandfather usually insisted on each family standing together so he could tell which children belonged to which parents.
Now that she thought of it... Ami and Issa stood with their Darry mother, Uncle Merrett nowhere to be seen. Nor did she see Uncle Hosteen, only his son Arwood with little Ryella and the twins and their Royce mother. Zia stood by her Blanetree mother, with no sign of her father Tytos or his father Uncle Jared; old Uncle Aenys stood with his grandchildren, but there was no sign of his son, cousin Rhaegar.
Strangest of all, there was no Lord Walder. Ser Ryman sat upon lord grandfather's throne, between the carved towers of black oak, a flagon of wine close at hand. To his right stood Black Walder, to his left, Lame Lothar. Was grandfather sick? And where was Edwyn? He was Ser Ryman's eldest son, not Black Walder. Now that she looked more closely, the throne was chipped and gouged as though someone had hacked at it with a sword, as was the trestle table which had been set up for the feast. There were bloodstains on the rushes too, both up on the dais and down below on the floor. Uneasy, Little Bee moved closer to her mother.
Finally, when everyone was quiet, Ser Ryman finally spoke, his voice thick with drink. The northmen had betrayed them, he said, his face redder than the wine dripping from the corner of his mouth. No sooner were the Frey maidens gone from the hall than the Young Wolf demanded Lord Walder prove his fealty by letting the northmen take their maidenheads.
Gasps echoed through the hall. Alyx crossed her arms; Arwyn put a hand to her mouth. Fair Walda stared at Black Walder, a strange look on her face; Serra swayed as if she were about to faint, nearly knocking Little Bee over.
"His own mother wept to hear such vile talk," Lame Lothar said, a tear trickling from his eye. "Lady Catelyn begged and pleaded, she beseeched the Mother to melt her son's frozen heart, but it was to no avail. Robb Stark spat upon the Seven; it was the old gods who granted him victory, and he meant to give thanks with an offering of blood in the godswood. 'Refuse,' he said, 'and you will be slain, for I have power you know not, and my wolves grow hungry.'"
A low murmur went through the hall at that, more strange glances passing between the adults.
"Lord Walder cared not," said Black Walder. "'Better that my blood be spilt than that of my beloved girls,' he said, 'for the Father will judge me justly.' The Young Wolf snarled at that, as though the name of the Father was too holy for him to bear, and he lunged at Lord Walder, his fair countenance falling away to reveal the beast within. His first victim was poor Lady Catelyn, who threw herself before him in a desperate attempt to quell the beast's rage."
Tysane uttered a little scream; Ryella and Perra burst into hysterical tears. Little Bee simply stared, confused. The Young Wolf, a warg? Having a pet wolf didn't mean Robb Stark was a wolf, no more than having a kitten made Cynthea a cat. Everyone knew magic wasn't real; she'd heard Aunt Wynafrei say so a thousand times, sick of the unwed maidens asking her for love potions and beauty spells because she was born a Whent, distant kin to Mad Danelle Lothston. That was stupid. Mad Danelle didn't need magic to bathe in blood and eat human flesh, she just needed a knife and a cook who did as he was told. If Danelle really had magic she would have turned into a bat and flown away when the host arrived at her gates, not let herself be beheaded.
When the hall was finally quiet again, Lame Lothar resumed his tale. "It was a bloody slaughter. When Stark changed into a wolf, his northmen did the same. Our men fought bravely, and at last drove the beasts out into the night, but at a heavy price." He brushed away a tear. "My brothers Jared, Hosteen, Merrett, Raymund, and Whalen were slain trying to protect our father. Some of the wolves sought to escape the hall, to chase after the maidens; the beasts killed Tytos, Rhaegar, Edwyn, and Petyr before we slew them all."
Amerei's eyes were wide and white. Issa and Merry wailed, each clinging to her mother's skirts. Robert and White Walda and Jonos clung to each other, all of them trembling. They had no mother; Jeyne Beesbury had died of a wasting illness just after the new year, leaving them to Rhaegar's not-so-tender care. Who would look after them now? Not their grandfather Aenys; he hated children. Not Mother either; although Jeyne Beesbury was her cousin, Jeyne was the daughter of the Lord of the Honeyholt, and had always looked down on Beony for being the daughter of a lowly household knight.
