Watch me make them bow one by one by…
One.
When the Ser Willem Ferris of Skyreach came to relieve Lord Vance's man of his watch duties, he was surprised to find the Lady of Winterfell awake and out of her bed, conversing with the sentry. The two spoke in soft tones, and Arya reached out and touched the man's arm as they did. It was a tender gesture and it flummoxed the large assassin. His sister was not usually so open with strangers.
"My lady," the false-knight greeted her once he'd reached them, "the hour is late."
"So it is," she agreed, looking up at the stars overhead, "though some might name it early."
"Have you not slept?"
"I did try, but…"
"But I've talked her ear off," the companion who was meant to be guarding her interrupted. His voice was gruff, but apologetic.
"Nonsense, ser," the girl replied. "It's entirely my fault for pestering you with questions. But now you must go to your own rest. I trust Ser Willem can watch this spot of ground well enough on his own."
"Very good, my lady," the man said, bowing his head. Much to the Bear's surprise, the older man took her hand then. Even more surprising was the fact that his sister didn't seem to mind. There was an ease between the sentry and his sister for which the Lyseni could not account. "Be well, and take care until we meet again." The words were spoken with a sincerity and a fondness that made the Bear's forehead wrinkle.
"We'll speak again soon," Arya promised in return and the guard nodded before leaving her. The girl and her Lyseni brother watched the man go before speaking.
"What was that all about?" the Bear wanted to know.
"Family," the Cat told him, and there was a touch of something in her voice.
Sadness? he wondered. Or… a wistfulness?
"Walk with me," the girl directed him, "and I'll tell you, if you like."
They moved through the camp quietly, weaving around tents and smoldering campfires, nodding politely to the few men they passed who were awake at such an hour, mostly soldiers going to or coming from wherever it was they made their water, and a few guardsmen at their posts. All the while, Arya told her friend about her Uncle Brynden.
"But that's… astonishing," the Bear said. "That you should find family in this place…"
"I arrived at this place in the company of my family," she told him softly, reaching out to squeeze his arm, "but discovering a blood relation was certainly unexpected. There are so few of us who remain, Stark and Tully, and those who do are so very far away. Or, so I thought."
"And what did your uncle have to say to you?"
"Oh, lots of things. He told me how brave he thought Robb was. A natural leader, he said. And he told stories of my mother when she was young, and what he remembered of the day she wed my father." She smiled a little.
They had moved beyond the confines of their own camp and had found the western perimeter, where the camp encroached upon the banks of the Red Fork. Beyond the far bank of the river, the walls of the castle stood. They were not so tall as the walls which surrounded Winterfell, but they were still imposing. The two assassins edged along the near bank, the girl's eyes darting over the black waters and along the castle's battlements, inspecting as best she could in the darkness; assessing.
"Did it make you sad?" the Faceless Dornishman wanted to know. "You only just lost your mother."
"No," Arya replied, still gazing at the castle, "not sad. It was good to hear." She nodded her head. "She was happy. She was loved, and she loved in return. No matter how it all ended, she had a good life with a family that loved her. I was glad to be reminded of that." The girl squinted, staring toward the main gate of Riverrun, lit by blazing braziers at its edges and torches mounted on the curtain wall.
"What are you thinking?" the Bear asked, noting her demeanor. She seemed distracted and her eyes had grown shrewd.
"I'm thinking the drawbridge is raised, and I don't care to swim in this chill."
"So, you mean to storm the castle and are looking for the best way to do it?" he japed, laughing a little at the idea.
The girl's lips curled into a familiar malicious smile. "I'm sorry, was that not obvious?"
The large man sobered, then sighed. "I suppose it should have been, considering everyone has pled with you to stay put and keep hidden. Of course your plan would be to do exactly the opposite."
"You know," the girl began in a musing tone, "I've never liked to be told what to do."
"So, naturally, you'll walk straight into Riverrun and declare 'Here I am!' to a legion of armed men. Men gathered, I might remind you, in a castle wrested from the control of your mother's family. Men who occupy that castle now and claim its high seat as their own and wouldn't like to be reminded there are those who might contest such a claim."
"I should fear Emmon Frey?" Arya scoffed. "Who, by all accounts, has the temerity of a box turtle and not half so much wit!"
"Emmon Frey does not stand alone."
"Half the river lords back me already," she reminded the Lyseni, "and the other half aren't like to risk their necks for a Frey who has usurped the Lord Paramount's title from a family that's held it since Aegon's conquest! Not if they're offered an alternative that's even slightly more appealing than Lord Box Turtle."
"And you're that alternative?"
The girl laughed. "Don't be stupid. Not me." At the Bear's befuddled look, she whispered excitedly, "My uncle! The Blackfish!"
"What's your plan? To march into the great hall with a face that seems to instantly call Lyanna Stark to mind and reveal that you're the daughter of a Stark and a Tully, a princess of the North, and demand the Lord Paramount surrender his castle and his position to your uncle?"
"Princess of the North!" she snorted. "And who said I mean to show my face?"
"Was this your uncle's idea?"
Arya looked at the false-knight sharply. "Don't you know me at all?"
Her brother stared back, his look every bit as sharp. "Now would be a good time for you to tell me your plan."
