Chapter 4

Beautiful & Deadly

Although spring was on the way, the days were still short and Gendry's army was ready to march on Winterfell long before dawn finally broke over the horizon.

He wore his full armour, except the plate gauntlets. They were hellish to get on and off and clumsy for doing anything other than swinging a hammer. Presenting his precious scrolls to Arya would need more delicacy than plate gauntlets afforded him, so he settled for boiled leather, hoping to the seven hells there wasn't going to be any hand to hand combat today.

Even his horse, Smith, was skittish this morning, no doubt sensing Gendry's own tension. He'd thankfully managed to a few hours sleep after seeing Tyrion back to his tent which had helped last night's apprehension solidify into determination and, if he was being honest, excitement. The day was cold and sharp, as was the steel arrayed around him and strapped to Smith's saddle. The thrill of a winnable battle pumped through his veins, heightening all his senses.

The day was here, the hour was set and Lady Arya Stark was finally going to be his.

Gendry positioned himself at the head of his army and waited for his new brother. Remembering last night's escapade brought a smile to Gendry's lips. The seed did indeed feel strong in him today. He felt as if he could single-handedly take on every army in Westeros and still emerge victorious. A few more hours and he would be wed. A few hours after that and he would be gently laying his new wife down on their featherbed. The smile on his face stretched into a grin.

As Tyrion trotted his pony over, Gendry saw the imp hadn't bothered to don his own armour. Tyrion had, at least, made some concession to his safety by wearing a chain mail vest under his pristine Lannister surcoat. The bright colours and, of course the nature of his House, would make him an easy target if there was a battle.

"Confident aren't you?" Gendry asked after giving Tyrion an assessing look up and down.

"Yes, I am and I see you aren't. Don't worry brother. I have this well in hand, but can you at least take off your helmet?"

"No."

"The lady should get a good look at her future husband. While I'm sure no one has ever mentioned this to you before - you're not unattractive."

When Gendry still make any attempt to remove his helmet, Tyrion sighed, "This might go easier if Lady Arya were to see how . . . not ugly you are."

Tyrion could only roll his eyes in despair when Gendry ignored his plea and dropped his visor firmly into position so that not even his eyes were visible.

Gendry didn't expect Arya would recognise him from his eyes alone. He hoped she might remember him that clearly, but he definitely didn't expect it. All the same, he wasn't taking any chances. He'd have her agreement to wed him before he risked everything by revealing who he really was. Or who he had been. He didn't feel like much the boy who had proudly apprenticed for Tobho Mott anymore.

Gendry gave the signal and they began their advance to the slow beating of drums. Over the years he'd come to favour an accompaniment of drums as he rode into battle. Aegon accused him of playing a mummer's game, but Gendry was sure the Queen's favourite was just annoyed he hadn't thought of it first, because drums scared the enemy shitless.

"The drums are a nice touch," Tyrion commented as they walked their horses together; or rather Gendry's massive destrier walked while Tyrion had to urge his pony into a trot to keep up.

Gendry merely grunted an acknowledgement. Of course, Tyrion hadn't heard the drums yet as they hadn't been used at the Twins. That battle was fought and won by stealth not simply force. Three hundred men had sneaked across the ice covering the Trident at night and attacked in the dark, from below. The fucking Freys hadn't known what hit them until it was too damn late.

The idea itself wasn't original, but no commander had been willing to risk his army on the ice before. The river flowed quickly at the Twins, where it was forced through the narrow channel of the Green Fork and the thickness of ice over fast flowing water was always uncertain. If the ice gave way, hundreds of men would perish instantly in the freezing water. Although no one had ever been so foolish to try it at the Twins before, Gendry had witnessed similar disasters over the long, hard winter. He'd learned to his cost that ice could be just as unpredictable and just as deadly as fire.

It had been Tyrion's idea to build ladders, bind them together and lay them end to end across the ice, under the bridge. In the darkest part of the night, three hundred of the lightest men were roped together and bravely crawled across. It had been a slow process, but with the load spread, the ice held and the Frey lookouts on the bridge hadn't seen a thing. Once on the thicker ice near the far bank, the ladders had been used to scale the northern end of the bridge.

Gendry and the rest of his army had been harrying the Freys for days on the southern bank and, as expected, the Freys had moved all their men to the southern castle to defend it. For the first time in six hundred years, the Freys had faced a full assault on one castle and a simultaneous, surprise attack on the other. It had been a master stroke and had left the Freys in panicked disarray. By noon that same day, the Twins no longer belonged to the Freys.

Those still alive had been given the chance to swear fealty to Daenerys and the Iron Throne. All except old Walder Frey of course; honour demanded his head in retribution for Robb Stark's.

"Where is our Walder?" Tyrion asked, his thoughts having obviously taken the same turn as Gendry's.

