THE WOLF MAID
Braavos at night was a labyrinth of mystery and enchantment. Cat and Blind Beth knew every step, every wynd, every stone of the poorer districts, the pleasure-houses and winesinks and mummers' dens, but Lyanna Snow was a stranger to the places they now passed, the gondolier poling them through broad canals with colored lanterns, delicate bridges, painted friezes and golden domes and tiled roofs. The manses and villas grew more opulent the further they traveled, until Lyanna could not help but wonder where they could possibly be going. She had not expected a courtesan to be sleeping on a sack out back of a tavern, but this canal led through the heart of the city, to the island that lay at the northern edge of the lagoon. The Purple Harbor.
Lyanna glanced covertly at the Summer Maid. For the entire journey, she had tried to riddle out why the courtesan had not betrayed more surprise at her appearance, had merely led her down to the gondola and paid for her passage too. But there was only one possible answer. She was expecting me. She knew someone would be meeting her at the Orb. Which led to the next realization: She must also know who it is I have to kill.
If that was so. . . had the Summer Maid herself come to the House of Black and White? The kindly man had said it was a certain man who had prayed for the death of this certain other, but that meant nothing. Syrio, back in King's Landing, had always called her "boy," when he meant that she should guile others into seeing what was not there. Male and female lie on the surface of our souls, Lyanna reminded herself. A courtesan certainly would be able to afford the services of the Faceless Men, and by no means did the Summer Maid need to have gone in person. She could have sent a trusted servant.
Pleased with herself for working this out, Lyanna sat back. Look with your eyes, hear with your ears. The gondola took a few more turns, passing under the great triple-arched aqueduct that carried water from the mainland, then slid to a graceful halt in the star-flecked water, against a swaying jetty.
Lyanna looked up, and had to bite her tongue. She recognized the domes and towers that rose above her, the forest of slender spires, the hanging gardens and the walls of mosaics. But she had only ever glimpsed it from a distance. This is the Sealord's Palace. And the Sealord, Ferrego Antaryon, had been frail and infirm for as long as she had been in Braavos – surely it couldn't be him she was meant to kill, when he would die just as soon on his own. Someone else here, then. And she could hardly go asking around the household.
"Come." The Summer Maid's voice startled Lyanna, and she jumped, scrambling out of the gondola so clumsily that she scraped her knee. Then she straightened up and followed the two women down the quay, to a barred door set in a high stone wall. The handmaid called some Braavosi word that Lyanna did not know, apparently a password, and they stepped through.
Beyond, there was a garden laid out in precise geometric angles, paths and flowering shrubs cultivated to grow in a natural maze, and a marble fountain topped by a slim naked youth stood at the center. The palace itself was lit with many candles and torches, and open arches fed into cloisters, columns, balconies, and windows, all molded of creamy stone. Then they passed into a high vaulted corridor, and Lyanna was pleased to note that her own footsteps were as soft and silent as the Summer Maid's.
She tried to look unobtrusively as they continued deeper into the palace. The floor was done in chequey of black and white marble, seamed with gold in the joins. Splendid carpets lay in alcoves, beneath the serene carven feet of previous Sealords, and flames burned in bronze salvers suspended by chains. Then the handmaid opened a series of lacquered wooden doors, all leading inward like a puzzle-box to a small, intimate room, hung with tapestries depicting great scenes from Braavosi history. A fire crackled in an iron brazier, and four velveteen settles were placed about it. Two of them were occupied.
The man nearest the brazier had to be the ailing Sealord himself. A sweet stink of sickness rose from him, and he had a gaunt, wraithlike look, as if someone had put him in a cauldron and boiled all the spare flesh from his bones. He sat with a quilt wrapped around his shoulders, occasionally sipping from a goblet. When he glanced up at their entrance, his grey eyes were worn and wan with pain. "Dear heart," he said, smiling wearily at the Summer Maid.
"Ferrego." She bent to kiss his forehead. "I did not know you were entertaining your guest so privily, else I'd not have interrupted."
