Pouring mule blood over chunks of mule meat created a strong, foul smell in the air.
Two men climbed onto each wall of the wagon, lifted the meat, and threw it outside.
Seeing the men, nearby wolves quickly backed away.
However, the sight and smell of fresh flesh made them drool.
They did not run far, linger nearby instead with green-glowing eyes fixed on the meat.
First, the men threw out the four legs of the mule.
In an instant, three or four starving wolves with blood-red eyes pounced from all directions.
The warm, fresh meat drove them wild, causing the rest of the pack to follow right behind them.
The meat landed about fifteen feet outside the wall.
By the time the hungry wolves reached it, around thirty wolves were gathered within a two-hundred-foot radius.
“Fire!” Edmure dropped the heated stone he had been using to warm his hands and fired the first arrow, hitting a hungry wolf directly in the shoulder.
The rest of the men suddenly leaned over the wagon walls and unleashed a shower of arrows.
Over a dozen wolves were hit.
Some fled in terror, some refused to let go of their food, and others—driven mad by hunger—charged directly at the wagons.
These were the Winter Wolves of the North: bloodthirsty and fearless.
“Shoot the uninjured ones first!” Ser Blackfish shouted.
The battle was extremely short.
By the time the men with heavy crossbows reloaded for a second shot, most of the wolves had already run out of range.
The longbowmen managed to fire two volleys, while those with Dornish bows fired three.
A few fierce wolves reached the base of the wall, but they were all wounded and too weak to jump over.
“Split up and chase them down!
Don’t go farther than five hundred yards!” Edmure mounted his horse and assigned men to nine other Northern horses and ten plow horses.
Armed with bows and spears, the riders rode out in all directions to hunt down the fleeing pack.
Meanwhile, the men on foot used spears to finish off the dying wolves beneath the walls.
They also cleared away cargo crates to make a path for the returning riders.
Under the bright moonlight, bloodstains on the snow showed up clearly like ink.
Few wolves had died instantly, but those with arrows stuck in them could not run far and were quickly caught.
Some rolled and howled, while others tried to bite back, but all were eventually killed by arrows and spears.
The twenty riders returned on foot, each horse carrying one or two wolf carcasses.
The wolves that survived the northern winter were large.
Though skinny from hunger, their fur was thick and beautiful.
“This is much better than hunting,” Marq Piper panted.
His quiver was almost empty, and his spearhead was stained dark red.
“Southern wolves aren’t this fierce,” Ser Cales said, showing everyone the deep bite marks on his spear shaft.
“Is anyone hurt?” Edmure asked.
He only had a few arrows left, though his spear was still strapped to his saddle.
“No one.” “The horses are fine, too.” Edmure felt relieved by their answers.
Before the carcasses could freeze solid, the men got to work boiling water, skinning the wolves, and cooking the meat.
They salted the leftover meat and hung it up to preserve it.
By the time they finished processing all thirty wolves, it was midnight.
The wolf meat was tough and lean, but the broth tasted decent.
Edmure asked for the wolf livers, sliced them thick, and melted a generous amount of butter in a skillet.
He sautéed minced onions and garlic, seared the liver slices, and seasoned them with salt and pepper.
A raw wolf liver weighed around a pound.
Once cooked, each person only got a small piece to taste, but the delicious aroma made everyone’s mouth water.
After eating, the men loudly begged for more.
Edmure smiled and cut up some tender wolf ribs, cooking them with the same spices.
He also boiled autumn ale with ginger and sugar so everyone could eat and drink their fill.
It was unusual for the son of a high lord to cook for his men, but Edmure did not mind.
Having a few simple hobbies helped him bond with his followers.
Besides, good food was crucial for morale.
In a world of lords and peasants, sharing a delicious meal was a simple way to build loyalty and show generosity.
Edmure had seen his father, Lord Hoster, do this at Riverrun banquets by giving choice cuts of meat to trusted nobles to earn their favor.
Edmure was doing the same thing, just in his own way.
With the wolf threat gone and their bellies full, the group slept late into the morning.
After eating breakfast and packing up camp, they stretched the fresh wolf skins over wooden frames and attached them to the wagons to dry in the sun.
Edmure guessed they had cleared out every wolf within a hundred miles.
As they traveled into new territories, the smell of raw wolf pelts alone would keep other hungry packs away.