"Riding on an ass," Gendry replied brightly, nodding behind them.

Tyrion turned around to see the massive oak chair of the Lord of the Crossing roped to, and swaying unsteadily from, the aforesaid ass. The back of the chair was ornately carved to represent the two castles of the Twins and the tower in the middle. Walder's severed head had been dipped in tar and impaled upon the middle tower. To make sure Walder's head didn't roll off, the pinnacle of the tower was protruding from one of his eyes sockets. The ass, the chair and the impaled head, made for a gruesome, yet enormously gratifying sight. Gendry hoped Arya would appreciate the gift.

"I like it," Tyrion said. "You really are rather good at these little intimidating touches; the drums, the dramatic way you brandish your father's war hammer, old Walder serving as a warning to all who stand before you. As psychological warfare goes, I'm very impressed."

"What the fuck are you talking about Tyrion?"

"Oh, never mind. It's a new concept. I'll explain later. In the meantime, just keep doing what you do best; look intimidating, keep your mouth shut and let me do all the talking."

Gendry grunted his agreement. That arrangement suited him perfectly.

-o-

Arya and Meera had been on the battlements since before first light. They'd witnessed their enemies' first movements in the dark and the extinguishing of hundreds of fires, one after another, as the great army stirred itself slowly and purposefully into life.

"How many men do you think?" Meera asked as the first grey light of dawn illuminated the huge gathering of men and horses on and around the kingsroad.

"Thousands," Arya replied wearily. "We'll get a better idea when they start to advance towards us." Meera would ask her for another estimate shortly and no doubt keep asking as the black mass uncoiled and drew closer. But Arya knew it didn't matter how many thousands of men there were; there were enough to encircle Winterfell and many, many more than they could hope to fight.

"Look!" Meera called out, pointing and drawing the attention of everyone on the battlements, "They're unfurling their banners. Can anyone see the sigils?"

There was a dreadful, pregnant pause, before the first shout of 'Targaryen!' went up from the boy with the sharpest eyes. The call seemed to be taken up all around them as multiple cries of 'Targaryen' confirmed the House they faced.

Arya peered into the distance and, sure enough, saw only Targaryen banners. Even that in itself was highly unusual, as so great an army would normally have been made up numerous bannermen from lesser houses.

"All Targaryen," Arya murmured under her breath in disbelief. It proved the strength of House Targaryen if they could raise thousands of men on their own.

"But no Dragon Queen?" Meera wondered aloud. "Surely if she were here, she would have brought her dragons with her?"

The two women simultaneously raised their eyes to the sky, but the pale, frosty blue remained mercifully empty.

"Keep a look out for Dragons!" Arya ordered as fear coiled in her belly. Every person on the battlements searched the sky. A Targaryen army was bad enough, but if there were dragons, they would all burn. Arya grabbed the nearest child and, bending down to his height, issued her orders.

"Gather twenty children and collect every bucket you can find. Form a chain from the springs in the Godswood to the central Keep. I need you to be ready put out a fire. Can you do that for me?" she asked, ruffling the boy's hair. He nodded solemnly before running off at full pelt. The boy was no more than five, Arya thought guiltily as she watched his skinny legs and bare feet pound over Winterfell stone. Never before had she felt more acutely that she was sending a boy to do a man's work.

Just when Arya thought things could not get any worse, the slow, steady beat of drums began to drift across the empty fields below, destroying the fragile peace of the morning. All around her, women and boys looked anxiously at one another and Arya felt their already shaky confidence drop to their boots. Arya couldn't blame them, the pounding of the drums felt like a warning, a threat and a herald of doom all rolled into one.

Giving herself a shake, she shouted confidently, "Ignore their tricks. They will not scare the people of the North so easily!"

An unsteady chorus of "Aye!" rose up from the mouths of the women and boys, only to be drowned out by the relentless boom of the approaching drums The lack of numbers, experience and courage she heard in that shaky battle cry worried her more than Targaryen drums ever could.

Arya turned her attention back to the scene unfolding below, "House Targaryen must have already claimed the rest of Westeros," she said angrily, ". . . and they think we're next."

Resting the palms of her hands flat against the stone, she leaned over the battlements. With the speed at which they were advancing, the Targaryen army would be within range of their longbows shortly. Arya had bows and she had arrows, but too few people strong enough to draw back the stiff longbow strings. Looking at the women and the boys standing on blocks of wood along the battlements who were prepared to try, Arya once again cursed her lack of foresight.

"If not Queen Daenerys, perhaps it is Aegon Targaryen who leads them?" Meera wondered aloud, "I hear he is unmarried and quite handsome." Meera tried to sound hopeful for the sake of her friend, but she didn't have the heart for it and her words only sounded hollow, even to her own ears.

A handsome husband was the least of Arya's worries at the moment.