Mother. Why was mother's hand on her shoulder? And why was mother breathing so loudly? Little Bee thought of the names Lame Lothar had just said. Jared, Hosteen, Merrett— "Raymund?" She blurted. Had he said Raymund? He couldn't mean Father; surely there must be some cousin or nephew who shared his name, she could never remember all of them—
"Shh," her mother hissed.
Lame Lothar was talking again, something about defending the Twins in case the beasts returned. All those who were born to houses other than House Frey were commanded to write to their kin, tell them of the massacre, and beseech their aid. Though Black Walder had put a quarrel through the Young Wolf's snout, the beast might yet live and seek revenge, no doubt telling outrageous lies and accusing innocent Lord Walder of the treachery he himself committed.
Little Bee ignored the rest, her tummy buzzing as though she'd swallowed a hive full of bees. Lord Walder was dead. Father was dead.
What would happen to her with their protection gone?
For a while, it seemed the answer was nothing. Literally nothing; Mother wouldn't allow her to leave their little chambers, not even to dine in the Great Hall. For once in their lives Serra and Sarra didn't complain, and Tywin and Jaime were too small to notice, but Little Bee felt as if she would go soon mad.
Usually after her morning lessons she would run across the bridge to the eastern keep, to play with Tysane and Lothar's Walda. Sometimes Cynthea would join, though she was as quiet and boring as she was plain. At least Edwyn's Walda, White Walda, and Merry tried to be good company when they butted in, though Edwyn's Walda could be as hateful as her father if you annoyed her. Together they practiced dancing in Lame Lothar's chambers, took long walks in the godswood, shared gossip about the older maidens and their rumored betrothals. But now Little Bee had no one to dance with except her mother, she wasn't allowed outside, and the only gossip she heard was Serra and Sarra muttering to each other when they thought Little Bee was asleep.
Even that gossip was stale. Serra thought herself madly in love with some Paege squire, just as she had since he handed her a flower at a summer fair two years ago. Sarra still thought the Paege squire was stupid and poor; she kept a running list in her head of all the lords and landed knights with lands near the Twins. You could name any house between the Neck and the Trident and Sarra could tell you how many unwed sons they had, how old they were, and how much land or gold they were likely to inherit. Sometimes she tried to make Little Bee learn the list, telling her it was for her own good. Little Bee hated when Sarra did that. It would be four years at least before Little Bee flowered; half the list could be dead by then.
The only thing that kept Little Bee from smothering her sisters with a pillow was the window. From there she could see the bridge, and the bridge was always busy. Knights and men-at-arms came and went all day as they scoured the countryside for provisions. Usually they came back with full wayns, but sometimes they came back with a corpse or two, slung over a riderless horse. Outlaws were to blame, Mother said, terrible brigands who would bow and scrape before cutting your throat or shooting you full of arrows. Even worse, a few of the men-at-arms had been killed by serfs who refused to give up the grain they owed their lord.
They must be very greedy, Little Bee decided. Most serfs only had a few mouths to feed; Lord Ryman had to feed two entire keeps packed to the brim with knights and squires and ladies and children, not to mention all the servants. At least there were a few less mouths to feed now. Mother said Uncle Merrett's widow, Mariya Darry, had fled in the night less than a week after the wedding, doubtless bound for Castle Darry, where her ten-year-old nephew ruled as lord. Little Bee hoped he knew his grammar; no one would miss Aunt Mariya and her constant need to correct everyone's speech. She would miss dancing with Ami though, and making fun of Issa.
Mother said Carolei Waynwood had tried to flee too, a few days later, but she and her daughter Cynthea had been caught trying to steal a horse from the stables. Black Walder let them leave, but without the horse. That seemed unfair; it was Uncle Geremy's horse before he went and drowned, and Cynthea was a slow walker, always pausing to catch her breath while making a horrible shrill wheezing noise.
"Doesn't she know about the outlaws?" Little Bee had asked. Aunt Carolei might be annoying, always flaunting the gowns she embroidered so thickly you could barely see the wool beneath the needlework, but she wasn't a lackwit.
"Let us pray that they take pity on a mother and child traveling alone," was all Mother said. Then she made all of them pray for over an hour, even Tywin and Jaime, who mostly just crawled and babbled the entire time.
