Gulltown
The sun is rising in the East as Sansa Stark, yawning, steps onto the deck of the Frosted Fury. Brienne is already wide awake and at attention, alongside Ser Albar Royce and Ser Mycah Manderly, watching as the walls of Gulltown first come into view. From them fly the banners of House Grafton and, above them, the red dragon of House Targaryen. The sight chills Sansa. Though perhaps it is only the breeze across the harbor.
Lord Gerold Grafton himself is already waiting at the dock as the Manderly ships return what remains of the knights who followed Littlefinger north. With him stand a fabulous retinue of lords, ladies and the upper class of the city.
But, as she leads her own entourage down the ramp, it is not the living men she sees, but the dead. Burned corpses hang from the cities' gates, as if a warning to all who care to enter.
"Welcome, Lady Stark," Lord Grafton bows. "We praise the lord for your safe passage. The night is dark and full of terrors, but you have brought our knights safely home."
"I only wish they were all still breathing, my lord," Sansa replies, unable to look away from the burnt men. They have also caught the attention of Ser Albar.
"Has Lord Arryn already declared for Queen Daenerys during our passage?" he asks.
"No," Gerold shakes his head. "But my family has always been loyal to the true rulers of Westeros. We give thanks that the Targaryens have returned."
"Thanks to the Red God, I see."
"Indeed. The true god delivered us from the Night of the Dead. None can deny his power," he looks to the corpses. "Though some have tried."
His words send another shiver down Sansa's spine. For certain it is not the wind.
"Thank you for your hospitality, Lord Grafton, but I fear we cannot stay. We must press on to the Gates of the Moon. I have a meeting to keep with my cousin."
"Of course," Gerold smiles, helping Sansa astride a fine silver horse. "I myself will ensure your protection. Having the might of Gulltown at your side will surely help Lord Arryn see the light."
Yes, Sansa thinks as they ride into the city. But what light will he be seeing?
The Sea Wolf
The small Manderly vessel rocks on a rough sea as it nears the Island of Tarth and Shipbreaker Bay beyond. It's white plastered sides rise and dip above and below the blue waters. Davos Seaworth stands at the wheel, smiling. It is good to command a ship once again. Better still one traveling on such a prized mission – to carry the last Baratheons to take their rightful place in the Stormlands.
But for now, Gendry and Mya, in their rough workers' clothes, are indistinguishable from any other common crew, and a poor one at that. The duo, ill-matched with the towering Sandor Clegane and tiny Arya Stark, have little skill at sailing, and are making a true mess of the mainsail.
"Watch your heads, you louts!" Mya shouts as a slipped knot sends the spar spiraling free. Gendry jumps back, tripping over the edge and into the choppy water. The spar swings further, over Arya's head as she rushes to his aid before slamming into Sandor's chest. The huge man grunts, but stops the spar without blinking.
"Bloody kids," he grumbles, tying it back into place. "If only the stormlords could see you now, fumbling over a sailboat."
"As if you know any better," Mya laughs. "Just yesterday we had to stop you from cutting the whole damn mast in half when it wouldn't hold right."
As the two others bicker, Arya pulls a gasping, shivering Gendry back onto deck.
Through chattering teeth, the lad grins. "Thank you, princess."
Arya slaps him for that. "Don't make me throw you back over!"
As his crew banters back and forth, Davos can only smile. For the first time in so long, he is happy. The kingdom is in good hands. And he is heading home.
Tarth
Tarth is called the Sapphire Isle for good reason, Arya thinks, looking at the glistening blue water that surrounds the island, vibrant even in winter. And even with most of its trees having shed their leaves, the land itself is beautiful too – soaring mountains run down its spin, with the land rising up to meet them through forests, meadows and valleys.
They are come to dock at Morne, so named for the ancient, long-abandoned castle that sits high in the woods above the port, which sits around the bottom of a beautiful waterfall, flowing down from the ruins, as if tears for forgotten kings and queens.
As The Sea Wolf sails into the docks, Arya breathes in the fresh sea air. She feels Gendry's hands behind her, wrapping around her torso.
"Does it feel like home?" she asks as he rests his head atop hers. She still feels strange, being touched like this. But strange is normal to her. And this is a good strange.
"Is this Storm's End?" he asks.
"Oh, gods," Sandor laughs. "No, you bloody idiot, this is a fucking fishing village. Do you see a castle? You really are your father's son, head's as thick as a castle wall…"
Sandor awkwardly swings himself over and onto the dock, his wounded leg still hobbling him. Mya leaps heavily after him and together they pull the ship to safety. As they disembark, Arya scans the docks, looking for some grand party ready to greet them. But all she sees are the fishermen and traders, going about their daily tasks.