"How did they cross the Trident?" Arya asked as she paced back and forwards. "The Twins cannot be taken, so they must have done a deal with the Freys." Disgust and rage constricted Arya's throat at having to speak the name of the hated House that murdered Robb and all those sons of the North. She spat over the battlements in disgust. "I'll never make an alliance with anyone who deals with Walder Frey."

"It seems you have no choice," Meera said quietly. "But I wonder how they got through the Neck? My father would never negotiate with anyone who deals with the Freys either."

They both knew what that meant. If Lord Reed wouldn't allow safe passage, a battle would have ensued as there was no way across the causeway or through the Neck without House Reed's consent or defeat. Arya took Meera's hand and curled her fingers around her friend's in a gesture of solidarity.

Meera looked down at their entwined hands and smiled. It was the first time Arya had reached out to her and Meera knew how hard that must have been for her friend.

"Thank you Arya. I shall not give up hope until I know for certain what happened."

Meera tried not to worry, but Bran had never mentioned this. Why had he wasted his last breath on broken stags that never appeared when House Reed was in peril? Suddenly Meera felt much less sure of everything than she had been. An alliance with House Targaryen would be doomed if it was tainted by Targaryen dealings with the Freys and possibly even the massacre of House Reed. How could she expect Arya to marry into that? What if a Frey lord was down there and what if he had been promised Arya's hand in exchange for safe crossing? A similar circumstance had ultimately led to Robb's death and the Freys had always eyed Winterfell with resentment and jealous greed.

Robb wouldn't wed a Frey and if Arya wouldn't either . . . then they were all doomed. Blood seemed to drain from Meera's head and she had to reach one shaking hand out to rest it on one of the crenulations. Fortunately Arya still held her other hand; otherwise Meera might have fallen to her knees in despair.

"We don't know what happened," Arya said firmly, determined to reassure Meera who had been so strong, and so certain everything would work out until now. "There is no point in thinking the worst until we know."

"But you said yourself, the Twins cannot be taken. A bargain must have been reached in exchange for safe crossing. Maybe even a bargain for you," Meera whispered so softly that only Arya could hear.

Arya straightened her back and stubbornly set her jaw. "We stick to our plan. I never expected to actually like the marriage did I? So he might be a Frey. But is that any worse than an Ironborn, or even that Bolton bastard? We've agreed. I will do whatever I have to do in order to save Winterfell and my people," Arya said robustly, adding a defiant, "and there is always the Gift of Death."

"Oh Arya, I'm so sorry," Meera said, taking both of Arya's hands in hers. She regretting ever mentioning the possibilities of alliances and marriages, for it had only raised both of their hopes that this awful situation might end well.

"What have you got to be sorry for?" Arya asked, somehow making it sound like an accusation rather than the apology she'd intended. She gave Meera's hand another hard squeeze, hoping it conveyed the regret she felt. "None of this is your fault. If it's anyone's fault, it's mine for sending everything we had to the Wall. Now stand up straight. We represent House Reed and House Stark and we will meet this Targaryen army as our fathers would expect us to." Arya wished she felt even half as confident as she was trying to appear. Despite her brave words, she knew her father would have expected the Targaryens to be greeted not only with dignity but also with strength. Her lack of it only served to reinforce her failure as a Stark.

Meera was not the least bit reassured. She could not understand what had happened. Bran had said there would be a stag and a marriage for Arya and then a babe, all of which would return Winterfell to glory . . . but it was beginning to seem as if Bran had been wrong about many things. It seemed to Meera as if the beacons of hope that had been guiding her; the stag, the marriage and the babe were flickering and that they were about to be extinguished, along with her hope.

"Lannister!" yelled the same eagled eyed boy who had first spied the Targaryen banners.

"Where?" Arya demanded, as both she and Meera leaned over the crenulations for a better look.

"There!" The boy pointed to two men on horseback at the head of the army.

At first Arya could only see two indistinct shapes, one larger and one smaller, but as they grew closer, she could see the smaller rider wore Lannister colours.

"What is the sigil of the knight beside the Lannister?" Arya asked the boy, wondering if this was the famous, handsome Aegon Targaryen.

"There is none."

"Are you sure?" Arya asked sharply, feeling an unexpected stab of disappointment and not wishing to scold the child but, at the same time, unwilling to believe what he said. In a battle, everyone wore colours. Only by your sigil were you marked as friend or foe.

"I am sure. He wears only unadorned armour and the barding his horse wears is also of plain steel. But the Lannister beside him is only a child."

"That cannot be a child," Meera gasped, "No one would stoop so low as to bring a child into battle."

Arya looked at the eager boy standing beside her and grimaced. In her desperation, was that not exactly what she was doing?