"No, now would be a good time for you to tell me about the watch schedule."
They continued to skirt the edge of the camp, walking along as a patrolling duo might, arguing with one another in hushed tones. The Cat attempted to make out the various banners flying over different sections of the camp, dividing them into three categories: friend, foe, or unknown allegiance.
"Why do you need to know about the watch schedule?"
She merely smiled and looked back at the closed gate of the castle in response.
He shouldn't have let her talk him into it, but his sister had always been more persuasive than he'd ever been capable of resisting. Besides that, he trusted her.
But more than anything, he desired to protect her, and all successful missions started with good intelligence.
And so, the Bear had found himself a face, and clothes with a sigil that would not be questioned, then used them to walk into Riverrun amongst a company of invited men when the drawbridge was lowered at dawn. Late-arriving lords, knights, and commanders were there to declare their presence, give account of the levies and horses they'd brought, and pay their respects to the Lord Paramount ahead of the large gathering of sworn houses that was scheduled for the next morning. It had provided the perfect cover for the Lyseni assassin to enter the castle, and the perfect opportunity to learn the layout and study the faces of those who served and sheltered behind its walls.
'Observe,' the Cat had beseeched her brother, 'and bring back all you've seen.'
And he had. Later that night, he had the watch over the Lady of Winterfell, and he'd ducked into her tent and pressed his forehead to hers while she'd plundered his memories. Her hands had felt cold as she pressed them lightly against his neck, fingertips reaching and brushing his jaw and chin. Anyone who would've seen them in such a posture would've assumed them to be lovers sharing a tender moment, but they were quite alone as Arya moved delicately through her brother's thoughts and recollections. Afterwards, she'd felt a bit tired and queasy, but she'd found what she needed. She'd found her face.
"Here," the Bear said, handing her a soft bundle. It consisted of a jerkin with a white shield bearing a single green willow tree stitched on the breast, a heavy, hooded cloak such as a tender-skinned Riverlander might wear against such mild chill as they were experiencing, and some loose breeches. "I couldn't get the boots, but you can wear your own."
"Who am I?" Arya asked, studying the sigil that would lend credence to the face she'd chosen.
"A fostered squire, sent by House Ryger," her brother replied. "My squire."
The girl grinned. "So, you're with me?"
"Ser Symon Grell, at your service," the large assassin replied with a respectful bow of his head. "And there's nowhere else I'd be."
"Symon Grell?"
"Younger son, obscure house, no one has seen him in years since he sailed for Essos to fight with the Golden Company."
"Golden Company?" the girl laughed. "Shouldn't you be in Dorne, then, riding behind the dragons?"
"What, a Grell raise arms against his rightful rulers or his own house? As soon as the Golden Company decided to sail for Westeros to fight, I left for home, determined to defend the Riverlands from foreign invaders."
"You are a man of principle, Ser Symon. And it is very convenient for my purposes that no one here has seen you in years."
"It is perhaps even more convenient that it seems the only well-known Grell has been sent off to the wall. And before that, he was a highly regarded knight in the service of your mother's family."
Arya studied the Bear's face. "A name that commands respect, but a face that cannot reasonably be questioned. And all this you discovered on your brief visit to the castle. Brother, you have made good use of your time."
"I live only to serve you, my lady." The corners of his mouth twitched as he spoke the words and it made his sister laugh and punch his arm playfully. Then a thought occurred to her.
"What about the Rat?"
"He understands, and will not interfere. Of course, I had to endure near half an hour of discontented muttering to secure that pledge."
"He worries for your safety," Arya murmured thoughtfully.
"And yours."
Her look was skeptical, but she did not argue the point. Instead, she asked, "He understands his role?"
The Lyseni nodded. "Our brother will deflect any… curiosity. You'll be rather unwell in the morning, confined to your tent all day. He wouldn't dream of letting anyone disturb his lady."
"So, I'll have the space of one watch…"
"Two," the Bear corrected. "There will be a substitution in the watch schedule. You know, you'll owe him for it." He winked at her then.
The girl chuckled. "I'm surprised Ser Jaime agreed."
"What Ser Jaime doesn't know won't hurt him. And really, it's quite impossible to stand guard when you're afflicted with a flux."
"Oh, is that what happens to you?"
"And you too. I think we must've shared a questionable piece of roasted rabbit at supper."
"Won't the men get suspicious when they don't see us bolting for the latrine?"
"What, the Lady of Winterfell squatting over a hole to shit, out in the open? No, that would never do. You've a chamber pot in your tent, and no one is like to disturb my lady in that state, with or without Baynard to discourage them."
"You clever boy," she whispered, leaning in to peck his cheek.
The Bear's smile was almost shy. "I try to earn my keep."
Arya's look became somber at his words. "You…" She shook her head and stared down at her lap. "You're invaluable to me. I can't do without you."
It was hard for her to admit aloud. She didn't like to think of herself as dependent on anyone or anything, but it was the truth, and her brother deserved to know it.
"And I won't do without you."
They looked at each other, understanding in their eyes. The Rat's words of warning played in the back of the girl's mind, but she did her best to silence them. Nothing bad would happen to the Bear, and certainly not because of her. She simply wouldn't allow it.
