Lysa did not strike him in front of the camp.
That would have been easier.
She looked at Torren for a long moment after he said the island, and the silence around them grew heavy enough that men lowered their eyes without knowing why. Savar stood rigid near the training ground. Morna remained by Nella, one hand against the old woman's sleeve. Harron Stoneback watched the space between Lysa and Torren as if expecting blood.
Lysa said one word.
"Inside."
Torren followed her.
No one else did.
Harron moved to the door and stood outside it. He did not need an order. The camp remained quiet behind him, but not empty. People had fires to tend, children to call, tools to lift. Still, every sound now had listening inside it.
Lysa stood in the middle of the tent and turned on Torren.
"Tell me."
He did.
He did not begin with excuses. He began with the lake.
He told her of the mist, the island, the green men who stood taller than any warrior he had ever seen. He told her of Rhunor Oakhand and of Root, the old singer whose real name no human tongue could hold. He told her of the three-eyed crow and the thing beyond the Wall, bound into weirwood roots, seeing too much and dying too slowly.
Lysa did not move.
Torren told her what Root had said: that the old gods had chosen his line, that Torren would one day take the crow's place, that if he refused, one of his children would be taken by the same road. He told her of ten moons, of his refusal, of fifteen years won like meat from a wolf's mouth.
Her face did not soften.
He told her of the training. Of the draught with Root's blood in it. Of a moon beneath red leaves. Of looking through wood and wing and seeing the Red Keep, the king, the Hand, the men below losing their grip while still sharpening knives with law and prayer.
Then he told her about Konnan.
He told her of Rhunor teaching the boy. Of staves and falls and silence. Of Konnan learning to stop when ordered. Of the green men holding strength without spending it. He told her the boy had listened.
Lysa's jaw tightened at that.
Torren forced himself to continue.
He told her of the vision Root had shown him. Not all the blood. Enough.
"A man," he said. "White hair. Red eyes. Grown. Not me, but near enough to make my bones know him. Lady Forlorn in his hand. Our blood at his feet."
Lysa stared.
"Our blood?"
"Yes."
"Konnan?"
"I do not know."
"You do."
Torren said nothing.
Lysa's eyes were bright now, but dry.
He told her Rhunor wanted Konnan to remain. Not as a hostage. Not as a sacrifice. As a successor among the green men. The Guiding Hand, Root had called it. He told her he had asked Konnan. He told her Konnan had chosen to stay.
At that, Lysa laughed once.
It was not a laugh Torren had heard from her before.
"He chose."
Torren did not answer.
"He is six."
"I know."
"No," she said. "You keep saying that as if the word has weight in your mouth. It does not. If you knew, he would be here."
Torren took the blow without moving.
"He wanted to learn."
"He wants many things. He wants blades. He wants answers to questions he should not ask. He wants to look at pain too long. He is a child. Children want. Parents decide what wanting is allowed to cost."
"I decided."
"Yes," Lysa said. "You did."
The tent seemed smaller.
Torren's throat worked once.
"I did it for him."
"No."
The word was quiet.
That made it worse.
"You did it because you were afraid of him."
Torren looked away.
Lysa stepped closer.
"Look at me."
He did.
"You saw one thing," she said. "One possible thing. One shadow. And because it frightened you, you chose the road where I was not standing in your way."
"There was nothing easy in leaving him."
"For you?" Her face hardened. "No. I am sure it hurt. I am sure the great king bled inside while rowing away. But for me, you made it easy. I was not there. I was not asked. I did not hold him. I did not hear him choose. I did not see these green men. I did not speak to this Root. I did not look into any crow's eye."
"Lysa—"
"You took my son to an island and came back with a story."
Torren flinched as if she had struck him.
Good, some small part of him thought. Better that than if her words missed.
"He is alive," he said.
"Do not give me scraps and call them comfort."
"He is protected."
"By strangers."
"By old gods men. By the green men. By—"
"Strangers," she said again.
Torren's anger rose then, not because she was wrong, but because she would not take the shape of the thing as he had seen it.
"If I brought him back, I may have brought back the thing I saw."