"Perhaps it is Tyrion Lannister?" Meera wondered hopefully, "I remember hearing that he always travelled with a sellsword to act as his champion. I forget the name, but he was well rewarded for it, becoming a Ser or a lord. And Tyrion is married to your sister."

Unbelievable as it seemed, perhaps Sansa had sent Tyrion to their aid? Arya did not want to get her hopes up, or anyone else's.

"Tyrion Lannister and his sellsword at the head of a Targaryen army?" Arya muttered, shaking her head. "What in seven hells does that mean?"

"I think we're about to find out," Meera whispered, for the larger of the two men had raised his hand. With an impressive efficiency, the rows and rows of knights and foot soldiers immediately came to a halt and the drums, mercifully stopped their hellish beat.

A brief conversation took place between the two men below, before the smaller one shouted up at the battlements, "We wish to discuss the terms of Winterfell's surrender!"

Even after all these years, Arya immediately recognised Tyrion Lannister's voice. But he had demanded surrender, not offered aid. Before Arya could reply, Meera was on her tiptoes, leaning over the battlements and yelling back, "Name your terms!"

After another brief conversation between the two men, Tyrion shouted up at them again, "We will only negotiate with Lady Arya Stark herself. Send her out so we may negotiate face to face. We guarantee her safe passage, of course."

Arya had already started for the stairs when Meera grabbed her arm, "Wait and I'll come with you."

Arya looked down at Meera's hand disdainfully and shrugged it off. "No. I got us into this mess and it's up to me to get us out. Stay here and keep everyone as safe as you can."

"No!" Meera said, forcefully grabbing Arya's arm again, "I am coming with you. Two heads are better than one, particularly when one of those heads is as hot-headed as yours."

"Do what you like, but stop touching me." Arya snapped and set off down the stairs, taking them two at a time and at a pace that Meera, with her far shorter legs, could not hope to match.

Blowing out a frustrated huff, Meera gathered up her skirts and set off after Arya. Why would Arya not accept help? Her stubborn, pig-headed belief that she could do everything herself was what had got them into this predicament in the first place.

By the time Meera reached the bottom of the winding stairs and hurried into the bailey yard, Arya had already given the order to raise the portcullis and lower the drawbridge. The ancient cogs and ropes as thick as a man's thigh, screeched and groaned in protest as the drawbridge inched down.

A dozen of the strongest women were needed on each rope to take the strain. Arya heard a small child strapped to his mother's back whimper pathetically as she shook with the strain of easing the massive wooden drawbridge down; while up on the battlements, boys dressed as men stood on wooden blocks and prayed to the Old Gods to save them. Feeling the weight of responsibility for every one of them as never before, Arya steeled herself for whatever was to come. She would do anything to save these people, her people. Anything.

Arya did not wait for Meera or even for the drawbridge to thump onto the ground before she started forward. Striding up the wooden wall faster than it was being lowered, she reached the end of the drawbridge while it still hung a dozen feet above the frozen earth. Bracing her right foot against the edge, she stood impassively above her would-be-conquerors, riding Winterfell's ancient drawbridge down to meet her enemy. Her father's blood and the blood of the First Men pounded in her veins and Arya intended to leave Tyrion Lannister and his sellsword in no doubt that she was high above them in every way.

-o-

Gendry had never seen anything as magnificent before in all his life. From the first moment he laid eyes on Arya Stark again, he knew he was lost. He would have sold his soul to the Stranger to have her.

Not even in his most fevered imaginings had she ever been as beautiful or as entirely captivating as this. He had dreamt of strong arms and welcoming lips, but dressed in boy's clothing and with short, unkempt hair; the way he had last seen her, only grown into a woman. The reality was a hundred times, no, a thousand times better.

With dark hair whipping around her face and her fur cloak billowing out behind, Gendry imagined this was how Queen Nymeria must have looked like as she stood on the prow of her ship, leading her army of ten thousand across the narrow sea. Arya was every inch the warrior Queen of his dreams and more and, by tonight, she would be his. He had Queen Daenerys' proclamation to prove it. Unable to peel his eyes from Arya, he fumbled to unfasten the leather pouch holding his precious scrolls.

"God's teeth but she is magnificent." Tyrion gasped, quick and eloquent as ever and giving voice to Gendry's thoughts.

"And I'm fucked," Gendry muttered, leaning out of his saddle and thrusting the leather pouch at Tyrion, all the while never talking his eyes from Arya.

"What did you say?" Tyrion asked as he tried to grab the pouch Gendry haphazardly threw his way.

"She is both as beautiful and as deadly as you warned," Gendry said instead as his blood thundered in his ears and his heart hammered against his ribs. He might as well be dead if he couldn't have her.

"You are not afraid are you?" Tyrion gasped in mock horror.

"No, of course not," Gendry ground out, before thinking better of it. The time for lies had passed, "Aye, maybe a little."

