Dogman had never seen a hallway like it. The floor was made of green stone and white stone, polished up smooth and shining bright as glass. The walls were hung with great paintings. The ceiling was crusted with flowers and leaves, carved so fine they looked almost real, except that they were made from gold, glittering in the dim light leaking through the windows.

Men bent down, tending to fellows injured, giving them water and soft words, a splint or two being fixed. Logen and Shivers just stood there, giving each other a look. Not hatred, exactly, and not respect. It was hard for the Dogman to say what it was, and he didn't much care about that either.

'What were you thinking?' he snapped. 'Pissing off on your own like that? Thought you were supposed to be chief, now! That's a poor effort, ain't it?'

Logen only stared back, eyes gleaming in the gloom. 'Got to help Ferro,' he muttered, half to himself. 'Jezal too.'

Dogman stared at him. 'Got to help who? There's real folk here in need o' help.'

'I ain't much with the wounded.'

'Only with the making of 'em! Go on then, Bloody-Nine, if you must. Get to it.'

Dogman saw Logen's face flinch when he heard that name. He backed away, one hand clamped to his side and his sword gripped bloody in the other. Then he turned and limped off down the glittering hallway.

'Hurts,' said Grim, as Dogman squatted down next to him.

'Where?'

He gave a bloody smile. 'Everywhere.'

'Right, well…' Dogman pulled his shirt up. One side of his chest was caved in, a great blue-black bruise spread out all across it like a tar-stain. He could hardly believe a man could still be breathing with a wound like that. 'Ah…' he muttered, not having a clue where to start even.

'I think… I'm done.'

'What, this?' Dogman tried to grin but didn't have it in him. 'No more'n a scratch.'

'Scratch, eh?' Grim tried to lift his head, winced and fell back, breathing shallow. He stared up, eyes wide open. 'That's a fucking beautiful ceiling.'

The Dogman swallowed. 'Aye. I reckon.'

'Should've died fighting Ninefingers, long time ago. The rest was all a gift. Grateful for it, though, Dogman. I've always loved… our talks.'

He closed his eyes, and he stopped breathing. He'd never said much, Harding Grim. Famous for it. Now he'd stay silent forever. A pointless sort of a death, a long way from home. Not for anything he'd believed in, or understood, or stood to gain from. Nothing more'n a waste. But then Dogman had seen a lot of men go back to the mud, and there was never anything fine about it. He took a long breath, and stared down at the floor.