Bored by her mother's steady chanting, Little Bee's mind wandered back to the question of magic, which had bothered her for weeks. She didn't think the northmen were wargs. Wargs were just stories to scare little babies like Emberlei. Everyone was so drunk that they must have thought the northmen were wargs because of how fiercely they fought, and adults didn't like admitting that things they saw when they were drunk weren't real. Once Ser Ryman and Uncle Merrett got so drunk that they swore they were being stalked by a ghost whose mouth dripped blood. The ghost turned out to be an old man-at-arms with a harelip who was patrolling the corridors when they decided to visit the buttery in the middle of the night in search of strongwine, and his mouth was only bleeding because Uncle Merrett startled and punched him. But... Lame Lothar rarely drank, nor did Uncle Jammos or Uncle Whalen. Why would they lie?
As soon as Mother finished her prayers Little Bee ran back to the window. The Water Tower looked the same as it always did; no one was on the bridge below except boring Uncle Perwyn, who was always visiting his sister. Aunt Roslin and Lord Tully were still confined to their bridal suite, to keep Lord Tully safe in case the Young Wolf sent an assassin to finish him off. That didn't make any sense to Little Bee; if the Young Wolf wanted Lord Tully dead, he would have slain him before the bedding.
Little Bee sighed. If only there were some way she could leave her room!
Of course, when she finally was allowed to leave her room, it was only so she could stand in the Great Hall and listen as Lord Ryman blustered and swore about betrayal at the top of his lungs. He did not seem aware that he was only half-dressed, his cheeks and his hairy chest smudged with lip paint. No wonder Becca Bracken had chosen to take a vow of chastity and join a motherhouse as soon as Petyr Pimple became a page. Even being Lady of the Crossing wasn't worth being married to a great fat glutton who always had at least one slattern in his chambers. That was what Merry said, anyway. Merry always had the best gossip because people thought she couldn't talk and listen at the same time.
Lame Lothar took Ser Ryman's place, droning on about how Ser Walton, his sons, and a small band of Frey knights and squires had vanished into the night, along with nearly a dozen children and maidens, Lord Edmure Tully, Lady Roslin, and "all of our other guests," whatever that meant. The rest of his speech was a blur; it was only a little past dawn, and Little Bee was too sleepy to care about grown up nonsense, unless it meant she could leave her chambers again.
She was not allowed to leave her chambers. Little Bee grew so desperate that she began playing counting games with Tywin and Jaime. Unable to pronounce Cersei, they had started calling her Sissy, which was annoying, even if they did say it with an adorable lisp. Desperate for company, it took weeks of begging and pleading before Mother let Merry visit. They sat by the window, sharing a modest meal of cheese, venison, and bread while Merry shared everything that had happened since the day in the Great Hall.
Little Bee had missed a lot of gossip over the past two moons; her head spun as Merry chattered faster than a Bracken on horseback. The Twins were besieged, had been since a few days after the audience in the Great Hall. Zia had seen the banners flying from her window; the rearing red stallion of Bracken and the black ravens of Blackwood. Lame Lothar had gone out to talk to them under a peace banner; his mother was Alyssa Blackwood, Lord Tytos' aunt.
Everyone at the Twins knew that Lame Lothar could talk a septon into worshipping a weirwood, but Lord Blackwood and Lord Bracken wouldn't even listen. Zia said Lame Lothar barely got a word out before the lords chased him back to the keep, shouting and swearing about guest right and the wrath of the gods. That was odd. Speaking of the gods, old Septon Ryn had died after fasting for weeks and weeks, so now Septa Rosamund led the daily prayers in the western sept.
"Over an hour, every time!" Merry complained. "It used to be that I would go to the Maiden's Prayers and Mother would go for the Mother's Prayers, but now I have to go too! And she makes me go for the Crone's Prayers every morning, when no one else is even awake!"
Little Bee shuddered. Much as she would prefer praying in the sept to praying in her room, at least she didn't have to wake up that early. Merry had just begun telling her all about the hideous new gown Zia was working on when Serra and Sarra loomed over them, pimply and haughty as ever, and demanded to know about all the other maids close to them in age. They seemed oddly upset when Merry told them Fair Walda and Alyx and Arwyn were gone; Little Bee would have thought they'd be excited to be the only proper maidens left, besides Zia and Marianne Vance. Well, and Aunt Tyta, but she was thirty, practically ancient.