Fuck, but he hadn't been this nervous in his life before. Thank the Gods he had not worn his armoured gauntlets. The banded plates would have been clanking together and his hands never shook.

"So the mighty Commander is scared of the she-wolf," Tyrion chuckled, far too loudly for Gendry's liking. Any louder and Arya would hear the bloody dwarf. Seven buggering hells, some of the knights arranged behind them probably had.

Gendry's voice was already muffled by his helmet and he kept it lower still as he hissed at Tyrion, "There's something I haven't told you. I met her before, years ago and everything . . . every . . . damn . . . thing . . . that I have done since, has been to make her mine. So don't fuck this up Tyrion. Read those fancy words and get me my lady."

If they had shot up any higher, Tyrion's eyebrows would have disappeared into his hair for ever.

"And you didn't think to tell me all this last night?"

Gendry straighten in his saddle and kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, "Here she comes. Don't fuck this up brother . . . please."

-o-

Arya leapt gracefully from the drawbridge moments before it thudded to the ground. While it bounced with the impact, she was already striding towards them, her shoulders proudly squared, her head held high and defiant, her hips rolling seductively with every long, elegant step.

Arya stopped ten feet away from Tyrion and gave him a deep curtsey, as her mother had tried to teach her to do all those years ago. All the while Arya was assessing her opponent, as the Faceless Men had taught her to do so much more recently.

She kept her gaze cool and disinterested as she considered Tyrion and his sellsword. They had no way of knowing they were dealing with someone who had once belonged to the Guild and she would use that to her advantage. It suited her to let them think they were dealing with some helpless young lady.

The sellsword she dismissed immediately as being merely a mercenary, albeit an impressive example of that despicable breed. He would do nothing without Tyrion's orders. But Tyrion Lannister was another matter entirely.

Arya would hardly have believed it possible, but the imp had grown even uglier since she had last seen him. Most of his nose was gone, leaving the centre of his face a mass of puckered scar tissue. With his mismatched eyes and a beard that was at least five different colours, he looked like a child's imagining of a bogeyman. Arya knew she had to look beyond that distasteful exterior, for she was dealing with the cleverest man in Westeros and needed to keep all of her wits about her.

"Lord Lannister, or should I say . . . Good-Brother?"

"Lady Stark," Tyrion return the greeting, bowing low in the saddle and adding an elegant flourish with his free arm. "Alas I am no longer your Good-Brother; my marriage to your sister has recently been annulled by the Dragon Queen."

Arya's throat constricted with apprehension. So there would be no help from Tyrion, but that disappointment paled into insignificance compared to Arya's concern for her sister. What had happened to Sansa? Was she even alive?"

"May I ask on what grounds the marriage was annulled?" Arya asked, keeping her tone calm, despite feeling anything but inside.

Tyrion blushed warmly as he muttered, "Non-consummation." In that moment Arya actually felt some sympathy for the half man, along with her overwhelming feeling of relief for Sansa.

"I am . . . sorry to hear it." Arya said, hoping she sounded sincere. It wouldn't do to antagonise Tyrion, at least not yet. "Is my sister well?"

"Never better. In fact I have a missive from her here," Tyrion said brightly, obviously relieved to be able to move on from that previous, humiliating subject. He dug in a pouch, produced a scroll of parchment sealed with red wax and held it out to Arya with stumpy fingers.

She had to walk towards him to take it, ignoring the sellsword and his massive, snorting, horse on the way.

Arya's eyes were level with Tyrion's as he handed her the scroll and his clever, mismatched eyes twinkled as he asked, "Were you expecting company?" He nodded towards Winterfell and when Arya followed his gaze, she saw little Meera hurrying down the drawbridge. Why was the silly girl putting her life in danger when Arya had told her to stay up on the battlements? With a sigh, Arya realised she had no way of making Meera obey her orders, short of tying her up.

"Lady Meera Reed is nothing if not determined," Arya said tightly.

"So it would seem," Tyrion chuckled as Meera lifted her skirts above her ankles and proceeded to run through the snow towards them.

Meera was out of breath by the time she reached them, ignoring Arya's scowl and the sellsword, she curtseyed to Tyrion.

"Lady Reed," Tyrion returned the greeting with another one of his lavish bows.

"How did you cross the Trident and pass through the Neck?" Meera asked breathlessly as she looked up at Tyrion.

Tyrion's scarred face broke into a grin as he chuckled, "Determined and demanding I see Milady."

Meera pursed her lips and looked to Arya for support as she demanded again of Tyrion, "What bargain did you strike with the Freys?"

Tyrion seemed to find Meera's question amusing and he seemed to be suppressing laughter as he looked up at his sellsword and said, "Let's ask old Walder himself, shall we?"