"And if you leave him there?" Lysa asked. "What then? You think an island makes sons clean? You think old creatures do not have their own hungers? You think because they frightened you, they must be wiser than the rest of us?"
Torren had no answer he trusted.
Lysa saw that too.
"You decided as king," she said. "Do not come back to me asking to be forgiven as husband."
The words stayed in the air.
Outside, someone moved too close to the tent. Harron's voice rumbled low. The footsteps withdrew.
Torren lowered his voice.
"I will bring him back."
"When?"
"When I can."
"No." Lysa shook her head. "Do not put mist in my hands. Say what you know."
"I do not know."
"Then you left him without knowing."
"Yes."
There was no other answer.
For the first time, Lysa's face broke.
Only for a breath.
Then it closed again, colder than before.
"He asked me to tell you he listened," Torren said.
Her mouth trembled.
She turned away.
That hurt him worse than the anger.
"He said not to tell you he was good," Torren continued, because the words belonged to her even if she hated him for carrying them. "Only that he listened."
Lysa put one hand over her mouth.
Torren waited.
When she turned back, there were tears on her face. Her voice was steady anyway.
"Until Konnan stands under this roof again, you do not enter my bed."
Torren did not move.
"You do not come to me as husband. You do not ask for warmth. You do not speak to me in the dark."
"Lysa."
"No."
The word cut clean.
"Until my son is in this tent again, you will not say one word to me unless it is for the children, the clan, or war."
He looked at her and understood that she was not raging. Not now. Rage burned hot and spent itself. This was stone being set in place.
She meant every word.
Not for a night.
Not for a week.
For as long as Konnan was gone.
Maybe longer.
Torren nodded once.
It was not agreement. It was recognition.
He turned to leave.
Lysa spoke before he reached the door.
"Do they know?"
"Savar and Morna know he stayed. Not all of it."
"Tell them enough. Not tonight."
Torren looked back.
She had sat down on the edge of the bed, one hand gripping the fur beside her. She did not look at him.
"Not tonight," she repeated.
Torren left.
Harron stepped aside without meeting his eyes.
Outside, the camp pretended not to watch him and failed.
Savar stood near the cold ashes of a cookfire. He looked at Torren with anger held behind his teeth, a boy trying to decide whether a son was allowed to hate his father and still obey his king.
Torren did not call him over.
Morna stood farther away, under the first line of trees. She looked tired and older than she had when he left. Nella's hand rested on her shoulder. Morna's eyes found Torren's and stayed there, as if she already knew more than anyone had told her.
Torren walked past them all.
He did not go to another tent. He did not ask for a bed. He went to the grove.
The twenty weirwoods of Pale Roots stood beneath the night sky, pale trunks rising out of dark earth, red leaves whispering where no wind moved. He had stood there as king, husband, father, killer, supplicant. Now he came with no name that helped him.
He lay beneath the trees with his cloak around him and Lady Forlorn within reach.
The ground was cold.
His fire was behind him.
The door was closed.
For a long time he did not sleep. He stared up through red leaves and black branches. The voice in his head said nothing. Whether it watched or waited, Torren did not ask.
Near dawn, he closed his eyes and reached.
Not far at first.
Root had taught him that reaching too hard broke the thread. The crow had taught him less gently. Torren held his own name. His body. The cold ground under his back. The sword near his hand. The shape of the grove around him.
Then he looked for the island.
The dark came apart.
He saw red leaves.
Not above him.
Far away.
Konnan slept beneath them.
The boy was curled near a weirwood root, wrapped in a green cloak too large for him. The short staff Rhunor had given him lay across his arms, held even in sleep. Around him, green men rested against trunks and stones, enormous shapes under the trees. Some slept. Some only sat with their eyes closed. Rhunor stood a little apart, awake, staff in hand, keeping watch without seeming to.
Konnan's face was turned sideways against the cloak.
In the mountains, he had often looked too sharp for his age.
There, among giants, he looked six.
Torren watched until the sight began to thin.
He did not call out.
He did not try to touch the boy's dream.
He only looked.
Then the island slipped away.
Torren opened his eyes beneath his own weirwoods before dawn.
The ground was still cold.
His fire was still behind him.
And its door remained closed.