Merry's visits made being confined to her chambers a bit more bearable, even if Mother still wouldn't explain why she couldn't go anywhere or do anything. Time dragged on and on, and Little Bee's ninth nameday came and went. During eleventh moon it rained almost every day; several men-at-arms and a few knights died after slipping and falling from the battlements or off the bridge.
Nor were they the only deaths. In the western keep Uncle Danwell went to bed one night and didn't wake up, poor cousin Jinglebell died of a bad belly after eating a plate of mushrooms meant for Black Walder, and Janyce Hunter died after taking too much milk of the poppy. Terrible accidents were happening in the eastern keep too; Uncle Jammos drowned in the river just like Uncle Geremy, and Ser Walder Rivers was found with his skull smashed open thanks to a fall down the stairs.
The end of twelfth moon usually meant a festival to celebrate the new year. From her window Little Bee could hear men drinking and carousing inside the walls of the eastern keep, where Lame Lothar held sway, but there was no such merriment in the western keep. Somehow the buttery had flooded, almost every cask of ale and wine and mead dripping out upon the floor. Merry said Uncle Symond blamed woodworms, who had gnawed thousands of little holes in each cask as easy as an awl punching through leather.
It was the fourth moon of the new year when the miracle happened. Mother left them alone in their chambers, locking the door behind her. An hour later she returned, her hair and clothes all mussed, and announced that they would be living in the Water Tower from now on.
The Water Tower was so, so much nicer than her old rooms. The chamber they stayed in was the same suite where King Robb had so briefly stayed, a lavish, handsome chamber with an enormous four-poster featherbed for Mother to share with the twins, and three smaller featherbeds along the walls for the Serra, Sarra, and Little Bee. The door didn't creak or stick like their old door either; it was thick, sturdy wood, so thick you could barely hear someone knock to come in. It was for their own safety, Mother said, since the riverlords had surrounded both the western and eastern keep; they could storm the walls at any moment. All the widows and their children would stay in the Water Tower, defended from both sides by their noble goodbrothers and uncles and cousins.
Time passed more quickly with company. Little Bee and Merry were free to run all over the Water Tower, so long as they didn't try to go outside. They played come-into-my-castle and monsters-and-maidens with the littlest children, made fun of Serra and Sarra and Zia's constant sniping at each other, pestered Wynafrei Whent to teach them new styles of braiding their hair, harassed Aunt Tyta until she finally lifted her skirts to show them how her leg stopped just below the knee. Merry had heard that a bear had gnawed off the rest, but Aunt Tyta said she was born that way, which was much less interesting.
With so much to do, she could almost forget her empty tummy. Almost. Men-at-arms delivered food from the kitchens every morning, but as time went on they delivered less and less. After fifth moon they stopped receiving any eggs; after sixth moon they stopped receiving any meat that was not dried and heavily salted. Little Bee took to chewing each bite of food seven times, in hopes that maybe the Seven would take pity on her and somehow make her tummy feel full. Serra and Sarra turned skinny as Blackwoods; Tywin and Jaime spent all their time crying or sleeping or sucking their thumbs. Even Merry wasn't merry anymore; she complained of headaches and slept half the day instead of playing with Little Bee.
The only break to the tedium came when Black Walder or Lame Lothar would come to speak with one of the widows in private, forcing the children to go elsewhere. Lame Lothar visited more often, but Black Walder's visits seemed to last much longer. Mother's mouth always grew tight when Black Walder visited, especially when he asked to speak to her. He tried to speak to the twins once too, but when he tried sending Lady Beony away she pulled out her eating knife and told him he should speak to her again. Serra and Sarra had nightmares for a week after that strange visit. Little Bee couldn't even blame them; Black Walder was much scarier than the host camped outside their walls.
That was a disquieting thought. Lord Grandfather always said that House Frey mattered more than anything else, that family were the only people you could trust. But the more she thought of it... Black Walder and Lame Lothar had never trusted each other, no more than Mother trusted either of them, no more than Serra and Sarra trusted anyone except their twin. As for trusting House Frey... what would have happened to Ser Walton, if he had not fled? He was next in line to inherit after Black Walder, after all. Would he have eaten some poisonous mushrooms by mischance, or slipped off the bridge one rainy night?
