Soon he was inside, sitting next to their fire with Marwyn's book open in front of him, a pen in one hand and a wooden mug of hot honeyed tea in the other. Ginger tea. It was things like this that made Luwin believe Lord Stark was genuine when he spoke of them as investments. Rather than interlopers he was liable to execute at the merest sign of wrongdoing. Ginger wasn't exactly the cheapest herb. It wasn't even the cheapest import even in Oldtown. Assuming that was where he'd bought it rather than bringing it with him from home.
Hother left as soon as Luwin was settled across from Mullin, who was in front of him already spread out on his bedroll, like a wall between the sleeping Rhodry and the rest of their not so little hovel. The boy was doing fairly well in the day-to-day, all things considered, but he still needed a bulwark to get proper rest. Luwin didn't remark or inquire after him. It had long become clear that his best contribution was to just treat Rhodry with the same probity he used with everyone else outside his former cellmates.
Luwin was starting the second page of his dream testimony when Hother returned with Tybald, their last wayward brother. It wasn't enough to pull him away from writing though. Not until Harmune went on his nightly spiel of sullen grousing.
"So… when we gonna hear what all tha' was 'bout?"
"None of your business," Tybald muttered as he crawled to his bedroll.
"Comm'on, spill them guts 'fore I spill mine all o'er yours, huh?"
Harmune was certainly liable to puke all over him. Just what he did for Lord Stark's guards to keep slipping him wineskins, Luwin couldn't imagine. He just knew it didn't matter how many Hother took away.
"I'll spill that wine down your drawers if you don't piss off," Tybald said.
"S'cuse you! We deserve an espl'ation!"
"Since when? It's got fuck all to do with you."
"Horseshit. You'va been with them Lordy o'er n'hour." What's this now? "You don't got near as big a sob story 's all that!"
"You don't know shit about my sob story."
"So you do havva sob story! Knew it!"
"Gods, you really are drunk off your arse. Someone punch him out."
"M'sorry, Tybald old chum," Harmune slurred, not sounding sorry at all. "Dunnae mean ter be all 'nsensitive. 'S'just you've been cryin' and all, an' it cannae been cuz Lord Stark went and hugged yer or nuffin, right?"
"Lord Stark gives great hugs, I'll have you know."
That ripped Luwin out of his write-up quite thoroughly, just as he was about to finish the greybeard's description. Looking across the hut to the younger lad, he saw most of the others no less taken aback than himself. Even Umber was baffled at the claim.
Tybald shrunk under the attention, but didn't clam up like he'd done every time before. "… He's very patient."
Harmune stared at Tybald through bloodshot eyes, blinking slowly. "…Yaknow, Umb'r, mebbe y'ain't fullo' shit 'bout th' wine," Harmune mumbled, turning into his bedroll and throwing the wine skin away. Uncapped. Half-full. It splashed over Lomys, Wendamyr and Hother himself, much to general spluttering and the latter's outraged fussing that the former two seemed less and less resentful of with every day that went by.
Tybald took that opportunity to pull his covers over his head, which left Luwin unable to ask him anything even if he'd been so inclined. Or if he were anywhere closer to the front of the snow hut. And he was so inclined, considering what he'd glimpsed of his face before he bundled himself up. Tybald had looked like he'd just finished crying. But he didn't seem scared or grief-stricken or anything like it. If anything, he looked relieved.
Turning back to his book, he noticed Mullin was gazing at him in that sideways manner of his. The one that told you he won't pry but was there if you needed something.
"Go on. Enlighten me."
"Tybald Snow," Mullin said simply. "From a village along the Weeping Water."