"Nonsense. You are no interruption." The Sealord coughed. "Besides, my good Qarro knows that you are always to be admitted. Sit. Did you enjoy the play? I thought you might."
A cynical smile twisted the Summer Maid's mouth. "Ferrego," she said mildly. "A less forgiving woman might have wanted your blood, for not warning me beforehand."
"You are justified. But I am shamefully uncouth. Please allow me to present my guest, Ser Justin Massey. Ser Justin, my sweet lady."
"I am enchanted." The moment the man opened his mouth, Lyanna knew that he was from Westeros. He was tall, well built, and not ill-favored, with a sheet of white-gold hair and an easy smile. "After the voyage we suffered through, my lord, I must say your palace looks twice as much like paradise."
"A trial, was it?" the Sealord said noncommittally.
"Exceedingly." Ser Justin accepted a goblet of ambrosia from a page. "First there was getting to the Wall to deliver the Lord Commander's little sister, only to find that some of his men had taken it upon themselves to murder him a fortnight previously. We left Lady Arya there anyway – poor girl, after being wed to the Bastard of Bolton, even a Castle Black crawling with wildlings is a refuge. And then the storm struck that night, we almost killed our horses trying to outrace the worst of it to Eastwatch. But with Jon Snow dead, the Watch garrison there was not terribly interested in helping us find a – "
Arya gasped.
Both Ser Justin and the Sealord swung around to look at her. Until now, they'd taken no more notice of her than they would have of a piece of furniture. "Who are you, child?" Ferrego Antaryon asked.
"Ly – Lyanna. Lyanna Snow." Her voice sounded faint and unconvincing even to her. Ser Justin had to be lying, he had to, he was just stupid, Jon couldn't be dead, he couldn't be! And who was this "Lady Arya" – why had they taken her to the Wall? Why were there wildlings there, and who was the Bastard of Bolton? No, I would know if Jon was dead, I would, I would. . .
Yet that dream last night where she'd been with Nymeria as the hunters caught her, that dream where she'd been torn from her wolf –
At that moment, it took every single drop of Arya's will and training for her not to burst out in a flood of desperate questions. She chewed her lip until she tasted blood, and then noticed that the man in the corner – whom she hadn't seen this entire time, not until he moved in the shadows – was staring at her intently. Stepping out, he asked, "You are called Lyanna Snow, child?"
"Yes," she said, in a small voice.
"This is the girl, Qarro," said the Summer Maid. "The one I told you I would bring."
"You are saying you would be bringing someone, yes. But you did not say that it would be a girl."
"You are too suspicious. Ferrego will tell you that this was in the offing for several days."
"It was," said the Sealord, "and you will know that my sweet lady has what she wants. Now, Massey. I am given to understand a portion of your requests, but it is best we have them all. Gold, was it? And some number of swords?"
"You are correct, my lord," Ser Justin said, with a self-deprecating shrug. "I speak to the Iron Bank on the morrow, assuming I remembered who to bribe and how much to bribe them. Tycho Nestoris was useful on that accord, yet not even he can open doors that the Bank wishes to remain closed. But I was told that by far the easiest way to hire twenty thousand sellswords at a swoop was to talk to you."
The Sealord sipped his drink. "It might be."
"Otherwise, I would be forced to collect them one by one, and winter might come again by the time I was finished." Ser Justin smiled, first at the Sealord and then the Summer Maid; he seemed to sense that he was getting a far warmer reception there. "I've noted you have a great deal of young rogues – bravos, they are called? – who spend their time enthusiastically murdering each other in alleyways. My king has a great use for any good sword, and it would solve some of the disruption in your city as well."