The next two days passed smoothly.
Occasionally, a few distant wolves watched them before running off.
Their only real enemy was the freezing wind and snow.
Since there were no giant beasts like snow bears along the Kingsroad, they did not even need to set up a wagon barricade at night.
On the third night, another large pack appeared.
Over a dozen wolves trailed them at first, growing to several dozen by nightfall.
This time, the men were not worried.
They waited behind the wagon walls, used another dead mule as bait, and killed thirty more Winter Wolves.
Now, every man in the party had a wolf pelt as a souvenir.
While one pelt was not enough to make a full cloak, it made a warm shoulder shawl.
The silver-gray fur was soft, smooth, and looked impressive.
Edmure planned to bring the extra skins home as gifts.
The common guards were the happiest of all.
In the Riverlands, a high-quality wolf skin could sell for a dozen silver coins—worth several months of their normal wages.
The next afternoon, the group arrived at a large bridge crossing a frozen river.
To the east, the outline of a castle was visible in the distance.
Edmure checked his map.
The river was a branch of the White Knife, and the stronghold was Seaworth Castle—the first lord’s holdfast they had seen since entering the North.
He decided to leave the main road and camp outside the castle for the night.
The castle belonged to House Seaworth, loyal bannermen to House Stark.
Edmure remembered their family motto: “Honed and Ready.” As they approached, twenty armored riders rode out to meet them, wearing thick furs and carrying a flag with a black double-bladed axe on a white background.
Although Edmure’s men wore chainmail beneath their cloaks, they kept their swords, shields, and bows within easy reach just in case.
“I am Ser Kyle Condon, serving Lord Seaworth.
Are you a merchant caravan from the south?” one of the guards called out.
“I am Ser Brynden Tully, envoy for the Lord of Riverrun,” Ser Blackfish announced, stepping forward.
“We are traveling to Winterfell to meet Lord Eddard Stark.” Hearing they were not merchants, a few guards looked disappointed; the region clearly needed trade goods.
However, Kyle Condon smiled warmly.
“Lord Seaworth was told to expect you.
He invites you inside the castle as his guests.” Before leaving home, Edmure had sent ravens to his sister at Winterfell so House Stark would expect their arrival.
Traveling through the North in winter was dangerous, and it was better to let host lords along the road know they were coming.
Of course, Edmure had not mentioned that he was coming along, too.
Ser Blackfish signaled his men, and several veterans loaded gifts from the wagons onto the horses.
These were presents for Lord Seaworth—small in quantity, but valuable.
There were southern spices like chili, pepper, cinnamon, cloves, and lemons, as well as imported eastern silks.
They also brought goods produced in Edmure’s own workshops back home: pure white sugar refined from beets, colorful woven tapestries, and strong brandy distilled from Riverlands wine.
Edmure was even experimenting with creating new spirits like whiskey and gin to sell throughout Westeros.
Edmure had prepared similar gifts for all the major northern lords.
It was a way to show House Tully’s goodwill, demonstrate their wealth, and build trade connections.
The North was a massive market.
Edmure hoped to introduce his spirits here and slowly compete with famous southern wines like Arbor Gold and Dornish Red.
Seeing that Blackfish was only bringing a few men into the castle, Kyle Condon asked, “Is the rest of your party not joining us?
Seaworth Castle may be small, but we have warm rooms, and it is safer than sleeping outside.” “Thank you, Ser Condon,” Blackfish replied, “but we do not wish to burden Lord Seaworth in the dead of winter.
My men will camp outside.” Kyle Condon was confused, but he respected their choice.
From Seaworth Castle, it was only half a day’s ride to Winterfell on horseback, though it took longer with heavy supply wagons.
After hosting Blackfish, Lord Seaworth would likely send a raven to inform Lord Stark that his guests had arrived.
Knowing they only had to spend one more night in the cold before reaching warm guest rooms in Winterfell, the men set up camp with high spirits.
Before dinner, Lord Seaworth sent out a hot feast for the men camping outside.
There was fresh oat bread, pickled cabbage, winter squash, smoked salmon, and a rich beef and barley stew.
The main dish was roasted goat, and there was plenty of warm autumn ale to drink.
It had been weeks since the men had eaten food cooked in a real kitchen, and they happily devoured every bite.