"Tomorrow morning," Arya whispered. She would hear what the Lord Paramount had to say with her own ears, and see how the river lords responded with her own eyes. And, she had other business in the castle. "Now, tell me about Hosteen Frey."
And so, he did. The false-knight had made good use of his time behind Riverrun's walls and his sister was most grateful for it as her plans solidified themselves in her mind. That night, when she said her prayer just before closing her eyes to get her rest, a new name slipped from her lips. Somewhere after whispering Ser Ilyn and Ser Meryn but before uttering the Kindly Man into the darkness, the girl could be heard to mutter Hosteen Frey. Her voice was hard as she did, and she felt as if the buzzing in her bones intensified.
The river lords, those as knew of her existence, anyway, would be most displeased with her scheme, she was quite sure (she could well imagine the stormy look upon Tytos Blackwood's face if he were to learn of it, and Clement Piper would be properly scandalized, she had no doubt). But she did not answer to their rule and she did not tremble in fear of their displeasure. She had her own plans, and had made promises to someone who meant more to her than a thousand great lords with all their ambitions and expectations.
Arya Stark had an oath to keep, and vengeance to take.
Winter is coming, she thought before she drifted off the sleep with a small smile upon her lips, and when she dreamed, she was in wolfskin, tearing out the throat of her prey, the blood warm on her tongue.
She wakes when the night has not yet lifted and as she dresses herself in the clothes of a young boy, she thinks on the face she will wear to enter the castle. And she thinks of how that face carries no hint of who or what she really is.
For she is the ghost in Harrenhal, a Faceless assassin, the daughter of corpses; she is a cat which stalks her prey on silent feet; a blood child; a dark heart. She is rage made flesh and she whispers her prayer to the god of death each night without fail. She is a wolf, and she will not be afraid.
Her cloak conceals both Frost at her hip and a crossbelt of Valyrian steel throwing blades made from the remnants of Ice. Her lord must carry Grey Daughter for her. It would appear odd for a young squire to have such a weapon strapped to his back, but she will not enter this place without her steel, and so her Lyseni brother will bear that burden. She does not wear her cat comb with its hidden blade. Her shaggy squire's mop will not allow it. But there are other hidden weapons on her person, sharp daggers good for close combat. There is a slender blade tucked under a sleeve and another in her boot. There is a third strapped to her thigh (perhaps this one is exorbitant, but one can never really know when one might lose one's breeches and have need of a ready blade).
There is like to be a lot of killing that requires doing behind the walls of Riverrun. She will be prepared for it.
She spares a moment for a memory: a man stands on the steps of the temple of the Many-Faced god and slowly drags his fingers down his face. She thinks of that man, those fingers, that face, and draws in a great breath. As she exhales, she pictures another face, this one very young and not nearly so tanned, and drags her own fingers from forehead to chin, just as her master had always done, erasing grey eyes and replacing them with brown; erasing angles and lines and replacing them with the plump, pink cheeks of youth; erasing a full bottom lip so used to being worried by teeth and replacing it with a mouth which smiles easily.
It is nearly dawn when the drawbridge is lowered and a few lesser lords and landed knights begin to make their way through the gates of Riverrun and into the bailey yard. They send their squires off to polish helms and make sleeping arrangements for after the war council and enjoy what bits of breakfast they can nag out of the kitchen maids. The great lords—Blackwood, Vance, Piper, Mallister, Bracken (he is no friend of theirs)—will make their way in later, their prestige and wealth allotting them the benefit of an extra hour or two of sleep (and likely better cuts of meat when they finally break their fast in Riverrun's feast hall).
The false-squire is glad of the chance to enter early, though. Sleep is of less concern to her than revenge. The deep shadow of the pre-dawn (and the early morning quiet of the castle) allows for more movement without impediment or suspicion.
The Bear, now Ser Symon Grell, gives his squire a few meaningless instructions, echoing the words uttered by several lords and knights around them to their own squires, and sends the Ryger boy on his way. Arya bobs her false head and turns to carry out her own reconnaissance and preparations. She finds the kitchens and uses her sweet squire's face to charm a buttered roll and a bit of information out of one of the cooks there.
"His own squire is ill, so my lord asked that I take Ser Hosteen his breakfast in his chamber today," the false-squire tells the cook.
"Your lord?" the white-haired cook asks, sparing only a brief look to study the sigil on Arya's jerkin. "And who is your lord, boy?"
"I squire for Ser Symon Grell."
"I didn't know there were any Grells left in the Riverlands," the cooks sniffs.
"He's only lately returned," the Faceless boy explains, "from Essos."
The woman's tone softens. "Well, I knew Ser Desmond Grell, and he was as good a man as ever lived." Arya is left with the impression that her association with the Grells buys her a bit of indulgence.
"If you can just fix up a tray, I can take it and…"
"This is the second morning Ser Hosteen has asked to be served in his room," a passing maid remarks.
"Well, that's no surprise, is it?" the gruff cook answers, winking at the Ryger boy. "All these lords who lost sons at his hand, or the hands of them as back him. After what happened at the Twins, he's not like to find many friendly faces in the feast hall today."