"We are here in secret, remember," Davos whispers. "The Evenstar has not yet played his hand, else the king would sure have burned this village to the ground." He heaves a barrel of salted fish into her arms. "Now, be a good mate and get our cargo to the traders."
Soon the cargo is unloaded and their small party finds themselves listless in the market, unsure of what to do next. Sandor, impatient, stalks off to buy a chicken, grumbling about the prices inflated by winter. But Davos seems to be waiting. Finally, a tall, thin beggar appears out of the crowd, his whole form covered in a dark blue cloak.
"How fare the seas, ser?" he asks Davos. Arya eyes the man suspiciously. His rags are old and torn, but something is amiss. His smell. He smells… clean.
"Clean sailing all the way from White Harbor, friend," Davos answers. "But I fear we bring the storms with us."
At that, the beggar pulls down his hood, suddenly revealing a band of gold, inset with lapis lazuli, placed atop a short crop of blonde hair. There is no doubt in Arya's mind - the Evenstar himself!
Gendry and Mya, realizing who they are meeting, gasp and drop to one knee. Davos only smiles knowingly, offering a short bow.
"My lords, no!" says Lord Selwyn. "Rise, rise! I ought to kneel before you." The two Baratheons awkwardly stand, unsure of how to respond. "Welcome to Tarth," Selwyn smiles, deepening the aged wrinkles around his mouth. "Tonight, we will dine in Evenfall Hall. And tomorrow, you will be home."
Blackhaven
Tywin Dondarrion stands alone in the castle's audience chambers, the imposing, polished sandstone seat of his father sitting empty, but watching him as if it had eyes all its own. He paces the floor, hearing his own feet echo off the stone.
His father's bannermen had all gone. Dark wings had brought word from the Pass, half the Dornish army had defied the Iron Throne. And from Storms End, where the lords who had not answered their Warden's summons were massing. The drums of war are sounding. Even Lord Harlan is gone, and taken young Edric Dayne with him.
Edric is the son he wants, Tywin thinks, not me.
He hears new footsteps now, approaching the chamber doors. Panicking, he rushes to the Lord's seat, sliding uncomfortably into it. As the doors swing open, he tries to remember how Edric would look sitting here. How father would look.
His uncle's bastard, Ormund Storm, presents the arrivals – A knight in silver armor with a lilac cape, his hair silver, with a streak of black. The woman older, but beautiful, and familiar. Both, he notes as they draw nearer, have violet eyes. They must be Daynes. Edric's family.
"Where is your father, boy?" the knight demands.
Tywin rushes to respond. "Gone to The Cocoon, to meet with Lord Horpe, ser."
"I was to meet him here! When will he return?"
"Soon, I hope," Tywin stutters. "M…may I help?"
"I have no need of you, boy." The knight points to Ormund. "Show me to my chambers, bastard. I expect the finest you can offer." Ormund reluctantly leads the angry man away, leaving the woman behind.
"I apologize for Ser Gerold," she says. "Do you remember me, Tywin? I'm Allyria, you're late uncle's betrothed. How is your mother?"
"Ill, I'm afraid," Tywin ansers easier now. "But she will recover, as she has before."
"Good," Allyria walks nearer, nervously. "Do you know what your father has planned to meet with Ser Gerold?"
"No," Tywin sighs, "Though I wish I did."
"Well, that makes the both of us."
The Cocoon
Carved into the very side of one of the highest of mountain peaks, the ancient keep of House Horpe is far from any traveled path or town. An isolated outcropping of wood and stone, it seems nearly dead at the edge of the precipice, faded white banners bearing deathshead moths waving in the wind. And one could be forgiven for mistaking its inhabitants for ghosts, in their long, tattered white robes. Horpes do not wear armor, they say, for steel makes a warrior lazy and vain. And every Horpe is a warrior, born and bred.
Over a dozen young specters now move in the courtyard, practicing disciplined fighting under the supervision of a broad, fierce old woman, Elenei Horpe, and a Bravosi instructor. Edric Dayne watches from the edge of the cobbled courtyard, where pale blue mountain flowers creep up through the cracks.
