I own no part of Game of Thrones. Fanfiction only.
Shambles and Luck
After sending the ravens, Arya strode through the camp looking for Sandor and their men. The soldiers were drunker and louder than usual. She was nearly to the edge of the northern encampment when someone grabbed Arya and spun her to face them. As she whipped around, she brought up her Valyrian dagger and dropped into a low, wide stance, prepared for attack.
"You're a vicious little cunt ain't ya?" Ned Umber slurred. "Where you off to in such a hurry, Lady Arya?"
Arya returned her dagger to its sheath and rose slowly. She glanced around wearily to see if Umber was alone. "That's not your concern, Lord Umber. I suggest you find your bed soon. The king has planned a hard march tomorrow."
When Arya turned to leave, Umber grabbed her again. "Come back here. Think you're some kind of great lady, like Lady Sansa, don't ya? Heading off to save those good for nothing traitors at the Dreadfort?" Umber raised his chin, and Arya heard blades slither out of scabbards around her in the night. Arya glared at the hand on her wolfskin coat and slowly drug her eyes up to meet Umber's. "Greatjon always said the Starks were a slippery lot. I don't know what any of us expected from the kind of filth that would lay down with the Lannister dog."
Suggestive murmurs of agreement echoed around her in the dark.
"You know what I think?" Umber dragged her closer. "I don't think you're Arya Stark at all. I heard Lady Arya was killed in King's Landing, but then you turn up years later with the Hound licking at your heels."
Arya opened her mouth to respond, but was interrupted by Sandor's deep growl. "I think you'd better take your hands off my lady, or I'm going to take your hands off your arms."
Around her, feet shuffled in the snow amidst muffled grunts. Sandor materialized casually out of the night, his hands folded on the pommel of his long sword.
"Think you're a hard man, Clegane? Think you can take on all of House Umber by yourself?"
"Oh, I know I am, but you either turn my lady go, or House Umber won't have to worry any more about what happened at Last Hearth. My men will drag yours behind their horses all the way to the Dreadfort. It's not how they prefer to flay men—" he bent lower into Umber's face, "—it's messy—" Umber's hand reached for his dirk, but Sandor grabbed it first. He pressed the tip of the blade below Umber's bloodshot eye. "—but you'll consider it a rare treat compared to what I'm going to do to you if you ever lay your hand on Arya Stark again."
Ned released Arya and backed away. "This isn't over. The king will hear of this."
Sandor flung Umber's dagger at his feet. "Run along and tell him then. Be sure to mention how you addressed his sister. Irrun. Rikard." The men Sandor had chosen from amongst the Dreadfort men to be their masters of bow and horse materialized from the dark beside him. "Escort Lord Umber to the King of the North's tent. It's a dark night. I wouldn't want him to get lost."
They watched Ned Umber stumble away between Irrun and Rikard.
Sandor glanced down at her. "Are you alright?"
Arya nodded. "Lord Umber is young and hasn't had the command of his house for long. After what we heard tonight . . ." She sighed. "I just hope he doesn't decide to take his men and ride to Last Hearth in the middle of the night."
"There's nothing we can do to save Last Hearth, but the Dreadfort still stands for now." He laid his hand on her waist and murmured, "Come on."
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The Dothraki weren't happy about relinquishing the horses, but they did it. Only forty of the Dreadfort men had ever been on a horse in their life, so Arya was forced to leave the rest of her men behind. Lyanna Mormont spoke for them and promised to garrison them with her own men.
"My lady?"
Arya glanced down at one of the Dreadfort squires holding a spear with the Bolton colors tied on below the new Dreadfort colors. "Vash, isn't it?"
Even in the dark, she could see him blush richly. "Aye, my Lady. My mother, she's at the Dreadfort. Will you look for her? Make sure she gets out alright?"
Arya smiled weakly. "I'll try. What's her name?"
"Sinda. She was Lady Bolton's maid."
Arya leaned low out of her saddle and reached out her hand and Vash placed the spear into her hand. She turned to hand the spear to another of the Dreadfort men. "We're going to try to get everyone out of the Dreadfort. Is there anything you'd have me tell her if I find her?"
"Tell her . . ." He cast a glance over his shoulder to make sure none of the other men would hear him. "Tell her I love her."
Arya smiled. "I'm sure she already knows, but if I find her, I will tell her." Impulsively, she gripped Vash's shoulder. "Stay with the Mormont men and well away from the Umbers, Karstarks, and Manderlys. We're not very popular with them at the moment. When I get back, I'm going to expect a report. Do you understand?" Vash's eyes widened and he nodded furiously, his blond thatch flopping into his eyes. "You're my eyes and ears until I get back."
Vash nodded solemnly and backed away from her horse. When Arya turned, she found Sandor smirking at her.
"Finding your own little birds?"
Arya kicked her horse closer to Sandor's and nodded to Rikard that she was ready. "The men won't trust us until they see we trust them, and I'd have an account of what happens while I'm gone from the mouths of my own men."
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When they finally arrived at the Dreadfort, they were exhausted, freezing, and spattered from head to foot with mud, but Arya was gratified to see the castle gates open for them when their colors were spotted. She was less pleased once they rode into the courtyard.
She had expected to see the household already assembled, foodstuffs and vital supplies loaded into wagons. Instead, only a pair of trembling stable lads greeted them.
Arya reined in her lathered horse before them. "Where is Maester Tybald?"
They looked at one another at a loss. "Gone, milady."
"The steward?"
"Dead, milady."
Beneath her breath she cursed. "Who is bloody well in charge of this fortress?"
"You are, milady."
Sandor snorted, but Arya couldn't tell if it was in amusement, derision, or disgust. All three, probably. She'd not expected to be admitted immediately to the castle, but neither had she expected such disorder. She was disgusted.