The maid's expression sours and she leans in to murmur to the squire.
"I'll ready that tray for you, if you'd like to take his breakfast to him. Rosie will be glad of it, too. She says he grabs her every time he sees her, and he's not a man who can be refused." The false-squire tilts his head and looks into the maid's eyes, searching; reaching out. Then, Arya sees what the kitchen maid sees, in her mind: a woman, Rosie she presumes, crying in the kitchens, her yellow curls disheveled and her lower lip swollen and split.
"Horrible man," the cook mutters, her expression hardening as she shakes her head and stirs the pot of porridge she'll be serving soon. "Hoster Tully would've had 'im tossed out on his ear, Seven rest 'im." The cook continues muttering to herself, things like, "Freys in Riverrun!" and "These are dark days, I tell you. Dark."
With another warm roll in her belly (this one with a bit of honey on it, a sign of gratitude offered for Rosie's sake, Arya thinks), the false-squire departs the kitchen with a tray that is as good as a guarantee of safe passage. No one questions him when he takes a wrong turn and darts into the laundry. No one questions why he carries a bundle of roughspun under his arm as he makes his way down the corridor where the guest chambers are situated. No one even sees as the Ryger boy finds a door slightly ajar and ducks into the empty chamber (the occupant having left for an early breakfast), and no one sees when Rosie the maid emerges, wearing her freshly laundered dress and apron, carrying a tray. The split in her lip is healing, but there is still bruising and swelling there that hints at a blow from the back of a hand. The girl is careful not to bite her lip in her usual way as she arrives at Ser Hosteen's door.
Regular, slow snores emanate from Ser Hosteen's chamber. She listens for only a moment, then tries the door handle. It doesn't budge. The Frey knight is apparently a cautious man and has locked his door against those who might mean to do him harm. Arya grins at that and even on her pretty maid's face, the look of it is chilling.
No locked door will keep Ser Hosteen from his fate. In fact, she means to make him invite his fate in to claim him (unsuspecting, like a guest who has eaten of bread and salt; like her brother; like her mother).
Arranging her eyes so that they are wide and fearful, the girl raises her hand to knock.
It was mid-morning when Ser Symon Grell and his young squire found a spot to loiter near the back of the assemblage in Riverrun's great hall. Their vantage point was one from which they could see the proceedings and the crowd yet remain essentially unseen themselves. They preferred to be unacknowledged and unnoticed. The false-knight and the false-squire had situated themselves behind some equally unimportant young lordlings and knights, men and boys wearing the sigils of House Goodbrooke, House Lolliston, and House Terrick. The allegiances and political inclinations of those houses were unknown to Arya, but their representatives did not impress her as particularly daring or menacing. If she had to guess about it, she'd say they were little more than green boys. Besides that, the men showed no spark of recognition at the sight of the false faces she and her brother wore, nor did they seem concerned with the sigils upon their breasts.
The crowd watched in relative silence as the procession of great lords began, with Lord Bracken leading the way. He approached the high seat where the astonishingly weasel-like Emmon Frey had installed himself and offered his pledge of loyalty to the Lord Paramount of the Trident on bended knee.
"You have been a good and true friend," Lord Frey remarked as Lord Bracken finished the words that declared his fealty. His voice, high and thin, made Arya's lip curl.
"And you have been a faithful lord protector, loyal to the crown and to the lands over which you have been granted dominion," Jonos Bracken returned in an obvious bit of mummery. His rehearsed tone and phrasing were poorly disguised. "The forces of Stone Hedge are yours to command." A low murmur from the crowd could be heard as he spoke the words, the river lords not troubling to contain their discontent.
House Bracken was not well regarded, the Cat decided.
Lord Frey raised his hand, indicating that Lord Bracken should rise. As he did, the Lord of Stone Hedge turned to face the crowd and his expression was decidedly smug to Arya's eye.
Foe, then, she determined as she watched, wondering what sort of reward House Bracken could expect for so assiduously ignoring their own losses at the Red Wedding as well as the insult given by the crown when they seated a Frey in the Lord Paramount's chair. She ruled her face but still shook her head slightly, thinking, He must've been promised a great deal in order to buy such a public display of boot licking.
Lord Bracken moved back to his place among his men, passing the Blackwood contingent as he did. When Jonos strode past Tytos, the two exchanged contemptuous glares. Lord Blackwood then turned his attention back to Lord Frey, his expression decidedly grim. After only a moment's pause, he, Ser Brynden, and Ser Ben began their approach, presumably to declare the loyalty of their house. Before they could reach the Lord Paramount to kneel, however, a man burst through the chamber doors, bustling down the central aisle toward Emmon Frey with urgency. His robes and clinking chain marked him as the maester of Riverrun. He brushed past the Blackwoods with obvious distress.
"Forgive me, my lord," he could be heard to say, and then leaned in to whisper in Emmon's ear.
Lord Frey's receding chin pulled in further as his mouth dropped open, his look one of horror and disbelief. The weaselly man leapt up, spry for his age, grasping at his maester's shoulder.
"Ser Hosteen?" Emmon cried. "Impossible!"
The crowd began murmuring in confusion and excitement at the scene playing out before them, and Lord Blackwood moved toward the Lord Paramount, asking if he could be of service.