They put us in the Water Tower to keep us safe, Little Bee reminded herself whenever those thoughts disturbed her. Lord Ryman was too drunk to care about protecting his family, but Black Walder and Lame Lothar had agreed the widows and children should be protected. Yet... Little Bee did not feel protected. She felt scared, trapped like a chick in a too small coop. What if one day there was only enough food for the fighting men? Widows and children couldn't defend the keep, or sally forth against the besiegers. Would they be left alone to starve, or be thrown out, left to the mercy of the host and the brigands in the woods?
Lacking anything else to do, Little Bee tried to distract herself with the view from the Water Tower's flat roof. The roof was so much better than her old window. From one side she could see the western keep and the great host of Blackwoods and Brackens and Mallisters camped outside it; from the other side she could see the eastern keep, surrounded by a smaller host flying dozens of different banners belonging to the many landed knights and hedge knights who lived between the Twins and the kingsroad.
The hosts did not look like wargs, or godless heathens. All they did was sit, and wait, and hunt, and eat. The scent of meat cooking over the camp fires each night was worse than any torture Little Bee could imagine. She hated that she could smell so much more than she saw. Occasionally she would see riders come and go, or see the glint of knights in armor practicing their skills, but that was all she could make out from so far away.
The only place she could see clearly was the bridge below her, and she took to rising at dawn each morning so she could watch the food delivery. Although no one was allowed to leave the Water Tower, the gates at the base of the tower remained open on both sides, guarded by men-at-arms in Frey livery. One day the kitchen servants would come from the western keep, carrying over kettles of watery stew and loaves of bread and whatever else the fighting men could spare. The next day servants would come from the eastern keep, carrying similarly stingy fare.
A dull rain was falling this morning, tufts of fog clinging to the riverbanks. Little Bee covered a yawn as four kitchen servants emerged from the western keep, accompanied by Ser Aenys. Somehow she couldn't sleep very well, even though she felt tired all the time. She leaned on the battlements as she watched half a dozen men-at-arms escort the servants into the Water Tower, just as they always did.
It seemed to take them longer than usual to hand over the food; Little Bee had almost fallen asleep by the time four men-at-arms and four servants walked back out, Ser Aenys still with them as they entered the western keep and the drawbridge was raised behind them. Little Bee forced herself to stand up and stretch, loosening stiff limbs as she watched men walk across the eastern half of the bridge and over the drawbridge to the eastern keep.
The hosts seemed closer this morning, knights in full armor lingering outside each keep just out of arrow range. She hoped they didn't try to scale the walls; she didn't want to find out what it smelled like when the defenders poured boiling water down on their attackers. Little Bee was just about to go inside for breakfast when she heard an awful shrieking noise across the bridge, the scraping scream of rusty metal.
Her breath caught in her throat. A long silent moment passed, then another shriek tore through the air, this time to her left.
Horns sounded, trumpets blew, but the knights ignored them both, sprinting toward the fading shriek, toward the narrow postern doors now opened in the side of each keep. Arrows and rocks rained down from the battlements, but for every knight who fell three more rushed forward to take his place. Panicking, Little Bee looked down. Were the portcullises lowered, or was the Water Tower still open, as it had remained for months?
Her question was answered almost immediately as the drawbridges came down, mounted knights swarming over the bridge from both sides, all of them in Frey blue and grey, but almost none of them wearing plate or chainmail. For a moment she thought they meant to defend the Water Tower... then she heard Black Walder bellow with rage as he rode his horse beneath the tower, naked steel in hand. Little Bee covered her eyes before the sword stroke fell, but she could not block out the ringing of steel, the sound of screaming horses and dying men.
Desperate to escape the nightmare, Little Bee fled the roof, down the steps to her chambers. To her horror the door was locked and barred; she pounded on it helplessly, the sound smothered by the chaos of battle. Tears streaming down her cheeks, Little Bee ran to the other doors, trying one after another without success, pounding and pounding until her fists ached and her voice was hoarse from screaming.
There had to be somewhere to hide, there had to be. Frantically she tried to remember the hiding places she'd explored with Merry, but almost all of them were within the chambers locked against her. All of them except one.
