ARYA

Smoke from the campfires was thick in the air, making her dizzy. Men huddled together round the embers of their fires, swigging from skins of strongwine and malt, shoving down chunks of roast ham and hot bread. Music was coming from somewhere: a song, whose words she could not hear the words. And though the thunder was muted by the fog, Arya could see the brief flashes of lightning through it. If there were any ships out there tonight, they would have a hard time getting in.

There were drums, too. At least, she thought they were drums at first, and then she thought it was thunder, and then she realised the noise was in her own head, and the ba-dum ba-dum that wouldn't stop was her own heartbeat.

Everything hurt. She felt like someone had flayed off all her skin, then rubbed salt into the bleeding remains. At first she didn't really understand why, though. Bran and Jon had been her brothers, but she didn't really remember them.

Or so she'd thought. For she remembered them now. Bran running past her, kicking up mud and snow, chasing her round with his wooden sword. And Jon, mussing up her hair with one hand while admonishing her with the other, hugging her really tight and laughing all the while. The pain came more sharply now, a prod here and there, like she was being stabbed with a—

Needle.

The pain resumed. I came so close. Again. She had been at the Twins with the Hound, watching from outside while her mother was murdered and Robb and his army were betrayed. Here she was again, on the outside, looking in.

Somehow the way she'd learned of their deaths made it worse. At the Red Wedding, she had been there all the way, watching it unfold; all the while she had been thinking maybe, somehow, I can save them. There had been hope, even if it had been ebbing away with every second that passed. But here… one moment they were alive, the next, stone cold dead. That little piece of paper and those words from Sansa's lips had torn away everything she was.

From somewhere further down the beach she heard her name being called. "Arya! Arya!" As it had when she'd run away with Lady after the fight with Joffrey, down by the ruby ford. Only now, it was not her father or Jory Cassel calling, but her great-uncle Blackfish. She would have gone to her father or Jory. She did not want to go to him. Arya slipped through the campfires, past men who did not know her face and did not care, through the glare of flame and drifting smoke.

Someone grabbed hold of her arm.

Arya whirled round, going for Needle purely out of instinct – then looked up into the face of Gendry.

There was a long moment of silence. He seemed as surprised as she was. "Oh," said Arya, rather stupidly.

"Mind where you're going, m'lady," Gendry said.

The Blackfish's calling was getting louder. "I need somewhere to hide," she said. "Now." Gendry didn't seem like he was going to help her, so she grabbed his arm and all but forced him back into the smoke and the tents. "Take me to the Brotherhood."

"Fine," he said, which surprised her a little. "Come on." He did not wait for her.

The Brotherhood had made camp in the mouth of one of the caves that pocked Seagard's coast. There were about two hundred of them in all, Arya reckoned, crowding around a great scarlet fire of piled wood. Hot Pie waved when he looked over and saw her, and Anguy beckoned her close to the fire, where Thoros was telling a story.

"…and she says to me," Thoros was saying, "She says, 'Well, I wonder how it got like that.' 'So do I,' I said, 'must be all that work you're putting in.'"

A roar of laughter went up around the campfire. Then Thoros looked up and saw Arya and Gendry. "…and speaking of lovebirds."

"Piss off, Thoros," Gendry said.

"Oh, not lovebirds, then?" The red priest snorted. "Don't lie to me. There's no tricking Thoros of Myr, the wisest red priest this side of Volantis."

"This side of the beach, you mean," said Arya.

"My lady has a barbed tongue." Thoros bowed his head in mock courtesy. "Sharp as a needle."

Needle. There was something in his eyes; something that made her sure that his saying 'needle' was no accident. Thoros made his apologies and approached her, out of the hearing of the others. Gendry had gone to the fire, and now Anguy was telling a story. But Thoros's eyes watched her, so intent and careful. Come, child, his eyes said, there are no lies here.

"Thoros," she breathed, so quietly she did not know how he could hear it. "You brought Lord Beric back from the dead. And… my mother, too. You brought a ghost back to our world. But… what if it's not the body that's the dead bit, after all?"