"Bravos are not soldiers," the Sealord said. "They have no discipline, no sense of self-sacrifice. And – your pardon, Ser Justin, but you speak of leading them into a desolate northern wilderness, to face the teeth of winter and fight this Bolton abomination. Mayhaps there are one or two men who are weary of life and willing to oblige you, but even sellswords are not so desperate for gold as that. They'll take contracts escorting rich merchants between the Free Cities, or fighting in the Disputed Lands. Some will sail the Jade Sea trading routes to Qarth and the Summer Isles, but none of them have ever claimed suicidal courage. It is northmen from Westeros you need, not silk-clad boys from Braavos."
Ser Justin did not blink. "Does Tormo Fregar share that view, my lord?"
There was a pause just long enough to turn uncomfortable. Then the Sealord said, "I beg your pardon?"
"Tormo Fregar. It is widely rumored that he will become the new Sealord when your eminence is. . . at rest."
"When I am dead, you mean. Well, I am not yet, and do not intend to be so for some time, even though I cannot say that I currently enjoy it much. Since you ask, you must already know something of Fregar's temperament. He is a more violent man than me, yes, and more idealistic. He dreams of raising Braavos to new heights, so we should once and forever eclipse the Valyrian Empire that enslaved our ancestors. But you will also know, Ser Justin, that his ascent is no sure thing. Each faction must fight it out first."
"That seems quite wasteful, my lord." Ser Justin was still unfazed. "In which case, would you happen to know the employment status of the Golden Company?"
"I am surprised you do not, ser."
That did cause Massey to blink. "What do you mean?"
"Are they not in Westeros?"
"Are. . . they?" the knight echoed. He was no longer smiling.
Ferrego Antaryon was about to pull a trump card, and he was clearly enjoying it immensely. "You and Lord Stannis were in the north, it is understandable that you do not know. But here in Braavos, we have been hearing the whisperings for some time. Daenerys Targaryen has vanished in Meereen with one of her dragons, while her nephew leads the Golden Company to the shores of Westeros and his rightful throne."
"Nephew – " Ser Justin looked as if someone had just swung something very heavy into his face. "Who in the seven hells – "
"Aegon Targaryen, son of Prince Rhaegar and Elia Martell. If you think it a fine feat for a dead boy, ser, rest assured that so did I. At first."
"This – this – " Ser Justin had absolutely nothing witty to riposte to that. "This cannot be. . . if it was so. . ."
"Stannis Baratheon would not be the rightful heir to the Iron Throne after all." The Sealord leaned back in his quilts. "Now do you understand why I am not eager to send my swords to roast in dragonfire?"
Ser Justin opened and shut his mouth three times in a row, rather appropriately considering that the subject was the Targaryens. "If there were once more dragons in the sky above Westeros, we would know it, even if we were beyond the Wall. That sort of tiding could not be kept quiet for an instant. Or are they still with Rhaegar's sister in Meereen?"
"You said you would know it, ser."
Apparently sensing he was in danger of being badly outwitted, Ser Justin tried a new angle. "If that is so, Aegon Targaryen is merely a blue-blooded beggar with a horde of mercenaries in tow. And it seems convenient, doesn't it, that he has supposedly been alive all this time and no one's heard a peep of – "
"You are welcome to disprove him, of course," the Sealord said. "That would be a greater service to your lord than any number of Braavosi swords."
"I endured trial upon trial to get here. My king placed his hope in me, and in you." Ser Justin's voice was beginning to darken with rage. "And you sit there in your bedclothes and prate at me of dragons and children's fables, what could be and may be and has been, while Stannis bleeds and suffers and freezes in the defense of the Seven Kingdoms. The Targaryen line was broken by right of conquest, as it was established. If this stripling is truly Aegon, that is what I care for him and his bloody claim." And with that, Ser Justin turned his head and spat on the fine marble floor.
At once, the man in the shadows moved forward. "I will string him up if you are liking, my lord."
"No, Qarro. He has my hospitality." Ferrego Antaryon's face was still and hard. "I think, however, that I have heard enough for tonight. Remove him if you will, but gently. I must speak to my lady."