Arya's heart leapt into her mouth. Tyrion had brought Walder Frey with him? She clenched her fists, feeling the reassuring presence of steel hidden in her sleeves press against her forearms. Maybe this was how it was supposed to end; she would kill Walder Frey here, in front of Winterfell to avenge Robb and the North. The sellsword would probably do for her, but not before she had given the Gift of Death to Walder and Tyrion. Arya hoped Meera had the presence of mind to run.

Needing both hands free, Arya handed the scroll to Meera as the sellsword motioned to someone behind him. Arya planted her feet and, for the first time, focused her attention on the huge sellsword. He would be fast, but she had no doubt he was not as fast as she was. His focus would be on protecting Tyrion while hers was on killing Walder Frey. Perhaps she'd be better using her second knife on the sellsword instead of Tyrion. If she could take his lapdog out, Tyrion would be an easy kill.

While waiting for Robb's murderer to appear, Arya let her gaze roam over the sellsword. He seemed to be assessing her too, for she felt his eyes on her from behind the slatted visor. The boy on the battlements had been right; no sigil or marking anywhere. The sellsword's armour was impressive and would have been very expensive when new; no doubt paid for with Lannister gold, but Arya noticed it was dented in places; notably on the left flank. The dented armour hadn't rusted yet, so perhaps it had been a recently blow and there might be a weakness there she could exploit. Also, he wore leather gloves instead of armoured gauntlets, but alas she could see no other weaknesses.

Arya knew the training and strength that was required to fight in armour like that. He would be immensely strong under all that weight and fast as a snake without it. To her dismay, even the way the sellsword sat upon his horse conveyed the supreme arrogance that only the best warriors possessed - like Jaqen. Arya quickly suppressed that thought. It would do her no good to compare this sellsword to the man who was responsible for her total humiliation and her fleeing the Guild.

"I have another question," Meera blurted out. This time she addressed the sellsword rather than Tyrion. "What happened to your helmet?"

Arya's eyes rose to consider the man's helmet. It had looked rather unremarkable and, if she was being honest with herself, she hadn't scrutinised it too closely as the thought of meeting the sellsword's eyes, even from behind his visor, left her feeling strangely unsettled. But now Meera had mentioned it, there were two jagged protrusions jutting out from the top of his helmet. They weren't horns though and it was just as well, because if they had been, that would have led her thoughts down another uncomfortable path to a best forgotten man; well a bull headed boy. But they definitely weren't bull horns, so mercifully she didn't have to think about that. Or him.

The sellsword seemed reluctant to answer and, after a rather awkward silence, Tyrion answered for him. "He decided he didn't like what he'd stuck on top of his helmet so he broke them off."

"And what were they?" Meera pressed.

With a seemingly unhappy sideways look at his sellsword, Tyrion answered warily, "Antlers."

"Gods be good," Meera murmured under her breath, "The stag with the broken antlers."

Arya had no idea what Meera was talking about and had more important things on her mind, like killing Walder Frey. Just at that moment, Tyrion called out, "May I present to you . . . Walder Frey, Lord of the Crossing."

With a flourish, Tyrion pointed to an ass bearing a swaying load that wasn't Walder Frey. As they all turned to see, Meera gasped, "That's the chair of the Lord of the Crossing."

"And Walder Frey's head." The sellsword had finally spoken. His voice was deep and commanding and Arya found herself looking up at him, rather than the swaying chair with the tarred head. Her opponent's eyes seemed to bore into her and she felt an unexpected shiver of excitement run down her spine; before long she would cross swords with this man, she was sure of it.

"Who took his head?" Arya demanded.

"I did." The pride in his voice was unmistakable. "In revenge for your brother's murder. I also took the Twins . . . and the chair," he added with what sounded suspiciously like a chuckle.

This sellsword had taken the Twins? Surely he lied? No one had managed to take the twins in six hundred years, much less a lowly sellsword. And since when did sellswords care about avenging Robb Stark? All they cared about was coin . . . unless this knight wasn't a sellsword after all.

"Who are you Ser? Tell me in order that I may properly express my gratitude, that of my House and the gratitude of the North for your avenging my brother's death."

Arya felt, rather than saw the Knight's eyes flick to Tyrion, who gave a little shrug. Before Arya knew what to make of that, the Knight's eyes were on her again.

"I'm just a no-name bastard and don't worry Milady, you'll have the opportunity to express your gratitude soon enough."

Arya didn't need to be able to see his face to hear the smirk in his voice. She decided that, whether he had taken Walder Frey's head or not, that no-name bastard needed to put firmly in his place at the earliest opportunity.

Tyrion cleared his voice, seemingly to draw her attention away from the knight. "Perhaps matters would be . . . ahem, clearer if you would read the scroll Lady Stark."