"What do you mean?" the red priest asked, though Arya was sure he knew.

"There are things," she admitted. "Things from before that I still don't remember."

Thoros nodded. "You lost something, child. I understand that. But what I don't understand is why you think I can find it. Only you can do that."

He was, of course, right. And deep down, she'd known that before she'd even started talking to him. She'd run away from Sansa, but Sansa had done nothing wrong. There were others too. They were the way back, and yet she'd cast them aside. Well. It was not too late to start.

She turned, searching the crowd for Gendry, and chanced upon him suddenly. He was staring straight back at her, but when their eyes met he looked away, embarrassed.

"We need to talk," Arya said, before she could become embarrassed, too.

"About what, m'lady?"

"About… about us." Why did that sound so foolish now? "Our friendship, I mean." Gendry only gave her a goggle-eyed look of confusion, so she had to all but drag him out of the crowd. Behind him, the flames from the firepit danced back and forth and spread shadows among them. "You were right," she began haltingly. "I was lying to you. Earlier, when I said that I hadn't forgotten you. I had. But not because I wanted to. When I was in the House of Black and White, I forgot almost everything. For what it's worth, you were one of the last things to go. I forgot some of my family before you."

And then her breath deserted her. Gendry just stared back, as though struck dumb. Arya wondered if she had said too much. And about my family, was that even true? Then Gendry said, "All right."

"All right?" The brevity of his response caught her unawares. "That's all you have to say?"

He shrugged. "Honesty doesn't need to be long and complicated, does it? You highborn types never seem to get that. It's easy."

Arya swallowed and nodded. "Well, I suppose so."

From somewhere behind him she heard a voice calling her name: "Arya! Arya!" It sounded like Rickon; he must have followed her down to the beach with the Blackfish. She had recovered some, but not enough to see him yet, so she turned to flee, but Gendry caught her arm. "Arry," he said. "I mean, Lady Arya. You… you look much less like a boy than you used to." And was it her imagination, or did he redden a little?

"Thank you, Gendry," she said, very flat and low.

He nodded back. "No problem, m'lady."

She knew her line now. "Don't call me m'lady." And she was about to break out into a smile when she realised that something was wrong. The cold. His breath, and hers, was coming out in great big blue clouds.

And then dogs began to howl. The sound was at once unnatural, sharp enough to make her hair stand up on end. Brooding bitches and fat hounds alike, all howling and yapping in unison. Next it reached the horses, and they started whinnying. The ones tied up beside the Brotherhood's campfire began to pull at their moorings, kicking up mud and sand. Through it all she heard the Blackfish and Rickon calling her name.

The flames around the campfire began to dwindle, and so did the conversation. Very suddenly the beach fell into morbid silence, and all eyes turned to look in one direction; west, out to the sea.

A storm front was gathering in earnest. The dark grey clouds were rolling in at alarming speed, and the grey waves they carried accelerated angrily towards the coast, like some great beast spreading its arms higher and higher. Then the first bank of waves struck the beach, and exploded violently, throwing out salt spray and mist. And as she watched, the second wave rose up behind that once, climbing higher still. She looked to Seagard, safe – or seeming safe – atop the rock at the northern end of the beach. But between here and there stretched half a mile or thereabouts of beach, packed with hundreds and thousands of tents, and hundreds and thousands of men. And as Arya watched, she saw those at the water turning, and fleeing up the beach, away from the gathering wave.

They did not run nearly fast enough. The wave hit, imposssibly loud, like a giant's foot crashing down on earth, and when the spray flew up this time, it flew all the way to the cliffs at the back of the beach. It flew over the Brotherhood's campfire and doused it, and from the beachfront she could hear screaming, and faintly through the mist she saw boats floating adrift, dragged out to sea. And in the mist… who were those figures?

By now the third wave was rising up behind the second. It was a fair ways out, but gaining terrible speed. "Arya!" she heard Rickon again, close to her now, and then she turned and her brother was there, out of breath, and the Blackfish looking haggard behind him.

