The king was being drowned in a cacophony of voices.

"My king, this is folly, let's return to the Moat."

"Their host is too large, we should surrender."

"If we entrench ourselves here, they'll have to ford the river to reach us."

"We should charge; their army is not united."

"Discord can be sown in the enemy camp. They have all warred one another, not two years past."

"Let them come to us. See how their beasts handle a real winter."

"We cannot meet their fiery fury. Disperse and retreat, my king."

"My king, let the Dornish have them. What do we care for all these southerners and their blasted Seven?"

"The Vale has closed their passes. The Bloody Gate is nothing to the Moat."

"No food from the Reach will come in winter, we must fight or join them."

"My king, I stand with you. Whatever you choose."

"Let me lead the van. They may have one half up on us, but each of my warriors is worth ten of 'em."

Breath in. Breath out. Chatter chatter chatter. Honor. Strength. Victory. Numbers. Dragons.

"ENOUGH! Cease your squabbling. Bolton. Umber. Reed. Karstark. Manderly. Mormont. Brother. The rest of you, out."

Silence, finally. All the rabble left, save for his most powerful and most trusted. King Torrhen Stark loomed above the map in his command tent, wooden blocks showing the diverse banners arrayed in front of him.

"Tell me, my lords. What can you do for me if I choose to fight? Would you advise to stand our ground, retreat or surrender?"

Karlon Karstark shuffled on his feet. Harkon Umber sported a ferocious snarl, his one eye promising death and savagery. Bert Bolton remained as ever, enigmatically quiet. Roald Reed was much the same, but where Bolton's eyes hid truth and treachery, his friend could always be counted on. Walter Manderly, aged and bloated, jovially masked his cunning with his girth and his dimples. Freya Mormont, his brother's cousin, the insolent wench, merely shot him a salacious smirk. Brandon Snow, his brother, simply met his gaze, his dark eyes a mirror to his own, burning like ice.

The chained giant spoke first. He did not surprise.

"My boys will hold back all the man they throw at us. It's the smarter fight on our shore. But if you ask it of me, I will secure you the ford."

The skinless man almost seemed to look at Umber with emotion. Contempt. His answer did not come unexpected.

"You know, I even believe you, One-Eye. But they'll just send their dragons and all we can do is mourn your ashes. I say we bleed them. At the Neck, at the Moat, on the plains, from our keep. We bleed them dry."

The floating merman nodded along. Bolton and him did not see eye to eye, except in the war room. His reply was a pleasant surprise.

"Bolton speaks true. I abhor agreeing with him, but we will not win against the flying lizards in a second Field of Fire. Or Ford on Fire. I spied many a banner from the Reach, but no Gardeners. The Manderlys still have quiet friends in the south, and none but the Riverlords are happily united by the foreigners. If the dragons fall, the army set against us will turn on itself."

The swamp hunter pondered at that. The she-bear gently stroked the handle of her spiked mace, gentle as a lover's touch. Brandon started grinning, his smile a vicious and promising blood. Still, they remained quiet. All eyes were on Karstark. The man had stopped trembling, but his unsure smile did not speak of confidence. He only spoke when the stare of his liege became too unbearable.

"My king. My lands had poor harvests this summer. I cannot feed my people through the winter without trade from the south. Such years will come for all of us. You are my king, now and always. But my true council is to join the south before they leave us in the dust. Use our position here to negotiate."

Karlon Karstark stood straighter when he finished. It was sound council, even if it risked Torrhen's ire. A man of courage. None sneered. Harkon rubbed his eyepatch, as he did often when Karlon took over his thoughts. Torrhen gave him a slow nod.

Freya Mormont squared her feet and crossed her arms. It pushed up her teats magnificently, Torrhen noted. Freya noted that he noted. Another salacious smirk, coupled with a wink. Damn woman. Her words were the same as in most sessions.

"House Mormont knows no king but the King in the North, whose name is Stark. Command us, King of Winter."

All in attendance stood straight, echoing ‚Command us'. Blasted bastards. Torrhen couldn't suppress a grim smile, like always.
His friend Roald spoke up, though still quiet. The lizard lion lisped a little. It did not take away from how much he terrified all who knew him.

"My men can kill any in the enemy's camp for you, except the dragons and their bonded. The creatures would know."

Torrhen did not get time to think on that. Besides him, Brandon chuckled. Then he laughed. Then he wheezed, throaty gasps escaping.

"Brother. I will kill your dragons. Give me the night."

All stared at him. They had turned and looked as he laughed, of course, but now they stared. Torrhen did not need to think. His brother had spoken. He trusted him, unquestionably. He turned to his subjects.

"Roald, Freya. If you please. My lords, give me a quarter candle to listen to my brother's proposal."

When the other four had left Brandon retrieved his bow from the tent wall, wrapped in oiled furs. As he uncovered his weapons, Torrhen saw three arrows strapped to the weirwood longbow's handle, longer than the bow itself. Bow and arrows were white as the snow, carved with red runes and crying eyes all over.

Beside him, Roald sucked in a lungful of air. Stumbling past him, the crannogman took an arrow from his brother and inspected it reverently. Torrhen tried to read the inscriptions, but as he focused on the runes they became blurry and seemed to swim through the wood, tangling and winding and twisting into intelligible scrabble.

"How did you get your hands on these?" Roald's voice sounded husky, almost hoarse.

"I crafted them. Three cuttings from the Winterfell heart tree, cut in the snowfall, bathed in the springs, carved under the gods' eyes."

Roald looked at Brandon with the same shine to his eyes as he had for the arrows. He looked down on the arrow, tracing his fingers across it. When he whispered, it did not seem as if he was addressing the people in his tent but the wood in front of him.

"Inspired work. Must have been touched. Such strong interference… a reaction to the magic fire? No, they have been quiet too long. Are we headed for the second coming? What else awakened?"

It was more a murmur than proper speech, but the words still left Torrhen shivering. He wordlessly held out a hand to his brother, who pressed another of the arrows in it. It was cold to the touch, not like dead wood, but like a carved piece of lake ice. Torrhen traced the runes trying to read with his fingers. He could not quiet grasp the words on his first try and his eyes still seemed to fail him. He felt the arrow once more, and though he again could not grasp the meaning, he felt that the runes themselves had changed.

His hands did not tremble as he held out the arrow for Brandon to take back. His eyes were on Roald whose fingers were dancing up and down the carved spell in his hands. He was startled from his reverie as Torrhen addressed him

"Roald. Can it be done?"

"Yes, my king."