As young Edric is occupied outside, Lord Harlan Dondarrion stands in the audience chambers of Lord Maegor Horpe. The room has three walls. Where the fourth should be stands a wide upon view into the mountains and a sheer, deadly plummet if one were to take one wrong step. The wrinkled, twisted ancient man sits in a simple wooden chair. Harlan is unsure if his clouded eyes can even see him, but Maegor still speaks with cutting ferocity.
"My family has refused to join these foolish years of war," he declares. "Why should we now? One son serves you, another serves Selwyn Tarth, a daughter with the Peakes, a grandson to the Tarlys, and so on and so on. I will not have them break their vows."
"Your first vow is to the Iron Throne and to the Lord of the Stormlands and Warden of the East," Harlan calmly reiterates. "And I stand before you now, in need of your services."
"Nay, you stand beside me! You fear an old man will throw you down?"
"Is that what you want?" Harlan steps forward, indignant now, between Maegor and the expanse of nothingness. The fierce mountain wind tears at his black leather cape. "Do not question my honor, Maegor. Half my bannermen marshal their armies at Summerhall as we speak. The other half have defied my call. I have come here for your answer, and I will not leave until I have it. Whose side are you on?"
For a long moment, Maegor's foggy eyes glare and it is clear he can see all too well. His anger seems palpable, but Harlan stands his ground, giving back strength for strength. At last, the stern façade cracks and the ancient man begins to laugh.
"You I like," he wheezes. "Your brothers were trifles, but you, I can see the storm in you. Tell me what you want, Lord Harlan Dondarrion. Whose head would you have me bring down death's heavy wings upon?"
The Prince's Pass
Already, Sam missed Gilly. They had been married the night before he left on the march. There was no weirwood at Horn Hill, so they had the wedding in the great woods surrounding Horn Hill. Mallora Hightower, well-versed in the old ways of the First Men, had performed the ceremony. The more pious followers of the Seven had grumbled, but none dared speak out in the presence of his mother, or the Mad Maid.
Now Sam was on the road yet again. On the warpath, now that was a strange thought. Madness, his mind scolds him in his father's voice. He is no general. He is a craven. But his father's words are burnt away and scattered on the wind, along with his brother. And now he marched to earn them justice.
Now more than ever he regretted sending Heartsbane away with Ser Jorah. Not that he'd know what to do with it, but it would make him feel better, surrounded by the likes of Ser Daemon Peake, Meraxes Horpe and Ser Bors Varner. His mother had handpicked personal guards but he only truly trusts Sarella Sand and Mallora. The women are in his tent now, working to light the glass candle they had stolen from the Citadel in their flight.
Sam recoils as Mallora slices across her palm and the blood trickles down onto the tip of the glass candle, running in thin lines down the grooves of the warped obsidian. And then it is alight. Sam had heard Sarella describe the experience, but nothing could have prepared him. The colors of the tent warp around him, he begins to feel dizzy, falling back into a chair.
"I told you it was beautiful, Tarly," Sarella whispers, but Sam cannot say he agrees. He looks across the tent, through the dancing light to Mallora. The candle makes her orange eyes glow, and twists the colors of the strings in her grey hair.
"What do you want to see my lord?" she asks. "Shall I find your sister?"
"No!" Sam blurts. That doesn't feel right. He knows Talla is safe. Lord Peake would never let harm befall her so long as she was free to marry Ser Percy. "Show me Kingsgrave. I want to know who I am facing."
Mallora nods, and stares deeply into the candle's glow. Sam tries to look for a sign as well, but he only sees vague shapes in the shadows, like a great black bird taking flight."
"Fascinating," Mallora muses, pulling her bony fingers through her hair. "The one the call Darkstar is gone. His armies answer a new voice now." She looks to Sarella. "Your cousin, Princess Arianne Martell. She calls herself the Vulture Queen."
"Arianne!" Sarella rushes closer to the candle, though if she can see anything, Sam cannot tell. "For whom does she march?"
"Her mind is deeply troubled," Mallora sighs. "She cannot see the way forward. But I see that when you meet face to face, all will begin to become clear."
Highgarden
Talla Tarly is jostled to and fro as her carriage moves too fast for her taste over the bumpy road. But at last their destination has appeared in the distance, and she thanks the gods that this, her furthest journey beyond Horn Hill, is near an end. With her ride Lord Titus Peake, and Lady Pommingham. Neither were particularly pleasant travel companions.
She glances through the thin slats of the carriage, hoping to glimpse perhaps the handsome Ser Gwayne Risley. But mostly she only ever saw Ser Daeron Horpe, with his ugly white cloak and a face that may have once been as dashing as Ser Gwayne, but was scarred, bent and overall frightening. But he was her sworn sword now, so her mother had told her.