"Rickon." Her voice came out hoarse. "You shouldn't be here."

"I came looking for you," he said.

"You shouldn't have."

"I had to," stressed the boy. "I'm your brother. I have to protect you and Sansa both."

The notion seemed, and frankly, was absurd. "Sansa might," she said. "I don't."

Rickon opened his mouth to intercede but the Blackfish cut over him: "Right now that doesn't matter. We need to leave. Now. Before the worst of the storm—"

Then Thoros was at her side, too. "I'm afraid there isn't much chance of that," he said. "The worst is here." And he pointed out to the sea.

And the wights came.

Slowly, out of the grey water. They had been floating like bodies on the tide, or walking on the seabed; they must have been. Now they rose, their flesh grey with rot and shiny with frost, eyes sharp and blue. At first she saw only a few, bobbing heads and shoulders, coming out of the water. Then more rose in the gaps between those that had already risen, and in the gaps between them, and in the gaps between them.

Thoros tapped her shoulder. "I think we had best be going, Lady Arya," he said.

She did not need to be told a second time. Arya grabbed Rickon by the arm, turned, and ran. And as she did so, the fog rolled in on her left side, and screaming things thrashed in the mist. "It's the other way!" she heard Rickon shouting over them, at last, "the other way!"

So it was: the castle of Seagard was back down the beach, the opposite direction. But there was no going back now. All they could do was keep running, running, running—

Something crashed into her, hard from the left side. Arya flew to the ground and it landed on top, a grey thrashing blur, screeching at her, spitting grey pus and then, abruptly, black blood. It jerked and fell still to the sand. "Up!" Gendry shouted, offering her a hand. His other hand held the sword that was dark with blood. "Up!"

No sooner had she regained her footing than she drew Needle. There was no question that she would need it. Gendry shoved her forwards. "Come on!"

A few paces ahead, she found the Blackfish fighting off two of them. Arya broke away from Gendry and joined him at the front. The Blackfish hamstrung the wights, and she stabbed them through the mouth, which made them jerk and go still. Dead, she guessed, or deader than dead. Absurdly she thought, what would Jaqen H'ghar make of this?

Then the Blackfish grabbed her, and pulled her along. They backed along the beach, stumbling through the mist and sand, and the waves beating violent against the shoreline. Three times more they ran into wights, and she joined the Blackfish and Thoros in fending them off. Gendry stayed back, keeping them away from Rickon, who, despite his sword, was not skilled enough or calm enough to deal with them. She was grateful for that.

She did not feel too panicked. They had known that the dead would come sooner or later, hadn't they? Her only worries were for Sansa, because if the wights attacked the beach, they would eventually reach the castle. But she could count on Sandor Clegane to get her sister away by then. Even if it means hitting her over the head, as he did to me. But if he saved me at the Twins, he will certainly save Sansa here.

Their own escape would not be so easy. The wailing on the beach was getting louder and louder, the dead men and the waves both growing in noise and ferocity. The mist was thickening too. Once or twice she lost sight of Thoros, but his sword was burning now, so mercifully she was able to find him again.

It was not just wights crowding the beach, but men too, all trying to force their way up the cliffs that led to safety by way of cliffside paths. Vast lines had formed, men pushing against one another frantically, crushing one another. Once, looking up, she saw two men fly backwards from a cliff, locked in a violent embrace, and come crashing down headfirst into the crowd.

"Come on!" shouted Thoros, passing them by. Arya understood what he was doing. They were trying to find the more deserted places to climb up, where they would be less likely to be thrown from the rocks or swarmed by wights.

And his plan nearly worked. If only, she would think later, if only we had run a little faster, a little farther, we might have made it to the steps before they made it to us.

As it was, they came together at the same time. The wights came howling in from the coast, smashing into their little pack like a portside wave. Arya spun and plunged Needle through one of them; it squirmed up her blade, she kicked it off, and it fell screaming to the ground, still scrabbling in the black sand.