"Stay back!" the Frey Lord commanded, his voice cracking. He narrowed his already beady eyes and stared at the Lord of Raventree Hall with distrust. "Was it you, Blackwood? Did you do this thing?"
"I do not know what you mean, my lord. Perhaps if you'll tell us…" Tytos took another step toward the high seat and Emmon Frey screeched out an order for him to stop, then waved his hand at his household guards who stepped in from the edges of the crowd. The guards wore Lannister armor rather than Frey, and placed themselves between the Lord Paramount and the assembled men.
Karyl Vance pushed forward from the crowd and moved to Lord Blackwood's side. When he stood shoulder to shoulder with Tytos, he spoke in his usual somber tone.
"Lord Frey, what is the matter?"
But Emmon ignored him and instead, heatedly whispered instructions in his maester's ear. The grey-robed maester then scurried from the hall, presumably to carry out whatever orders he'd been given. By this time, the lords and knights began shifting restlessly, calling out questions and speculating amongst themselves. Ser Hosteen's name had been invoked and so men were questioning whether he had perhaps betrayed his half-brother and absconded from Riverrun, taking his men with him.
"I didn't see him at the breakfast this morning," young Lord Goodbrooke was commenting. Next to him, a knight of Lolliston added his speculation.
"Maybe he's been struck with the bloody flux. I heard word this morning it was starting up in one of the camps. If we're not careful, it could take out half the army before the War Council even meets."
"Maybe he's struck Lord Frey's bed," the Terrick lad japed in low tones. "Did you see the look on old Emmon's face? That's a man whose been cuckolded, make no mistake."
"Lady Frey isn't even here, you dolt," Goodbrooke scoffed. "I heard she left for the Rock near a fortnight past, looking to shelter with her own family until this is all over."
"Besides that, she's nearly old enough to be Ser Hosteen's mother," the Lolliston knight said. "No one wants old Genna Frey in their bed."
The Cat listened, not speaking, and thought that no, Ser Hosteen's tastes hadn't run toward elderly and motherly. He seemed to like his bedmates young and frightened. She could still feel his coarse fingers wrapped around her arm and was sure there were bruises marking the exact place on her ribs where he'd squeezed her so harshly only a few hours before. But, then, she'd let him, hadn't she? She'd allowed him to feel a bit powerful, a bit predatory, just like he liked, because it allowed her to get in close.
It allowed her to whisper in his ear as she'd dragged her thin blade across his throat.
'Valar morghulis.'
She couldn't mind the bruises, not really. Not when the ache of them reminded her of the terror in Hosteen Frey's eyes as he bled out in his bed, slapping his hands against his wound as if he could stop death from claiming him; as if she'd allow that to happen. The slight stiffness in her arm where he'd grabbed her and flung her against his mattress called to mind his confusion and fear as he watched the frightened maid who'd brought him his breakfast change into someone else altogether. She'd become Arya Stark again, just for a bit, so she could watch him die with her own grey eyes.
So that when she told him why he was dying, when she told him who she was, he could have no doubt that what she said was the truth.
'My name is Arya, of House Stark, and I do this for my family, and for the North.'
What were a few bruises when weighed against long-desired vengeance? Besides all that, she'd endured worse injuries as part of the simplest training in the House of Black and White. A few bruises were nothing to her.
The rising noise of the chamber pulled the small assassin from her reverie. The men in the room were getting louder and more insistent, shouting out that Lord Frey owed them an explanation for the disruption to the proceedings. He called back that they would have their explanation momentarily. He'd barely had time to finish his assurances before the doors burst open once again and a squad of four guards half-walked, half-dragged a lanky man down the aisle and toward the high seat.
Hello, what's this? Arya wondered, looking up at the Bear's false face. He seemed just as befuddled as she was. As if in answer to her question, Ben Blackwood cried out.
"Hos!"
So this was Hoster Blackwood, the son held hostage to ensure the good behavior and loyalty of his house.
Ben lunged forward as Hos was marched past him but Ser Brynden caught him and pulled him back, growling furiously into his brother's ear. The girl could see the distress on the young knight's face but his older brother managed to keep him from doing anything foolish. Lord Blackwood's own expression had grown dark. It made the hairs on her arms prickle to see. Her fingers twitched for a weapon but she kept herself in check and held perfectly still, waiting; observing.
The guards brought Hoster Blackwood before the dais where Lord Frey stood and turned him around, forcing him to his knees before the assembly. It was no easy task, for Hos was exceedingly tall and though Arya did not mark him as a warrior, his defiance was easy to read in his expression and his posture. His reluctance to kneel was met with a hard kick to the back of the knees by a man wearing Lannister armor and he fell forward onto the stone floor, catching himself with splayed hands. The display wrought barks of disapproval jeers from the crowd but Lord Blackwood stood as still and silent as Arya herself, though he made no effort to rule his face. His fists, she could see, were clenched at his sides.
"What do you mean by this, Lord Frey?" Ser Brynden demanded. "My brother is your guest and does not deserve such shameful treatment."