Luwin blinked. All further thoughts of dream chronicles were pushed aside by the familiar feeling of his mind latching onto a new puzzle. He hadn't thought anything of it before. Lord Stark had summoned all of them for private meetings at some point or another. Luwin's own had been particularly arduous, especially once Lord Rickard began asking about maesters and archmaesters and teachings and their names. Still, he hadn't dwelled much on it after. Its purpose was obvious, and the toil was nothing compared to some of his tests and lessons. Like those three months earning his third silver, which started with him getting used to tasting piss every day and didn't get any better from there. Not that he'd ever liken a meeting with Lord Stark to tasting piss of course. This latest discovery though… "Commonners don't usually have surnames. Just like most small settlements and villages don't have names." Luwin sent a long glance in the acolyte-shaped lump of bedding. "Tybald Snow. From an unnamed village along the Weeping Water."
Mullin grunted and finally pulled up his own covers, settling in for the night. "A bastard is always a powerful piece."
The knowledge was too fresh to ruminate on, so Luwin took the chance to finish his writing while he waited for the pieces to assemble in the proper pattern at the back of his mind. It was some time before he was done, but Hother stayed up until he turned in as usual, reading by candlelight to give the polite fiction that he wasn't just being a mother hen as normal.
Tybald Snow. A bastard highborn enough to merit the surname. From the Weeping Water. Luwin doubted it served to wonder about how the meeting may have gone. He supposed it wasn't impossible that Lord Stark might be looking for a puppet heir to fill a certain vacancy that may or may not be open in that region. Knowing Tybald, though, he doubted it. There was no way someone like him would feel relief at such a news. He was timid and skittish and his face had been nowhere near scared or grief-stricken or anything like it. He really had just looked relieved.
Ah well Luwin thought. It had nothing to do with him really.
He settled into his bedroll to rest. He slept deep that night. He didn't dream.
They next day, the weather had cleared and their party departed as soon as fast was broken and Lord Stark spoke with some of the last petitioners. Luwin barely had enough time to eat and return the tome to Marwyn before they were off. Lord Stark seemed determined to make up for lost time, which led to a reprise of their first few days out of Oldtown. They skied and rode through the entire first day and then most of the night, taking advantage of the winter visibility. The moonlight reflected brightly off the snow to paint even the dark night white. They stopped only for however long it took to eat rations and let the dogs recover their strength before pushing on. Those of them with weaker constitutions took turns napping in the sledhouses. To his relief, Luwin was not one of them anymore, unlike in the beginning. He may not like the skis, but they were better than trying to rest inside the sledhouses. While he was thankful for the clever seat harnesses that held them tight in place, no matter how abrupt the turn, it still wasn't very good rest.
They cut straight across the fields, over wide plains, down snowy hills and over frozen rivers. Forward scouts would sweep ahead to find good stopovers, where they rested, ate, trained and underwent Lord Stark's harsh but increasingly bearable cold training. Luwin finally reached the point where he could stand naked in the cold without shivering. For a little while at least.
They continued to avoid every major keep and village worth a name as well, which meant they never even came close to Oldstones or Fairmarket. Unfortunately, that came to an end just after they cleared the Hag's Mire. They crested the riverbed to find something close to a war band in size, some three hundred strong. They bore banners and livery with two blue towers united by a bridge, on a silver-grey field.
Luwin considered their own side. With all of them from the Citadel and Rickard Stark's home guard, they numbered two hundred seven and ten men in all. Not in their favour, but their mastery of the snow and mobility would serve them in god stead if it came to blows.
They came to a halt at the base of the river run, some hundred yards away from the veritable war party. Lord Stark then called three of his trusted guards, Marwyn and, to Luwin's astonishment, even him after a moment's pause.
"I should've done a detour east of Fairmarket," Lord Stark said as he arrived within speaking distance. "Crossed the Green Fork early, like we did the Red and Blue. Don't you think so?" The lord looked right at Luwin as he finished.
He tried not to gulp too obviously but replied honestly. Lord Stark had called on all but the youngest of them this way at some point. It didn't need to mean more than that. "We'd have lost a day, perhaps more if we waded through that storm." Winter weather down in the Riverlands callows wasn't a trifle. "But we might have been back on the Kingsroad by now."