"The steps!" The Blackfish shoved her back, towards the rocks. Rickon was already making his way up. The steps were steep and slick with rainwater and overgrown moss, cut into the cliff like the rungs of a ladder. She had to put her sword away to begin the climb. Rickon went up first, and she after him – she wanted to stay, but Gendry pushed her on. He turned back to join the fighting, but she heard his raised voice arguing with Thoros, and when she looked down, Gendry was coming up after her, and behind him her uncle Brynden.

But Thoros of Myr was not. As Arya watched, he slashed the bright edge of his blade across his palm, and the sword came alive with red-hot fire. Thoros swung it around his head, once, twice, and it became a lasso of flame, swirling through the wights as they tried to swarm the steps. The fog grew thin around him, and watching from above Arya could see the wights cringing back, hissing, and catching like kindling whenever they stepped too close. They caught, and burned, black flesh turning to red, blazing meat, and the smell of the smoke rising up the ladder as she fought for every foothold.

But it could not last forever. She was about halfway up when she noticed the smoke starting to thin again. When she looked down, the light of Thoros's sword was growing weak. And the wights were ignoring him, and starting up the steps. They had none of the trouble she or the others had; they simply scrambled atop one another, and if they fell backwards from the rain-slick handholds and crashed to the beach below, so be it. They would endure.

She heard her voice being called. "Arya!" it came. "Arya!" At first she looked up, thinking it was Rickon, but it came from below her, and she realised it was the Blackfish. He looked up at her through the reign, Tully blue eyes glinting and his black cloak streaming behind him like a banner. "Arya, child," he said, very softly this time, but she still heard him. And already she knew what was going to happen next, and likewise, with Gendry between him and her, she knew there was nothing she could do to stop it.

"Arya," he said again. "Remember the Tully words. Don't you dare forget them." And with that, he turned, and started back down the steps, to join the fading light of Thoros. She watched him a long way, as he forced his way through the ascending wights, turning their heads to follow him, and then as he leapt from ten feet up, crashing down in the sand. The light of Thoros's sword blared up again – she could not say who was wielding it, the red priest of her uncle – but by then Gendry was right behind her, forcing her up, "Go! Go!"

So she kept going. Family, duty, honor, she thought. I will remember those words. And then she was at the top of the steps, and Gendry was coming up behind her, and the others were not, and she knew they never would be.

Her brother Rickon looked at her, and in that brief moment before they starting running again, she saw in his eyes that he was thinking the same thing.


Author's Note:

Don't say anything, I know what you're all thinking... Did I just kill Hot Pie?

The answer is no. Hot Pie, along with Ser Pounce, is actually immortal. Somehow, he'll make his way back to Sansa, who, being up at the castle with the Hound and Pod the Rod, made it out of this one okay (probably).

Seagard is something I've been building up to for a while. I intended for this to be like Hardhome in the show, in that it comes out of nowhere and hits you... well, hard. And I'm sorry to report that we lost both Thoros and the Blackfish to the wights here, though they definitely went out heroically, if that's worth anything to you.

Thoros has been a character I've had fun with (though I think both the books and - to a greater extent, the show - do much more with him than I have been able to here). Now that I think about it, Thoros comes up rather more often than I'd previously thought, being a perennially familiar face among the somewhat vague mass of the Brotherhood without Banners. And he has some good roles, usually as a dramatic foil to whatever POV characters are speaking with him: Jaime, Brienne, Sansa, and most recently Arya.

But it is the Blackfish I am really here to mourn. I think Ser Brynden epitomises the spirit of House Tully far more than his nephew does. And furthermore, I think the Blackfish has saved me as a writer no less than four or five times. It was his involvement that resolved both the "Riverrun knot" of A COAT OF GOLD and the absolute mess that was the "Harrenhal knot" in THE SUNSET KINGDOMS. Perhaps it's a little flippant to call Ser Brynden a supporting character, but he is just that: a character who provides support to the main protagonists, but is silently invaluable in a way that they don't realise his impact until he is gone.

And they will.