"I mean to have the truth out of you!" Emmon declared shrilly from behind his guards. "Hosteen Frey was this day slain in his bed and I will not abide plotters and murderers under my roof!" The balding lord nodded and one of the guards unsheathed his sword and held it against Hos' neck.
The uproar caused by Lord Frey's declaration and the guard's actions took several minutes to die down.
"Murdered!" little Lord Terrick cried. "Who would have the nerve? Hosteen Frey was as mean a snake as ever slithered through the Riverlands!"
"Lord Frey must suspect Lord Blackwood, else he wouldn't have dragged out his son," Lord Goodbrooke replied.
Arya tensed and moved closer to her brother's side. They needed no words. The look she gave him was enough for him to know her mind. He nodded and moved his hand to the hilt of his sword.
"What have you to say, Lord Blackwood?" the Frey lord demanded.
"I say that this was no plot of mine," Tytos growled.
"Lord Frey," Karyl Vance broke in, "how do we know this was murder? Perhaps Ser Hosteen choked on his breakfast, or fell ill?"
"Choked on his breakfast?" Emmon screeched. "His head was found in his chamber pot across the room from his body!"
The Bear's eyes darted down to his sister and she met his gaze with a slight shrug.
The entire room filled with tension and shouting. Men grabbed at their hilts and cried out in alarm and disbelief. Murmurings of 'just like the Red Wedding' and 'may he burn in all seven of the hells' and 'is there a madman on the loose in Riverrun?' and 'good thing old Walder had so many sons, at the rate he's losing kin' could be heard from all around.
"My lord," Karyl Vance began, his tone imploring, "surely you don't think Lord Blackwood would orchestrate such a deed? Not with the life of his own son at risk if he were discovered! I am certain you must look elsewhere for the culprit."
"Ser Hosteen had no shortage of enemies," Ser Brynden agreed. "Many in this chamber lost kin and loyal men at the Twins, some at Hosteen's very hands."
"Precisely!" Emmon cried. "Including you and your father!"
"On my honor, my lord," Tytos began, stepping forward. The guards raised their swords and the one threatening Hoster stepped in closer to him, pressing his blade hard enough against the Blackwood son's neck that he hissed through his teeth at its bite. Tytos stopped, glaring at Lord Frey. "We had no part in this. Release my son!"
"Your honor?" Emmon spat. "What honor is that? Do you think I don't know that you plot against me? That you have been plotting against me since Riverrun was awarded to me?"
"My lord," Ser Brynden tried, but it was futile.
"Enough!" Lord Frey screamed then. "I will have my confession! I will have justice for Ser Hosteen! If the man responsible for this heinous murder does not step forward now, then Hoster Blackwood will pay for the crime with his own blood!"
"Release my brother now!" Ser Ben yelled out, unable to contain his rage any longer.
"Lord Frey, see reason," Patrek Mallister pled from among the crowd.
"This is most unjust," Lord Piper cried out. "How do we even know this isn't some mummery? We've seen no corpse!"
Amid the uproar, Hoster Frey stared out into the distance, his focus on nothing in particular, and he offered no plea for mercy or defense of himself. He did not tremble and produced no tears. His bravery impressed Arya immensely. She'd seen men threatened with death, and even the fiercest among them usually cracked at the end, begging; sobbing; screaming for their mothers. Ser Hosteen Frey, for all his reputation of meanness, was not half so brave at his end.
She could sense that the wrongful execution of Lord Blackwood's son would cause most of these men to turn decisively against their Lord Paramount and lead to a blood bath in the great hall. She knew her allies would have the advantage in such a fight and she could have let things play out naturally, knowing it would be to her benefit for them to do so. But that would mean letting Hoster Blackwood suffer for her actions, and that, she could not do. And so, pressing her face close into her brother's side where no one could see her, she scrubbed away all evidence of the Ryger boy's plump cheeks and easy smile and became once again Arya Stark.
She swept her dark hair back from her shoulders and nodded to her brother. She knew he wasn't pleased but still, he nodded back, ready to fight should it come to that.
She was certain it would come to that.
Arya took a breath, then pushed through the chirping and shouting crowd ahead of her until she came to the center of the aisle, facing the high seat. Standing straight and still, the girl locked eyes with the kneeling man who blinked and returned her gaze.
Her actions seemed to stun the crowd. As the men nearest her grew quiet and stared, their shock spread through the hall until all the shouting had stopped and every eye was on her. Arya moved forward, graceful as a cat, feeling the astonished gazes of the Riverlanders upon her.
"Lord Frey," she said when she had drawn even with Karyl Vance, "you ask the impossible."
"W-w-what?" the man stuttered in disbelief. "What do you mean? Who are you?" He peered at her over the heads of the guards surrounding Hos and his eyes narrowed. He seemed as though he struggled to place her; as though he felt he should know her, but did not understand how.
Perhaps her 'Stark look' would betray her after all.
The girl's lips curled into her malicious little smile and she cocked her head. "You asked for the man responsible to step forward. You will not find such a man, no matter how many innocent hostages you slaughter." She gazed at Hos once again, kneeling perhaps three yards before her. "Threaten him no more, my lord. This was not the work of any man in this room."
"What do you know of it, then, girl? Who are you?"
