4
NAN
”Lambert knows most about what I am going to tell you,” Lady Worsted said, ”So we will not wait for him. I want you to travel North while the roads are still open and find out the truth about Jon Snow's death.” Nan looked at her incredulously.
”What makes you think I can do that?”
Lady Worsted smiled again and Purlybell looked at her apprehensively, as if unused to such bonhomie.
”Fools never doubt themselves, child, only the clever see the dangers and the difficulties they may have to face. Give me a person that is full of certitudes, who never pauses to think but rushes ahead and I will show you a fool. Purlybell, will you go and find Jon Snow for me?”
”Yes my Lady, of course my Lady !” Purlybell's face radiated delighted assurance.
”You see ?” The Lady asked Nan.
Nan found it hard to marshal her words. For long she had been content to babble, and her instinct was to take refuge in her usual patterns of speech and whine :”No, no, poor Nan can't, poor Nan can't !” Lady Worsted's eyes did not leave her face. Nan felt herself blushing and lowered her gaze. It was too late now, she had made her choice. Besides, this was what she had been dreaming of, wasn't it? An opportunity to travel away from Worsted, to see the world, to meet people. Beware of your dreams, they might one day come true. Surely the Lady did not expect her to pack a toothbrush and sally forth on her own to the Wall? Surely the Lady had a better plan than that? Nan knew she was clever at reading people and surviving, but she also knew that outside the walls of the castle, she was no better than a baby in arms. But the Lady knew that to, and would have factored it in her plans, wouldn't she? Besides, she could feel that if she did not shake off her idiot persona soon, she would forever remain a prisoner of it.
”You do not believe that Jon Snow is dead, then, my Lady.” Nan heard a little gasp from Purlybell. The girl had raised a hand to her mouth and was staring at the lady with huge cow's eyes.
”We have eyes in the North, my child, and the young commander was under our special care. He may be dead, or it may be a ruse. I don't know – yet. All I know is that if anyone could hold the wall, it was Jon Snow. The old men have gone, the wise ones, Joras Mormont, Aemon Targaryen, those that could knit the men together. The Wall is nothing without the Night's Watch, and the Night's Watch is nothing without a wise commander. If Jon Snow is dead, the Wall will unravel; there will be factions, men vying to replace him while their supporters fight one another. There will be quarrels, deserters, bad decisions. While the enemy increases in strength, the Night's Watch will decrease. The Wall will collapse from the inside and the white walkers will only have to step over its ruins to invade the South. Of course we can always prepare for the worst, but it is always better to know what we are dealing with.” Nan felt sudden excitement rush through her veins. She should have trusted the Lady.
”You have thought this out, haven't you, my Lady?” Lady Worsted chuckled.
”Of course, but not I only – we have. While some are busy playing the game of thrones, we have been playing another game.”
”A game?”
”We call it the game of crones, for it started a long time ago, when the mad King Targaryen ruled over Westeros.”
”He was a bad man. He killed people.” This from Purlybell the well-informed. The lady paid no attention to her.
”One day, a group of Ladies found themselves together at King's Landing. They were all in black, all mourning a loved one killed by the King for no other reason but that he had fancied them a threat. My mother was Lady Worsted, then.”
”Lady Purlieu.” Purlybell nodded sapiently, adding : ”She knitted lovely cables.”
” She had lost a son, Lord Lambas, butchered by the King's guard on a King's whim. My mother was like you, Nan, she could read people, and now, in this small room, surrounded by women in black who had lost a husband, a son, a father or a brother, women who may themselves have been molested, she could feel the resentment and the hatred and knew this small circle was like the foundation row upon which she could knit a force together against the tyranny of the king. So she put down her needles with a clack – ”
”What had she been knitting, my Lady?” Lady Worsted went on unheeding.
”And she said –”
”House Worsted does not raise its lambs for the slaughter.”
Nan gave a start. She had not heard the door open or footsteps from the newcomer. She did not turn round, having recognized the voice as Lambert Dram's. She heard herself whisper in echo : ”House Worsted does do raise its lambs for the slaughter.” The words had a special resonance for her. When Cersei Lannister had once stopped at Castle Worsted on her way back to King's Landing, she had looked at Nan with disfavor. Nan had drooled over her feet for a joke, then, and the Queen had slapped her, saying that it was a kindness to everyone when such errors of nature were given swift dispatch. ”House Worsted does not raise its lambs for the slaughter,” Lady Worsted had said, and though no one could fault her for lack of reverence, the ice in her voice had raised a blush on the cheeks of the Lannister's bitch. King Robert had ruffled her hair and scratched her ears, then, so she had drooled over his feet too, which just made him laugh. He was a fat man with bad breath, she did not think him kingly at all.