"I was so pleased when we got that clear day," Lord Stark said. "It let me see in advance what we might have been wading into. Alas, we traded the blizzard for the swamp." There was no question that he wasn't referring to the Hags Mire. "Well, let's see who's been camping here on the off-chance we passed by. There was no scouting involved, I can say that much. No one speak up unless I say so."
They went forth on their skis and came to a stop mid-way to the other camp. Then they could but wait for the other side's riders to reach them. It took a while. Most horses had trouble wading through just one foot of snow, and this one was two feet at least. Very tight and tough after so much time to settle too. Those mounts weren't palfreys either, let alone garrons. Especially the main one. It was a destrier, sure enough. The grandest, mightiests of mounts that gave knights their glory at tourneys. It was also complete shit for riding in winter. It did poorly against the snow. Very poorly indeed.
They wound up standing there until three of knights dug a path for the rest after them. They were brothers by their looks, Luwin realized once they were close enough. They and their leader too. They must be four of Lord Walder Frey's oldest sons. They all looked like weasels. The one on the destrier looked to be past forty, like an especially old and tired weasel. Luwin vaguely recalled from his extensive reading that Lord Frey's heir had one or two grandchildren of his own already.
"I am Ser Stevron Frey, first son and heir of Lord Walder Frey of the Crossing. My lord father has sent me to greet you, and inquire as to who leads this strange convoy."
"I am Rickard of House Stark, Warden of the North and Magnar of Winter." Rickard Stark said, looking down at the rider from where he stood easily on top of the white snow-drift. "Think you to use this war band to bar my path?"
The knight was taken aback at the accusation but remained polite enough. "Not at all. My lord father would be most honored if you would share meat and mead with him in his castle and explain your purpose here. He is most interested to know what great urgency it must surely be, to drive the Warden of the North to risk a diplomatic incident by crossing into the Riverlands unbidden and unannounced with soldiery in tow."
"Ser Stevron, I am indeed borne of great urgency so I hope you will not mind if I speak plainly."
"Of course, my lord."
"It is not your place to question me," Luwin made sure not to gape at the sudden, icy turn in Lord Stark's mood. "It is not your father's place to impose on my time. It is not your place to dictate the size of my guard force. I am not obligated to share my business with you, nor him, nor even with my peers, of which there are precisely six in the whole world. Frey is not among those names. But you know that already, don't you? Why else would you try to project force so far afield in a winter like this? How very much like an upstart house, to think you can make any demands of me. Unless House Frey is in the business of camping soldiers in the path of random travellers-"
"Lord Stark-"
"The last person who interrupted me died from their own poison."
Ser Stevreon blanched. The knights with him shifted nervously. The Stark guards were fingering their weapons, Luwin noticed belatedly. All of them had bows too. And they had the high ground.
"Nonetheless, I spared what time I could to send word ahead to the relevant parties," Lord Stark continued harshly. "Word which I know was received. Your father should know well that I am not to be inconvenienced. Unless House Frey's claims of importance are but words on the wind. Either way, it is no concern of mine who Lord Tully confides in or not. And yet here you are, a stone in my path. Demanding to know my private affairs. Demanding that I go out of my way to make a stop I neither want nor need. Risking a border dispute with House Mallister and Charlton and Vance of Atranta just to bar my way. Seeing as every minute I waste here is another minute my dying wife is deprived of the healers I went south to get for her, would you like to reconsider any of all you've claimed? Reassess what else you may or may not have planned, perhaps?"
Stevron Frey's skin suddenly seemed to contrast a lot less with the surrounding snow. "… My father bid me convey his words, and I have." He croaked. "But House Frey means no harm upon the Lady Stark, or House Stark and the North."
"No more need be said then. Good day."
"Good day, Lord Stark."
They returned to their convoy and resumed their journey unmolested, crossing straight over the frozen Green Fork without any need of the Twins, a ferry or anything else.