"My lady," Lord Vance cautioned, shaking his head slightly. She could see Ser Brynden and Lord Blackwood reacting similarly in the periphery of her vision but she ignored them all.
"Who I am is not important, but what I know is that I alone am responsible for Ser Hosteen's end. I cannot allow you to harm this man, and if you so much as try, you will share in your half-brother's fate."
"How dare you threaten me!" Emmon cried, enraged. "Guards, seize her!"
The room seemed to explode into action then, though for Arya, it was as if time slowed down. Those who knew her and had sworn their loyalty to her drew their swords, intent on protecting their foolhardy lady. Those who were unsure of her seemed too stunned to move at all, save Lord Bracken and his party who drew weapons in defense of the Lord Paramount. The Lannister guards under Emmon Frey's command followed his orders and approached her, intent on apprehending her. She could feel the Bear at her back, moving at speed to defend her.
As for Arya, she shed her cloak, sweeping it back from her shoulders and dropping it to the floor, revealing her crossbelt. Grasping three throwing blades in rapid succession, she launched them one after another with movements so fast, they were nearly a blur. The steel found a home between the eyes of the two guards intent on carrying out Lord Frey's orders and the one who threatened Hos. The men fell back nearly in unison, their helms creating an almost deafening sound as they struck the stone of the floor. Swift as a deer, she drew Frost from her hip and held her empty left hand out behind her. In less than a second, the Bear had pressed the hilt of Grey Daughter into her palm and she grasped her two swords and moved into her water dancer's stance. Her brother turned then, facing the chamber doors and guarding her back.
Ser Ben and Ser Brynden cut their way through the household guards and grasped the stunned Hoster by his arms, pulling him up and dragging him to safety. Lord Vance and Lord Blackwood crossed swords with the Bracken contingent, fighting furiously against them. Arya danced forward, slashing and stabbing at anything in her path, intent on reaching the high seat. She ducked under a clumsy blow from a household guard and saw Marq Piper stick his sword through the unfortunate man's throat as she did. Lord Smallwood moved in beside him, scanning the dais of the high seat for threats and barreling toward the guard who protected Lord Frey's left side.
As men cursed and bled and died behind her, the girl moved steadily toward Lord Frey, grinning as he cowered back and stumbled at the sight of her, landing hard in the high seat. When she'd dispatched his last guard, she held Frost out behind her, its point threatening anyone who dared approach from the rear. The sharp tip of Grey Daughter pressed delicately over Lord Frey's heart, pinning him in the seat he had no right to occupy.
"W-w-who are you?" the man squeaked, his eyes wide as he stared at her. The furor of the hall was dying down, the clashing of steel slowing, then stopping.
"I'm the one who's going to kill you," was her answer.
"Lady Stark!" Lord Piper called out. "I implore you, stay your hand." The crowd in the hall began buzzing again at hearing her named thusly.
"Stark?" Emmon spat out in confusion. "Rubbish!" But she could see the recognition dawning in him. His expression seemed to cycle through mistrust, then concern, then a panicked sort of dismay. He could not look into her grey eyes, or gaze at her long face and high cheekbones, and deny the truth of it for long.
"This is no work for the Lady of Winterfell," the master of Pinkmaiden continued.
"Whose work is it, then?" the girl called back to Clement Piper as casually as if she were asking who had claim to the last lemon cake at a feast.
A girl should be bloody too. This is her work.
"The Lady of Winterfell? That cannot be. The Starks are all gone, now!" Lord Frey insisted rather weakly. He seemed to be trying to convince himself. "All dead…"
"No, not all," Arya said quietly, "though not for lack of trying, on your father's part at least."
"My lady, let us deal with Lord Frey," Ser Brynden suggested from somewhere behind her. In answer, she pressed Grey Daughter's point more forcefully into the weaselly man's chest, just over the sigil of his house, piercing the embroidered image of the Twins, rending the fabric of his fine vest just enough to contact his flesh with her steel.
"I'm unarmed," Emmon whined. "It wouldn't be honorable…"
The girl leaned in, her lips curling back from her teeth in a snarl. Lord Frey yelped as her blade pinched at his skin and caused him to bleed a little.
"You have the audacity to talk to me about honor?" she growled. "When your father made a mockery of guest right? When he had his sons and his men murder my mother and brother as they celebrated at a wedding? When he had her thrown into the river, throat cut to the bone, naked, to float for days? When he cut off Robb's head and sewed a wolf's head in its place?"
"I am not my father, my lady! That was not my doing!"
"No, you're not your father. I don't imagine your father would've pissed himself in fear while being confronted by a girl." Arya's expression was derisive as she glanced at the trickle dripping from Emmon's ankle. A small puddle was forming at the base of the high seat. "Though I do mean to find out for myself. Perhaps old Walder will surprise me," she added in a conspiratorial whisper, then winked at the man. He flinched in response. "And while it wasn't your doing, you certainly profited from it, else you wouldn't be here."
Arya heard steps from behind, approaching the dais and the high seat. She turned her head to see Lord Blackwood moving to her side.
"My lady, I beg you, let those you trust mete out justice," he murmured. "If you slay him here, this room may boil over once again. Our main opposition is dead or subdued. The rest may be won to our side if we handle this with care."