”Welcome, Lambert. And you are right, these were my mother's words. Of course, it was just a spur of the moment thing. But she could see that the women shared her outrage, and she added : there must be something we can do to make it better. They did not know what, and at first, they had no plan. None of them was used to games of strategy, their only strength was that they were good at keeping silent and remaining unseen. Of all the subjects of the mad king, they were the least suspect because he ignored them. So they started by exchanging information, using a coded language. If the messages were intercepted, it looked as if they had been exchanging patterns or recipes, but for those in the know, it was quite another matter. All the great houses were called by the name of a stich. Garter for Lannister, Stockinette for Baratheon, Ribs for Targaryen, Seed for Highgarden..”
”And for House Worsted?” This from Purlybell whom you could trust to fasten on inessentials.
”Slipped stitch.” Lady Worsted shook her head. ”It was like a game at first, a way of venting frustration – no one took it quite seriously, but they could communicate freely, without fear of being overheard and misconstrued by the King, so they got better and better at it. And then House Stark put out a call for help to hide fugitives, and although the main roads were watched they never suspected a party of old crones from Worsted going from village to village selling their knitted wares could be part of a plot. When the crones reached Winterfell, they knew where to collect the fugitives, and then they made their way west to the coast and then south to Worsted. From one village to the next there was always a crone to serve as their guide. At night they would sleep in shepherds' huts or small crofters' hovels. And they would leave warm socks, mufflers and mittens in exchange for the hospitality they had received. Sometimes they slept in the open, and let a pair of rabbits out of their hutch. The rabbits belonged to old Harebell Buckteeth from Angora Island, who was something of a warg. The animals would range far and wide at night, sending thoughts of fragrant herbs and nocturnal beasts. If they had scented armed men, they would have doubled back and woken Harebell. But it never happened. And the crones successfully led the fugitives to Worsted, from where they were shipped to Essos within bales of woollen cheesecloth.”
”Makes sense,” Purlybell nodded. ”Easier to breathe through than Petersham cloth.”
”Which probably does not sell so well in Essos anyway,” Lambert said. Nan could sense the irritation in his voice. Lambert was clever, with artistic flair, and she could see how Purlybell could grate on him. She liked him, though. He never scratched her ears or ruffled her hair, nor did he speak to her as if she was a child. He was always polite, and thanked her when she did something for him. And he was a stylish dresser. He did not favor bright colors, ornaments and bright buttons but plain fabrics of dark hues. The cut of his clothes was always impeccable, emphasizing his slight, upright silhouette. She wondered what she would look like in a dress of his own design. If he was to go North with them, she might take it up with him on the way. She came back to the present with a small shudder. The Crone help her, it was so easy to drift back into stupid Nan, with her short attention span and her licence to daydream.
”After that small initial success,” Lady Worsted was saying, ”they made rapid progress. You have to imagine the whole of Westeros as a network of connected crones. From crofts to castles, they span and wove their web of defiance. After a while, all the people in their protection could travel safely about the Land, under the very nose of the King's guards. Since those early days we have helped thousands, and our need to organize is now greater than ever. Whole villages are in ruins, entire regions have been scoured by rival armies. Now Winter is coming. Without villagers to cull them, the number of wolves will increase, and as food becomes rare, they will become bolder and attack the sheep.”
”The little lambkins ! And the little bunnies too !” Purlybell shrieked.
”Probably.”
”My Lord Snow will not let it happen. He will tell the wolves.”
”If he is alive, I think he will have more pressing concerns. No, we will need to organize the North. Once winter is upon us, it will be too late. We need help and I think we can cooperate with the wildlings. They seek shelter, that we can offer them in exchange for their help in defending us against wolves and brigands. But The Lord Commander is the knot that binds the North together. The Wall, the wildlings, the Northern houses. He can speak with them all. If he's dead, then everything will unravel. In times of war, people think they will die at the hand of soldiers, but it's not true. Most of them will starve or die of cold, they will die of diseases and untreated wounds, they will die of the breakdown of social bonds and exchanges. The Lannisters and the Baratheon are used to the offensive, so they think in terms of attack and plunder, but the crones have always been thinking in terms of defense. Preparing for winter is like preparing for a siege. Go North, children, carry the word of House Worsted to the Wall and let it spread thoughout the land : tell them ”cull the old rams.” They will know what it means. And bring me word about the Lord Commander.”
”And if he is dead ?”
”Hear me bleat,” Lady Worsted said.
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