Heart pounding, Little Bee ran down the steps, toward the sound of battle. There was an old hogshead near the guardroom; the men-at-arms liked to sit on it when they ate their rations of hard bread and moldy cheese. If she could climb inside—
"Die and be damned!" Black Walder roared. Blood flew from his battleaxe as he brought it down, Ser Aenys barely dodging a blow so vicious it split the hogshead asunder. Little Bee screamed with terror, her feet slapping the stones as she tried to run back up the steps. She gave another scream as she missed her footing and fell. Her lip split as she tumbled down, each step smacking her in a different place. She tried to catch her breath, only to cough and choke, spitting out two baby teeth and a mouthful of blood.
"Put up your sword!" A soft voice snarled. Rough hands hauled her to her feet, an arm wrapping about her throat.
"Lothar." Ser Aenys' face was a mask of hate. Black Walder lay on the ground at his feet, a sword sticking out of his back. He groaned as Aenys yanked it out, pointing the blade at Lame Lothar with a grim smile. "Not so clever after all, are you?"
"I am not the one who just slew his own kinsman before an innocent witness," Lothar tsked. "A kinslayer cannot hold the Twins, no matter what our enemies have promised you."
Aenys laughed without humor, his eyes glinting. "The crow calls the raven black. Drop the girl and face me like a man; I'd like to savor killing you. Or are you as much of a craven as you are a cripple?"
The only answer was a sharp, high gasp, as though the air had been driven from his lungs. Lame Lothar swayed, the arm at her throat loosening. Little Bee wrenched herself free, her feet slipping on the bloody stones as she watched Symond pull his dagger from Lothar's back. Someone was wailing like a little baby, shrill and high and scared.
"Shh, you're safe now," Symond crooned, advancing on her. "You're Raymund's girl, aren't you? Everything will be fine, you'll see."
Little Bee saw bare steel and false smiles. She saw cruel men who had never spoken a word to her before. She saw kinslayers.
Whirling, she fled, fled toward the mass of unfamiliar knights pouring over the bridge. She fled past the few remaining men-at-arms falling to their knees in surrender, throwing aside their weapons and begging for mercy, she fled past the bodies crumpled on the bridge like so many dolls, she fled over the drawbridge and into the keep, half-blind with fear—
"Seven save us," a knight swore as she crashed into his legs. "What—"
Little Bee could run no further. She crumpled to the floor, curled up in a ball, and sobbed. Mailed fingers awkwardly patted her on the back as the strange knight murmured meaningless words of comfort; when he offered her a waterskin she took it, gulping it down so fast she almost retched it back up. She could almost breathe again when she heard him.
"Thank you for finding my niece, ser knight," Aenys said, his voice smooth as butter. "The poor thing saw part of the battle and lost her wits with fright."
"Poor girl," the strange knight said as he helped her to her feet, his hands careful not to hurt her. Who was he? She did not know his sigil; she could not even see his face, for he still wore his helm. "Is her mother here?"
"In the Water Tower," Symond answered. "It will take but a moment to return her before we yield the castle as agreed." He reached a bloody hand out to her, his face a smiling mask.
"No." Little Bee backed away until the knight's legs pressed against her gown. "No, I won't. You killed them."
"Killed who?" The knight picked her up and set her on his hip, his grip firm yet gentle, as if he had children of his own.
"The girl is hysterical," Aenys said, spreading his gnarled hands. "Who knows what she thought she saw in the confusion of battle—"
"What is her name?"
Aenys blinked at the strange knight, thrown by the sudden coldness in his voice. Little Bee clung to the knight's shoulder, burying her face against the cool metal of his breastplate. Dimly she heard Symond making excuses, Aenys silent as he tried and failed to remember who she was.
"Do you want to go with them?" The knight rumbled when Symond at last fell silent. Little Bee peeked at her uncles for a moment, at the blood that splattered Aenys' bald head, at the dagger sheathed at Symond's hip.
"No," she whispered. "They're not my uncles. They're kinslayers."
Aenys spluttered, Symond turned pale, and the knight barked a command. Men-at-arms surrounded the men who used to be her uncles, and another knight forced them to give up their steel. The world spun and spun, her skin rippling with gooseprickles as she clutched at the knight. She almost didn't hear him when he asked where her mother could be found, but she heard her mother's cry of relief when she came running to take Little Bee into her arms.