"Sinda, Lady Bolton's maid, is she here?"
One of the stable lad's eyes popped. "What you want with me mum?"
Gratified, she flashed a grin at Sandor, who simply grimaced skeptically. "Vash sends his love. I'd speak with her. Take us to the great hall so we can get something to eat and out of the cold."
It took better than an hour to sort out, but Arya finally wrung an account of the state of affairs from the Dreadfort household. When Roose Bolton had abandoned the dank Dreadfort to take possession of Winterfell, he'd left less than fifty souls, mostly servants, to maintain the fortress. With the maester gone and the steward having succumbed to a bout of bowel gripe, there had been no one to read the raven scrolls that had arrived for months. When the few guards had recognized the Bolton colors beneath the new Dreadfort banner, they assumed that the Boltons had reconciled with the Starks and opened the gates without question. Sandor had glowered darkly at the captain of the guard upon this news, and she suspected the captain's ears would be burning with his disdain before the night was out.
Arya drummed her fingers on the table and looked at Sandor, her brows raised in silent query. Pointedly, he rose from the table, opened a window, and peered out into the dark. Arya sighed. Whatever she was going to do, she needed to decide quickly.
"Sinda, can I count on you to manage the servants?"
She was a tidy woman perhaps ten years Arya's senior, with kind eyes, a soft chin, and ashen blonde hair. "Aye, milady."
"Have them gather only what they cannot live without and can carry easily. At first light, they are to set out for Winterfell. What remains of the Dreadfort guard will take every horse in the stable, and they will escort you. Take enough food and supplies to make the journey, but no more. We can't spare the time to empty the larders or granary. With any luck, you'll be back within the month.
"Tell the kitchens I want every soul in the Dreadfort to break their fast here in the morning, and I want them well fed. By midday, there must be no soul left within the Dreadfort."
Sinda's eyes were wide and her voice trembled. "Very good, milady."
Arya nodded her dismissal, and she hurried away.
"Clegane?" He turned from the window. "See to the Dreadfort guards. Send a quarter of our men with them, and instruct them to evacuate any settlement between here and Winterfell. Make it clear that they are to do it gently, the Stark way, not the Bolton way. After that, make sure our best riders have all the provisions they can carry. We will ride south ahead of the Night King's army."
Sandor returned to her side and quietly said, "Aye, my Lady. It shall be as you command. Anything else?"
"Get our men garrisoned after they've their orders and provisions. There's plenty of room within the Dreadfort to quarter them. When you've finished, come find me in the maester's quarters. I need to send ravens."
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The maester's quarters and library were a shambles, much like the rest of the Dreadfot. They stank of mildew and the pungent acrid stench of bird droppings. Arya lit the sconces on the wall as she proceeded into the library but recoiled when she saw that they made of human hands. Hundred-year-old tomes were left broken in the narrow aisles between the sagging book shelves, and there was hardly a place she could place her muddy boot without treading on ripped pages and manuscripts.
When she reached the maester's office and personal quarters, she found much the same. One wall was ranged with raven cages, all empty. Her own raven had likely flown off elsewhere when he wasn't fed. Arya sat down at the maester's desk and considered the carnage.
She ran a finger over the edge of the desk and wasn't surprised that it came away coated in filth. Whatever had happened here had long since passed. She was relieved that the maester's quarters hadn't been destroyed in the moments before her arrival. Hoping to find something of value, she began trying to quickly set his desk to order.
When Sandor arrived an hour later, Arya had ranged a number of bottles along the edge of the desk. He picked up one of the bottles and turned it in his hand.
"What's this?"
Arya lifted her brow. "That one is Myrish fire; take care you don't get it on you. Most of the rest are poisons. The Boltons liked to do their killing the hard way, so I guess they didn't use them much. I couldn't believe my luck when I found full vials of manticore venom, tears of Lys, long farewell, and demon's dance." She creased her brow. "The maester left behind his supply of sweetsleep and milk of the poppy. He even had this . . ." She tapped her finger on a particularly long thin vial.
"What's that?"
"It's a full vial of the Strangler. You could buy a small homestead in Lannisport with this much Strangler."
Arya started packing the vials into the satchel with her faces. "You know what I didn't find? Ravens. Ink. Quills. Parchment. There's not a single record of a raven scroll in the entire library or office that I could find. They've all been taken or burned. I found this though."
Arya pushed a very old book that had been broken into several chunks towards Sandor. "I wouldn't have noticed it if I hadn't tripped over it. Some fool was tearing out pages and using them to light the maester's fire. Look here." Arya pointed halfway down the page. "It says that the wights are bound to individual Walkers. If you kill the commander, his wights fall."
"Aye . . . That's true enough. That's how we got our hands on a wight to begin with."
"So why don't we focus on just killing the commanders?"
Sandor flipped the pages of the book idly, glancing at the other pages. He paused thoughtfully when he found a picture that looked exactly like Arya's Valyrian dagger. "Because there's about a million wights between us and White Walkers. The Walkers stay way back just like every other cunt of a commander. There's no way to get around them unless you are luring their vanguard somewhere, and the gods help whoever is on the receiving end of that."
Arya drew her dagger from her belt and turned it over in her hands. "You know, this is an assassin's blade."
"Aye?"
Arya balanced the knife by the tip and then flipped it. "It's perfectly balanced. It doesn't wobble when you spin it, and it flies true when it's thrown."
Not seeing the connection, he prompted, "Aye . . . ?"
Arya caught the blade deftly and returned it to its sheath in a single fluid motion. "That Unsullied said it himself. We'll never have the numbers to be able to meet them in the field, so why would we try?" She grinned slyly up at Sandor. "What if we let them walk right on by . . . and then assassinate their commanders?"