"I've made a vow. I'll not suffer a Frey to live," she told him.
"You'll not have to, I promise you. But a trial and a just sentence will go far in winning the trust of the Riverlands."
She could have argued with him. She could've told Lord Blackwood that she had no need of the trust of the Riverlands; that her purpose here was not to win friends or play political games. She could've pushed her blade straight through Emmon Frey's heart and watched as the life flickered out of his eyes, enjoying his fear and helplessness all the while. She could've, but she didn't. This Frey, as odious as he was, had not taken direct part in the Red Wedding, and so her rage subsided and she acquiesced to Lord Blackwood's wishes.
Let the river lords have their trial, she thought. Emmon Frey is not on my list.
"As you say, my lord." Arya pulled her steel away from Lord Frey's chest and stepped back. Ser Brynden and Ser Ben rushed forward and yanked the quivering lord from his seat, dragging him down the dais despite his protests and pleas. The girl watched the crowd, noting that some of the knights and lords still looked confused while others seem pleased with the turn of events. Many of those unknown to her regarded her with a mixture of suspicion and awe. Lord Blackwood moved to Arya's side and cleared his throat.
"My lords, good sers," he began, "hear me now, if you will."
The girl nearly rolled her eyes at the pomp. Instead of letting him continue, she moved to stand in front of him and stared out at the faces staring back at her. The Bear, she noted, stood at the foot of the dais, ready to defend his sister if the need arose.
"My name," she called out, "is Arya, of House Stark." Her voice was loud and steady. "My father was Ned Stark. My mother was Catelyn Tully. She was born in this castle. She grew up here. She married my father here. She came here with my brother Robb at the start of the War of the Five Kings. The Riverlands fought behind my brother against the corrupted crown."
The lords and knights erupted again. Shouts of "A Stark lives!" and "She's Hoster Tully's granddaughter!" could be heard. Then, another man stepped from the crowd and into the aisle to speak. All turned to hear him.
"So, you're a Stark, kin to the King in the North and to the Tullys," the river lord said. She did not recognize him. Tytos leaned in and whispered 'Lord Keath' in her ear. "Do you mean to claim Riverrun for yourself, my lady?"
Arya frowned at him. "No, my lord, I mean to return it to its rightful ruler."
"Edmure Tully is a hostage of Casterly Rock!" Lord Keath said with a scornful laugh. "He cannot claim Riverrun from a Westerland dungeon!"
The girl nodded in agreement. "No, he cannot. That's why the Blackfish will take the high seat until such time as my uncle Edmure returns."
"The Blackfish? He hasn't been seen in years!"
"That's not true," she replied. "I've seen him with my own eyes, not two days past. He's in the camp, under your very noses."
"Lady Stark has the right of it, my lords," Lord Vance said from his spot in the aisle. "I've sheltered him at Wayfarer's Rest for years, off and on. He traveled here amongst my men."
A shout came from the crowd "A Tully belongs in Riverrun!"
"Yes! Bring us Ser Brynden Tully!" another agreed.
"We want the Blackfish!" a third cried.
"Lord Vance, send for my Uncle Brynden," Arya commanded.
"As you wish, my lady," Karyl said, bowing deeply. He motioned to some younger men who dashed over and listened carefully to the instructions of the Lord of Wayfarer's Rest. When he was done speaking, young men departed swiftly. As they did, Lord Blackwood moved to the front of the dais, next to Arya.
"My lords, men of the Riverlands, this is Arya Stark, granddaughter of our beloved Lord Hoster Tully and the true heir to the throne of the North," Tytos declared.
"Is there a throne in the North?" someone yelled out and some amongst the assembled men laughed.
"The young wolf died in an act of the deepest betrayal, it's true," Lord Blackwood admitted, "and no one has held his throne since. But that was because it was not known that there was anyone who could."
"And this girl," a knight said, looking at Arya with doubt, "you think she should sit atop that throne now?"
"She's the daughter of Ned Stark," Ser Brynden replied, his face hard. "She's the daughter of Catelyn Tully. She has wolf's blood in her veins. Who would you have upon the throne?"
The Bear turned then, looking at his sister. In his eyes sat an unspoken question. Arya read it, and did not allow herself to chew her lip as she contemplated. She looked at Lord Blackwood for a long moment, then addressed the assemblage.
"My lords, it's true. I am the sister of Robb Stark. I have a claim to Winterfell. I have a claim to the Winter throne. As such, I have a claim to the rule of your own lands. But you must know, I care nothing for crowns or thrones. I care nothing for rule or territory. My father… My mother and brother… They were all slaughtered by treachery. Their lives were ended by deceit and treason! I don't care about favor or gold or titles. All that means nothing to me. I have only one care in this world. Vengeance. Have you all forgotten the Red Wedding? Have you all forgiven the losses you sustained there? Because I haven't. The North remembers, my lords. I mean to find those who've wronged my family and make them pay for their betrayal."
There was a stunned silence as the men regarded the Stark heir and considered her words. And then, almost all at once, they began a deafening chant.
"Stark! Stark! Stark! Stark!"
And from behind her, Lord Blackwood smiled for the first time in a long while.
You Should See Me in a Crown—Billie Eilish