Qarro – he must be Qarro Volentin, the First Sword of Braavos – marched Ser Justin out. The instant they were gone, the Summer Maid rose from her settle, crossed to the Sealord, and took his papery hands in hers. "Ferrego, reconsider. Ser Justin has the right of it. Without dragons, Aegon Targaryen is nothing. Stannis Baratheon is a man grown, a warrior. He would be – "
" – a terrifyingly just king. I know."
"He would kill the Lannisters!" Color climbed the Summer Maid's face. "He has an army – or he will, if you give him one! Why would you honor that old treaty? It arranged for the marriage of Viserys Targaryen to Arianne Martell, and Viserys is dead and Arianne her father's prisoner, if the tales are true. I know you stood as witness to it, but that is over, Ferrego. Done. For your life, reconsider."
The Sealord raised his eyes to her face. "Who are you, dear heart?"
"You know who I am." The Summer Maid raised a hand to her face, pulled away her silken veil and her golden braids, her jewels and clasps and pins. She stood before him in her blue dress, bare-headed, long dark hair tumbling down her back where moments ago it had been the color of honey. "You know, Ferrego. Give me the one thing you have denied me, and I ask nothing more."
Arya, who had been standing in the corner with the Summer Maid's servant, was astonished and horrified. She changed her hair. She might be able to change her face too. Who is she? Who am I?
And with that, the horrible revelation. The Summer Maid wants me to kill the Sealord. He might die of his illness, but not quickly, and she needs him dead now. He won't give swords to Ser Justin, and she wants him to. With him dead, Tormo Fregar will become Sealord instead, and he'll do it.
Arya was petrified. The Sealord's just an old sick man, she told herself. And King Robert was Father's friend, Father would have supported Stannis to be king. Yet she tried desperately to push it away. No One doesn't have a father. Yet encroaching on every thought, every image, every instant, was the memory of Ser Justin so casually saying that Jon Snow was dead, and it wasn't, wasn't, the stupid stupid stupid –
"Now," Ferrego Antaryon was saying. "I have heard enough from you as well, my sweet. Take your girls and go to bed, and summon my physician. I will have more poppy to help me sleep."
"Poppy." The Summer Maid's voice was cold. "Of course, my lord."
He reached toward her. "Do not scold me. The Targaryens will not fail us."
"If you say so, my lord," the courtesan said, with remote civility. She beckoned, and her handmaid stepped forward, Arya hastily following. They stepped through the tapestries and the doors, out into the hall. Her heart was pounding.
Tonight, I could do it tonight. He'll have taken poppy, he won't wake. She had a knife with her – it wasn't Needle, but it was good enough. After that, it would only be a matter of outdistancing the Sealord's guards long enough to get back to the House of Black and White and change her face. They would be hunting for Lyanna Snow and her blue eyes and sandy hair and freckles, and Cat and Blind Beth knew the hidden ways, the secret ways. I can do it. I have to.
She made up some excuse, begged the Summer Maid's pardons, and began to run. Maybe I should kill Ser Justin too. He's lying about Jon and that girl called Lady Arya. I'm not a lady, and it's not Arya. But she knew that the kindly man would be sorely wroth if she did. Only kill those whose deaths have been prayed for. No one else. And Ser Justin was nothing. Not to No One.
Tears stung her eyes. She halted in the middle of an upstairs corridor, furiously scrubbing at them with her grubby hands. Jon. . . Nymeria. . . Kill the Sealord first, kill him and prove how faceless she had become. . . the kindly man was wrong, they were all wrong. She was a wolf maid for true and she could do anything she had to. Ser Gregor! she thought, with something approaching madness. Dunsen, Raff the Sweetling, Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, Queen Cersei!
More tears leaked out from beneath her lashes. Angrily, she slapped them away, and took a step.
A step was as far as she got. And then – there might have been a sound in warning, but she was not sure, never would be. For that was when a hand descended on her shoulder from behind, clasping it in a hold like iron. The other clapped over her mouth, choking off her scream aborning. And a soft, familiar voice said in her ear, "And what is a girl doing in this place? A girl alone, with a knife? I am wondering."