Trying her best to ignore the smirking no-name-bastard-sellsword-knight, Arya turned her attention back to Sansa's scroll. She nearly missed the glare that Tyrion gave the knight and she would have sworn that, in response, the no-name bastard was grinning broadly behind his visor.

Meera nudged her elbow, providing Arya with a welcome distraction from Tyrion and the arrogant, grinning, bastard.

"What is this?" Meera asked, turning the scroll over in her hands.

"It's from Sansa apparently."

"But it's sealed with the Highgarden rose," Meera murmured, running the tip of her forefinger around the rose sigil of House Tyrell.

"Open it and all will become clear," Tyrion urged.

Meera split the wax seal with her thumbnail and started to read,

I, Lady Sansa Stark, eldest surviving child of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell and Lady Catelyn Tully of Riverrun, heir to Winterfell and House Stark, hereby renounce for all time coming my succession to and any claim I, or my heirs or successors may have on Winterfell or House Stark.

I further declare these presents to be irrevocable and that they are freely given.

"It's dated, witnessed and signed by Sansa Stark," Meera said, looking up at Arya, unable to keep herself from smiling and wondering if Arya would appreciate hearing Meera say, 'I told you so.' Everything was beginning to fall into place quite nicely. She would have loved to have been able to tell Bran that he was right.

"Let me see," Arya muttered, grabbing the parchment from Meera's hands. Sure enough, she recognised Sansa's feminine, looping script, even though it had been years since she had seen it. Arya felt another thread of hope slip through her fingers. Meera had been right; Sansa wanted nothing to do with Winterfell. Winterfell and House Stark were now Arya's responsibility and hers alone.

"I believe there is more," Tyrion said softly. "I saw your sister take the opportunity to write something more on the reverse."

Arya whipped the parchment over and, sure enough, there was more. It was written in the same looping hand, although much smaller and in the middle of the page, where it would not have been visible once the parchment was rolled and sealed.

This time is was Arya who read aloud,

Dearest Sister,

I hope this finds you safe and well. I am truly happier than I ever been, for I am recently wed to Lord Willas Tyrell of Highgarden and our first babe is due in the spring. Queen Daenerys arranged the match for us and I am sure she has a most excellent match in mind for you too . . .

Arya had to stop there and lifted her eyes from the parchment to glare at Tyrion, but he was studiously avoiding making eye contact.

"Keep reading. There's another scroll once you've finished that one," the sellsword night growled from high above her.

Arya felt like sticking her tongue out at him. Who was he to give her orders? She made do with glaring at him instead.

The massive, armoured shoulders shrugged and he said, "If you want to know your fate you need to keep reading . . . Milady."

Arya would have sworn the knight was laughing at her again. Rat bastard. She resolved to knock some of that arrogance out of his stupid, smug, big head the first opportunity she got. With a snarl she turned her attention back to the parchment. This time she really did hear him laugh; a low, rumbling sound that set her teeth on edge.

"Bastard," she hissed from between her teeth, before she started reading aloud again,

The Dragon Queen is wise and clever and fair in her decisions . . .

This time the Knight interrupted with a loud, mocking, snort. Arya was about to demand he explain his rude interruption, but Tyrion got there first, snapping at his sellsword or whatever he was,

"You might have agreed with that assessment of our dear Queen a few moons ago Ge . . . Ser. Now let Lady Arya finish. We don't have all day and I'm freezing my bollocks off out here . . . apologies for the language ladies."

Meera blushed and Arya gave the bastard another scathing glare, before she continued,

". . . and I would urge you to agree to whatever she asks of you as I'm sure it will bring you as much happiness as her wedding arrangement has brought me. We leave for Highgarden soon as Willas wants our babe to be born there. I feel sure it is a girl and, if the Gods are good, I intent to name her Catelyn, after our dear mother. Please come and visit us as soon as you can and, Gods be good, you will have a babe of your own by then.

Your dear sister,

Sansa."

"Your sister's not much like you is she?" Meera asked, trying very hard not to smile.

"No," Arya said, blowing out a frustrated sigh, "She's not." Come and visit her Highgarden? Did Sansa have any idea of the life or death struggles she was facing here? Presumably not, but still, Arya was resentful at Sansa having left her with the responsibility of House Stark and Winterfell while Sansa was happily making babes with Lord bloody Willas in bloody Highgarden.

"The next one is from Queen Daenerys," Tyrion said solemnly as he handed Arya the second scroll.

This scroll bore the unmistakable seal of the three headed dragon. Arya broke it open quickly, hoping it contained better news than Sansa's.

I, Queen Daenerys Targaryen, the First of my name, Queen of Westeros, Essos and the Summer Isles, Mother of Dragons, Slayer of Lies, Bride of Fire . . .

"Blah, blah, blah . . . she's got a lot of names this Queen of yours hasn't she?" Arya muttered.

