The Crone.
Summary: It was just a task, one of the many tasks she had been assigned; nothing but another target to eliminate, another name to please her God. The assassin of the Many-Faced God asks no questions and demands no explanations, she just follows orders. ... OR ... Ary has a new mission in the Riverlands.
(translation of a story written in Spanish for the challenge: "death is so final")
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The journey had not been so bad this time. She had long forgotten memories of a similar voyage taken years ago. No. Not her. That time the trip had been long and terrifying. But no. Not for her. She no longer measured things in long or short, interesting or dull, easy or frightening. Things were nothing but tasks she had to fulfill. And that she did. No questions asked. This journey was merely the path she had to follow to fulfill yet another task: Essos, Westeros, no difference. A task is a task, no matter where they are set. People are the same wherever you go, the lines of a long forgotten song suddenly rang in her head.
The Merchant in Pentos had been an easy task. Just like most self-assured men, that merchant never entertained the thought that a miserable, scrawny girl like her could ever be a threat. It had been so easy to slip the poison in his drink. "One part cider, two parts orange juice and three mint leaves" he would always order. Well, when someone is that predictable No One can tell what's going to happen. She only added one more part to his drink: three Tears of Lys.
The Painter in Bravos. She never knew the reason. Not that she would ever question it. They were just tasks and she did her duty as ordered. The poor woman never thought to check if one of the rungs in the ladder was "loose". She was always so busy carrying paint, brushes and canvases that she never looked down at her feet as she was climbing the ladder to her study. A broken rung, that's just something that could happen to anyone. No One would know any different.
The shepherd in the Mountains. She had felt some pity for the poor man. He looked like a good person: honest and hardworking. That is, until she saw the children that worked for him and the conditions in which they lived. It wasn't that hard to pass herself off as one of those little boys and take his place in the stables. It wasn't that hard to walk up the mountain with the man herding the sheep and watch as the miserable shepherd rolled down the cliff after his unfortunate "accident". No One had seen what had happened.
The Bartender in Maidenpool had been her first target this side of the Narrow Sea. It was this task that had brought her on that ship and on that journey which, unlike that long forgotten first trip, had been neither long nor terrifying. Westeros brought back distant memories of a life that wasn't hers. The little girl had memories, but No One remembered. … What could this bartender have done to deserve this fate? She didn't know, nor did she care. A brawl in a bar is nothing out of the ordinary. Some could be more violent than others. Some could be more intentional than others. Some could even be provoked intentionally with a specific purpose in mind. No One would suspect foul play if a bartender got accidentally caught in a scuffle.
The Smith's Sister in Darry. That was the only mission where an innocent victim was involved. Not until she had buried the dagger deep into the woman's back and held her by the waist did she realize the girl was with child. She could have mourned for the baby who would never be born and feel sorry for the innocent creature who would die alongside his mother. But she didn't. She had saved a motherless child from being thrust into a cruel and vicious world without a mother to guide him. No One would cry for them.
The Crone in the Caves was her current mission. She had been trudging though the Riverlands for days now. She had vague recollections of having done this same trek eons ago. No. Not her. She had vague memories of paralyzing fear, uncertainty and confusion. No. Not her. The Riverlands were No One's lands. And this crone was nothing but a new name.
She finally spotted them across the river. The old hag was leading a group of men through the forest. Was that her pack? She had her hood down and was wearing a crown on her head. Could she be a queen? Maybe she an evil queen and that's why she had been assigned this task. Or not. It was none of her business anyway. From afar she looked old and fragile, she hunched forward and stumbled as she walked. No One felt for the dagger strapped to her calf and the sword sheathed to her side. It was a smooth and flexible thin sword which, at some point, must have meant something. For someone. Not for her. Her fingers gingerly went to her pocket and felt that the vial was still there. She still hadn't planned her strategy, so she needed to make sure she kept all her options open and that she had everything she needed.
No task was ever the same. Some required long days of painstaking stalking until she found a small crack in her targets' lives where she could sneak in. Many times Fate had been on her side and Fortune had smiled upon her. On more than one occasion she had been forced to act on the spot when her plans had gone awry. How would it go with this crone? She wouldn't be certain until she could creep in closer and see what lay ahead.
She followed the voices deep into the woods. The trees served as a shield against the men's watchful eyes. She could hear them whisper. The crone made no sound and didn't say anything, only her men did. Suddenly one of the men was violently forced to the ground and had his hands tied behind his back. Was he bowing to his queen? Or was he being made to kneel? From her hiding spot she could see the poor man begging for mercy as the other men put a noose around his neck and took him to a low-lying branch. He begged until his body ceased to move, but his words appeared to fall on deaf ears. Could these men be like her? Assassins for the Many-faced God? No. They were different. Unlike her, they did appear to know the reasons behind their mission.
Once the crone and her entourage of loyal subjects had gone she inched towards the dead man. With his purple face and his bulging eyes, he looked like a rotten fruit hanging from the branches, swaying aimlessly in the wind. Something in the man's chest caught her attention. It was a drawing of some kind. A castle. Not exactly a castle. It was only two towers, but for some reason they looked familiar. No. Not to her. She had no memories.
