'I have, and I've had my part in it, haven't I, my beauties?' His three children looked at each other.

'Aye?' said the girl in a tiny voice.

Crummock frowned down at them. 'Don't like the way the game's played no more, eh? How about you, Bloody-Nine? The moon stopped smiling, has it? You scared, are you?'

Logen gave the fat bastard a long, hard look. 'Tired is what I am, Crummock. Tired o' your fortress, your food, and most of all I'm tired of your fucking talk. Not everyone loves the sound o' your fat lips flapping as much as you. Why don't you piss off and see if you can fit the moon up your arse.'

Crummock split a grin, a curve of yellow teeth standing out from his brown beard. 'That's the man I love, right there.' One of his sons, the one that carried the spear with him, was tugging at his shirt. 'What the hell is it, boy?'

'What happens if we lose, Da?'

'If we what?' growled Crummock, and he cuffed his son round the head with a great hand and knocked him on his face in the dirt. 'On your feet! There'll be no losing here, boy!'

'Not while the moon loves us,' muttered his sister, but not that loud.

Logen watched the lad struggling up, holding a hand to his bloody mouth and looking like he wanted to cry. He knew that feeling. Probably he should've said something about treating a child that way. Maybe he would've, on the first day, or the second even. Not now. He was too tired, and too sore, and too scared to care much about it.

Black Dow ambled up, something not too far from a smile across his face. The one man in the whole camp who might've been said to be in a better mood than usual, and you know you're in some sorry shit when Black Dow starts smiling.

'Ninefingers,' he grunted.

'Dow. Run out of men to burn, have you?'

'Reckon Bethod'll be sending me some more presently.' He nodded towards the wall. 'What d'you think he'll send today?'

'After what we gave 'em last night, I reckon those Crinna bastards are just about done.'

'Bloody savages. I reckon they are at that.'

'And there've been no Shanka for a few days now.'

'Four days, since he sent the Flatheads at us.'

Logen squinted up at the sky, slowly getting lighter. 'Looks like good weather today. Good weather for armour, and swords, and men walking shoulder to shoulder. Good weather to try and finish us. Wouldn't be surprised if he sends the Carls today.'

'Nor me.'

'His best,' said Logen, 'from way back. Wouldn't be surprised to see Whitesides, and Goring, and Pale-as-Snow, and fucking Littlebone and all the rest come strolling up to the gate after breakfast.'

Dow snorted. 'His best? Right crowd o' cunts, those.' And he turned his head and spat onto the mud.

'You'll get no argument from me.'