The no-name bastard gave another of his deep, rumbling laughs and Arya felt a smile tug at the corners of her mouth. That rat bastard had an infectious laugh, but she shouldn't be thinking about that now. Arya dragged her attention away from the huge, mysterious and admittedly rather impressive knight before her and focused once again on Daenerys' scroll.

Claim Winterfell in my name for the Iron Throne . . .

"What?!" Arya yelped. "She can't! It's mine. Sansa just confirmed it!"

"I have six thousand men who say she can," the rat bastard growled. "Keep reading."

Arya glared at him again and cursed herself for thinking there was ever anything remotely appealing about him.

I am prepared to let House Stark remain in Winterfell and continue as Wardens of the North in perpetuity, providing Lady Arya Stark agrees to the following conditions;

That Lady Arya Stark, as head of House Stark swears fealty to me and to the Iron Throne.

That Lady Arya Stark agrees to wed the Commander of army, take him as her husband and afford him the title of Lord Stark, Warden of the North and all that entails. Their children and greater issue shall then rule Winterfell in perpetuity as Starks.

Arya had to stop to take a deep, steadying breath. It was as bad as she had feared. But there was even more -

If Lady Arya Stark fails to agree to my terms then I authorise use of whatever means my Commander deems necessary in order to claim Winterfell and the North for the Iron Throne. In such event, Winterfell shall be ruled by House Targaryen and Lady Arya Stark, together with all members of her House and all who assist her in defying me, shall be declared to be traitors to the Iron Throne and executed as such, or brought to King's Landing for sentencing with all possible haste.

Signed

Daenerys Targaryen, the First of her Name etc, bloody etc.

Once she had finished reading, Arya quickly turned the parchment over, hoping there was more, as there had been on Sansa's, hoping this somehow wasn't true. But there was nothing else. So much for Sansa thinking the Dragon Queen was clever and fair. Clever? Undoubtedly. Fair? Undoubtedly not. But Daenerys had made her position perfectly clear and Arya intended to make her position perfectly clear too.

She looked up at Tyrion and solemnly vowed, "I will never marry you Tyrion. You have my father's blood on your hands. A Lannister will never be Lord of Winterfell. I'd rather die than see that happen."

Meera gasped and laid her hand on Arya's arm. Tyrion managed to look apologetic, while at the same time, giving her a grin that pulled his face awkwardly.

"Although it was not me personally who gave the order for your father's execution, I can't say I blame you. I would probably feel the same about a Stark in Casterly Rock. So it's a good thing I am not Commander of this army isn't it?"

"Then who is?" Meera gasped, gripping Arya's arm tighter.

"I am," the no-name bastard said in that low, rumbling voice and again, Arya would have sworn he was grinning at her beneath that damn helmet of his. Rat bastard.

"And if I refuse?" Arya asked, giving the smug, bastard the steeliest glare she could muster.

"I will take Winterfell, with or without your agreement Lady. I have taken the Twins. Do you think Winterfell can stand against me?"

He gestured up towards the battlements with one huge fist and she heard the arrogant satisfaction in his voice as he told her, "Those boys up there are no match for us."

The bastard knight turned in his saddle to look behind him. His movement was accompanied by the harsh sound of metal moving against metal and the more subtle, familiar sound of creaking leather. He did not need to gesture behind him to make his point. Arya's eyes followed his backwards glance to gaze upon rows and rows of war horses and heavily armoured knights, with archers behind them and an army behind that. She felt her shoulders sag slightly as she was forced to confront the hopeless reality of her situation.

"There must be another way Tyrion." Arya said, as calmly and as authoritatively as she could. Tyrion was the smartest man in Westeros, perhaps if she appealed to his better nature he could think of a way to get her out of this.

But unfortunately, it seemed Tyrion had no better nature. "You read the Queen's decree. Wed or Dead," he replied with another, unpleasant grin.

The bastard turned sharply towards Tyrion. Arya imagined the Queen's Commander didn't like that suggestion any more than she did. If she died, so did his prize. Daenerys hadn't said anything about his being Lord of Winterfell if Arya was dead.

Perhaps the rat bastard might prove to be an unexpected ally in this farce.

"I'm harder to kill than you'd think," Arya said coolly and with a slow, dangerous, unpleasant grin of her own. They didn't know who they were dealing with.

"Oh, I imagine you are, but I wasn't specifically meaning just you when I said 'dead'," Tyrion grinned cheerily, looking pointedly towards Winterfell's battlements where the boys stood on blocks of wood, "I meant them and I meant everyone within Winterfell's walls. So what's it going to be Lady Stark? Wed or Dead?"

-o-

Once again, thanks for all the positive comments and reviews. I'm back at work tomorrow (Boo! Hiss!) so it will take a bit longer for updates. Bear with me and I'll see you asap.