‘No, I’ve a fucking palace out back. Why you here?’
Hardbread took a breath. ‘Because mighty Scale Ironhand, King of the Northmen, has gone to war with Glama Golden.’
Craw snorted. ‘Black Calder has, you mean. Why?’
‘Golden killed Caul Reachey.’
‘Reachey’s dead?’
‘Poisoned. And Golden did the deed.’
Craw narrowed his eyes. ‘That a fact?’
‘Calder says it is, so Scale says it is, so it’s close to a fact as anyone’s going to get. All the North’s lining up behind Bethod’s sons, and I’ve come to see if you want to line up too.’
‘Since when did you fight for Calder and Scale?’
‘Since the Dogman hung up his sword and stopped paying staples.’
Craw frowned at him. ‘Calder would never take me.’
‘It was Calder sent me. He’s got Pale-as-Snow, and Cairm Ironhead, and your old friend Wonderful as his War Chiefs.’
‘Wonderful?’
‘Canny woman, that one. But Calder’s lacking a Name to stand Second and lead his own Carls. He’s in need of a straight edge, apparently.’ Hardbread cocked a brow at the chair. ‘So I don’t reckon he’ll be hiring you as a carpenter.’
Craw stood there, trying to get his head around it. Offered a place, and a high one. Back among folk he understood, and admired him. Back to the black business, and trying to juggle the right thing, and finding words over graves.
‘Sorry to bring you all this way for nothing, Hardbread, but the answer’s no. Pass my apologies on to Calder. My apologies for this and … for whatever else. But tell him I’m done. Tell him I’m retired.’
Hardbread gave a sigh. ‘All right. It’s a shame, but I’ll pass it on.’ He paused in the doorway, looking back. ‘Look after yourself, eh, Craw? Ain’t many of us left know the difference between the right thing and the wrong.’
‘What difference?’
Hardbread snorted. ‘Aye. Look after yourself, anyway.’ And he stomped down the steps and out into the gathering dark.
Craw looked after him for a moment, wondering whether he was happy the thumping of his heart was softening or sad. Weighing his sword in his hand, remembering how it felt to hold it. Different from a hammer, that was sure. He remembered Threetrees giving it to him. The pride he’d felt, like a fire in him. Smiled in spite of himself to remember what he used to be. How prickly and wild and hungry for glory, not a straight edge on him anywhere.
He looked around at that one room, and the few things in it. He’d always thought retiring would be going back to his life after some nightmare pause. Some stretch of exile in the land of the dead. Now it came to him that all his life worth living had happened while he was holding a sword.
Standing alongside his dozen. Laughing with Whirrun, and Brack, and Wonderful. Clasping hands with his crew before the fight, knowing he’d die for them and they for him. The trust, the brotherhood, the love, knit closer than family. Standing by Threetrees on the walls of Uffrith, roaring their defiance at Bethod’s great army. The day he charged at the Cumnur. And at Dunbrec. And in the High Places, even though they lost. Because they lost. The day he earned his name. Even the day he got his brothers killed. Even when he’d stood at the top of the Heroes as the rain came down, watching the Union come, knowing every dragged-out moment might be the last.
Like Whirrun had said – you can’t live more’n that. Certainly not by fixing a chair.
‘Ah, shit,’ he muttered, and he grabbed his sword-belt and his coat, threw ’em over his shoulder and strode out, slapping the door shut. Didn’t even bother to lock it behind him.
‘Hardbread! Wait up!’
