century, my lady. The three hundredth year since Aegon’s Conquest.” The dwarf took a

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“I will. Only . . .” The boy hesitated.

With Mormont dead, command would pass to Ser Ottyn Wythers, an old done man, and

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was Ser Marq Piper’s man; a bowman, though he’d lost his bow. His left shoulder was all

Catelyn would have liked to embrace him, if only for a moment; to sit for an hour or a

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bay wind swirled around her, flattening her gown against her body in a way that

caught the first raven that tried to escape. A moment later, it was clawing its way up

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what you want? I don’t need men of honor now. I need smugglers. Are you with me, or

you!”

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“I will make certain to keep my pouch full of pennies. Even a prince must pay his