She moved away from this man who hanged like a fruit and continued her stealth pursuit of the old hag and her henchmen. She followed them through the woods, across a river, past the rocks and saw how they vanished inside a cave. She pondered what to do next. How could she venture inside a cave without being seen or getting caught? But she didn't have much time to ponder. A cold metal to the back of her neck told her she had been discovered. Three burly men had no problem subduing her and taking her with them. In all honesty, she could have fought them and probably would have walked away unscathed if she had wanted to. Instead, she took it as a chance to get inside the cave and close to the crone. Maybe she could pretend to join them, like she had done with that shepherd and the poor children who worked for him.
The Crone in the caves was standing right in front of her. Something in the woman felt odd. … An image of a long and soft mane of auburn hair crept into her mind. But the hair of the woman she was facing was neither soft nor red. Whatever was on top of the woman's head looked like a tangled mess of rotten hay; brittle and white. … Her mind conjured up memories of a pair of tender blue eyes which radiated love. But rather than tenderness and love, these eyes spat out hatred and vengeance. … She was suddenly struck by a memory of soft hands gently stroking her head, chasing the nightmares away. But these hands were revolting; stiff and bony. … It occurred to her that she knew this woman. No. Not her.
The old lady's mouth suddenly opened and a horrific sound came out, something between a caw and a howl, a terrifying shriek that filled the cave with a mixture of unearthly cacophonies. Her subjects were at a loss and could do nothing but stare until one of them approached her and whispered something into her ear. The old lady screeched again and the man nodded.
"You" the man addressed the girl with an accusing finger. "Come here," he gestured for her to come forward. "She knows you," the man explained.
Everything felt wrong and this new turn certainly complicated her task. But she had a mission to fulfill. It wouldn't be easy to accomplish her task with all these men staring at her. She would have to take the old lady somewhere else. She would have to join the woman, get close to her, gain her trust, see what kind of drink she preferred and maybe slip a few drops of her poison in it. Inconspicuously her fingers patted her pocket to reassure herself it was still there.
She approached the lady and watched her closely. The old woman grabbed her hand in hers and sighed. Something slimy and wet appeared to run down the woman's face from where her eyes sank, slowly making its way down her pale and wrinkled cheek to her thin and chipped grey lips.
She remembered those eyes, that hair, those hands, those lips, those tears. She remembered that love. She looked up at the old lady and did something she hadn't done in years: she smiled. She let herself be hugged by the woman and allowed a few of those gooey tears to rain down on her own matted hair.
The woman let go of the girl slowly, as if she were unwilling to part from her. Then she looked at her with sad eyes void of all emotion and pointed at the sword at her side with a long bony finger. But something was off. Her eyes had changed. They were no longer empty and sad; they oozed relief and understanding. The old lady put her hand forward so the girl could hand her the blade. She held it up for her old eyes to see it and her lips twitched in what appeared to be a poor attempt at a smile. Could it be that the old lady also found the sword familiar? The woman sighed sadly and returned the sword to the girl.
Before the girl could put the thin sword back in its sheath, one of the men stepped forward and grabbed her hand while two other men searched for more weapons. They also took her dagger and the poison.
The old lady went through the girl's belongings and seemed to understand. She looked at her with what, in another time, might have been tenderness. She put the poison carefully on the floor and shook her head emphatically. She then grabbed the long thin sword in her fragile hands, shook her head again and gave it back to the girl. Her eyes seemed to indicate she could put it away. She finally focused her eyes on the dagger and nodded softly. The Old Lady had chosen the weapon.
Slowly, the Old Lady raised her decrepit hands to her head, removed the crown and held it in her hands for a few minutes. Her wet lips seemed to move and she appeared to be mumbling something, but no sound came out. Some kind of prayer maybe? Time seemed to have stopped until the woman woke from her trance and handed the crown to the girl. With trembling hands she undid her cloak and dropped the hood that was pooling at her neck. She breathed in deeply and then exhaled in a painful sigh. She looked at her loyal men and with a silent nod let them know that the decision had been taken.
It was only then that the girl was able to see the Old Lady's neck. A horrifying open gash which had never healed decorated the base of her throat like a necklace studded with red rubies. The Lady fixed her stare on the dagger and her bony fingers told her exactly what she had to do.
Her mission would be finished soon. But now she realized that this was a task she wished she had never been assigned. She realized she owed no allegiance to the Many-Faced God. Family Duty Honor rang loudly in her head. The words became stronger and louder and, even though at first she couldn't understand what to make of them, it all suddenly cleared up in her mind. She would do her Duty and reclaim the Honor of her Family.
With steady movements she laid the crown the Lady had given to her on the floor and held the woman's hands tightly. The Lady returned the gesture and with her thin wet lips planted a kiss on the girl's forehead. A farewell. A token of gratitude. Not giving herself a chance to second guess her own actions, the girl gripped the dagger firmly in one hand and pressed it to the Lady's neck. With her free hand she gave the Lady's hand a final squeeze and pressed her lips to the gaunt knuckles for a final kiss.
A clean cut. The Lady gave a high pitched squeal and then complete silence fell over the cave. No sooner had the blade left the woman's neck than the body fell bonelessly to the ground. There was no blood, the shriveled body having completely dried up apparently.
She gently closed the Lady's half-open eyes, closed her own eyes and murmured a soft "Farewell Mother". Decidedly she made for the crown on the floor and held it firmly in her hands. She got back on her feet, placed the crown on her head and addressed the men with authority.
"My name is Arya Stark and I will lead you until my mother's mission is finished."
THE END