The main hall of Karhold lay half in light, half in shadow, dead still.
Aven stood at the top of the steps, looking down at Arnolf Karstark.
The sixteen-year-old stood tall and straight, his gray-blue eyes sharp and cold in the dimness.
A stark contrast to the wretched figure pinned to the floor below him.
Torchlight fell across his profile.
Half bright, half dark.
It swallowed every trace of emotion from his eyes, leaving only a bone-deep chill that held the world at a distance.
His voice came down from above.
Not loud, but very clear.
“Uncle.
Do you know your crime?”
Arnolf’s head snapped up.
His eyes were solid red.
He struggled, the soldiers’ arms clamped around his shoulders like iron bands, and he could not break free.
His whole body trembled anyway.
“Slander!” The word detonated through the hall, his voice as hoarse as sandpaper dragged across stone.
“Pure slander!
I could never do this!
Someone is slandering me!”
He glared at Aven.
The hatred in his gaze was almost a physical thing.
“You — it’s you!”
Aven didn’t take the bait.
He tilted his head slightly, his tone flat, the way a man sounds reading out a document he has no personal stake in.
“Karhold has carried rumors about what you’ve done for a long time now.
You showed no remorse.
And weapons were found in your home, including a giant crossbow.”
He paused.
“That is treason.”
Arnolf erupted.
His struggling turned violent and sudden, nearly throwing the soldiers off him.
His face went the deep, mottled red of overripe liver.
Veins stood out at his temples.
White foam gathered at the corners of his mouth.
“Aven!
You’re a fucking liar!” His voice had lost its shape entirely, cracking from a hoarse rasp into a shriek, from a shriek into a full roar.
“I want to see Rickard!
I want to see the Warden of the North!
I demand a trial by combat—”
He never finished the word.
A glance from Aven.
A retainer stepped forward without being told, one hand pressing down on the back of Arnolf’s head, the other clamping over his mouth.
Arnolf’s roar collapsed into muffled, throaty sounds, like a dog with its muzzle held shut.
His limbs thrashed.
His fingernails scraped across the stone floor with a sound that set teeth on edge.
Aven watched him.
Two seconds.
“By the laws of the realm, in the name of the Old Gods—”
He drew his steel sword.
The blade caught the torchlight and went cold white, throwing half his face back at him.
Arnolf’s eyes blew wide.
The blade’s reflection swam in his pupils.
His mouth was still covered, no sound getting out, but something squeezed through his throat anyway, high and thin and sharp, like the note from a whistle.
“Ha.
Did you think I was going to kill you, Uncle?”
Aven gripped the sword with both hands and planted the tip against the floor.
Then he shook his head.
“I pronounce judgment.
Arnolf Karstark, you are charged with treason.
The evidence is conclusive.
The crime is established.
You will shed your old clothes, take the black, and travel to the Wall to join the Night’s Watch.”
“You shall no longer be a father, a son, a husband, a lord, or a common man.”
“You will have one identity: a sworn brother of the Night’s Watch.”
“The oath is eternal, until death.
Should you break it or desert, any man who catches you may execute you.
No mercy of any kind.”
“You have no choice.
The sentence takes effect immediately.”
Two armored retainers stepped forward.
They worked in silence, stripping the outer garments from Arnolf’s body, and pulled the prepared black cloak over him.
Arnolf’s mouth stayed covered the whole time.
He could only watch it happen.
Struggling was useless now.
Aven watched the retainers finish and fall back into line on either side.
“Take my uncle to the Wall.
Let him face what’s his to face.”
Arnolf was dragged away.
One retainer drifted toward Aven, his steps careful, as though the floor might give.
His face was pale.
His lips worked before any sound came out, and even then his voice barely rose above a murmur.
“Lord Aven…
is this not a little improper?”
Aven didn’t look at him.
Didn’t speak.
“We could wait until the Lord Earl returns.
It would not be too late to hold judgment then.”
Aven sheathed his sword.
The guard struck the throat of the scabbard with a clean, sharp ring of metal.
“You’re questioning my judgment?” He looked up, one glance at the retainer.
The man dropped his gaze immediately.
“The witnesses are present.
The evidence is present.
When Father returns, he will reach the same verdict.”
Aven walked away.
The retainers stood in the half-lit hall and looked at each other, and none of them found anything to say.
One of them hesitated a beat longer than the rest.
A bald man, heavy-faced, built like something that had been left out in bad weather.
After a moment, he turned and followed.
He found Aven in the corridor, standing at a window, watching the wind and snow.
“Go, Odevin.
Complete our arrangement.”
“My lord, must it truly be done this thoroughly?”
“When cutting weeds, you pull out the root.” Aven turned back to face him.
“I’ve already prepared enough wealth to keep you comfortable for the rest of your days.
Go.
Once it’s done, someone will be there to meet you.”
“Yes, my lord.”
The bald retainer turned and walked into the shadow at the end of the corridor.
There was a window there.
Beyond the glass, the sky was black as ink.
Wind and snow hammered against the pane, a low, steady howl.
In the distance, dark mountain ranges pressed against the night.
Further out, somewhere past all of it, was the direction of Winterfell.
Aven stood at the window for a long time.
How long, he couldn’t have said.
An hour.
Maybe three.
Then hurried footsteps broke the silence.
A servant, breathing hard, panic written across his face.
He spotted Aven in the corridor and his eyes jumped with relief.
“Lord Aven!
Lord Arnolf was attacked on the road to the Wall, his throat was cut!
And not long after, Lord Odevin was found nearby.
His throat was cut too.
Just a short distance from Karhold.”
Aven turned.
His face was full of grief.
“What happened?
Is Uncle Arnolf truly dead?”
The servant couldn’t bring himself to look at Rickard’s third son directly.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Investigate.
Find out who did this.
I want justice for my uncle.”
The servant received the order and left quickly, his footsteps fading down the corridor.
Aven watched him go until he disappeared.
The grief on his face quietly dissolved.
When cutting weeds, you pull out the root, Odevin.
I kept my promise to you.
But you don’t get a next lifetime.
Wind leaked in through the cracks around the window frame, carrying the North’s particular brand of cold, the kind that finds its way into bone and stays there.
He stood before the glass and shook his head.
This goddamn ice and fire.
But Aven had already made it his.
➤ Next: Father — Words Unspoken