Now she feels the carriage roll to a stop. Looking out, she sees them surrounded by a sea of tents, stretched as far as the eye can see.
"Why have we stopped?" she asks. "We're not yet to the castle."
"We have friends to meet first," Lord Peake kicks open the carriage doors, fully revealing their location. They have stopped before a huge, vibrant blue tent, above which fly the banners Hightower and Florent. Ser Daeron escorts the three inside, past many knights in full armor. Within, reclining on an orange chaise, Talla immediately recognizes her aunt, Rhea Florent, in a jeweled blue gown, beside a dashing knight with white-blonde hair.
"Talla!" Rhea smiles, beckoning her niece to embrace her, which she clumsily does. "My, how you've grown. Melessa has made quite the lady of you! Here, meet Ser Gunthor Hightower, my husband."
Talla curtsies to Gunthor, who grins pleasantly. She thought she remembered Rhea being married to a different Hightower. But perhaps she was wrong.
"Your aunt and Ser Gunthor have a proposition for you, my lady," Lord Peake says.
"Yes, my dear," Rhea smiles. "What are you here to do?"
"To speak on behalf of House Tarly, as our duty as Lord Paramounts of the Reach and Wardens of the South." Talla answers.
"Good, good," Rhea strokes her hair. "So you know what you decide in the coming weeks will be very important. So please, remember. You are a Tarly. But you are also a Florent."
Deep Den
"Thank you, Peevil," Varys smiles, and the small boy scurries away. Hastily, the eunuch writes down the latest piece of information he has gleaned, squinting in the dim light of the small room of sheets he had hung for himself in the bowels of the caves.
It took him back to his days in Pentos, starting over again like this, speaking to the children, passing along sweets, building his creature of a thousand eyes and ears. Here, where he was no longer Varys the spider, but Tomas the Weaver, he felt more free than he had in decades. This was the work he loved. Tucking the small scroll into the rough-hewn wool breeches that had replaced his old silk tunics, he begins to make his way up through the mountain.
The winding tunnels and caverns of Deep Den are daunting to even those born there, but a man of Varys skills had taken to them like a fish to water. He winds up, up through the shadows until he is in the maester's chambers and can see the sun again, through smoothly chiseled windows. They light as he approaches the ravens and finds his own, the pet he had smuggled in, trained to fly to and from Hawthorne Hall, where Ser Damion Lannister, Hand to the Queen, awaits.
In times of war, ravens never ceased coming and going. It was no surprise an extra bird had gone unnoticed. He sends it on its way, but as he leaves, he hears the scraping of feet outside the door. There is no other way out. Steeling himself, he swings open the door to find the maester waiting with six knights, led by Ser Steffon Swyft. All pretense is dashed away.
"Greetings, lord Varys," the rooster-haired knight glares. "It's been so long…"
King's Landing – Qyburn's Laboratory
Qyburn smiles as he walks back into his workspace. The wretched court clothes he had been forced into Oldtown are gone, back to the plain black tunic, marked only by the iron pin of the Hand. He carefully examines the works as his little birds, old studies continued and new ones begun. But something is wrong.
"Where is Arthur?" he asks a scruffy headed boy.
"He's… not here," the bird nervously replies. "Tom Blackbottom is in charge now."
"Tom Blackbottom? Well, where is he?" Qyburn asks again, the boy runs off. He turns to the other children. "And where is the Master of Whisperers?"
"You should try Maegor's Holdfast," he turns to the sound of the voice. Genna Lannister stands in a dark corner, next to a vat of electric hellbenders. With her is the Imp, Tyrion, dressed in fool's motley. "The last I heard he's still on the spikes."
"What do you mean?" Qyburn hisses, drawing near.
"I fear he suffered a most unlucky fall in the early morning, just before you returned," Genna answers, almost sadly. "Or at least I'm sure that's what the queen will tell you. He did such good work, too. My nephew can attest to that." Qyburn looks down at the oddly-silent Tyrion. One look at the scars around his mouth answer that question. "But his guards failed to protect the Red Woman. And our queen does not suffer failure."
"I take it that was your doing?" Qyburn snaps, mind still reeling from the news of his apprentice's death. She remains as silent as the tongueless Imp. "Don't try to lie to me. The two of you are the only ones left in this city with the nerve to think such a thing and the wits to do it."
"I promise you, the boy's death was unintended," Genna insists, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. It does little help. "Had the queen come to me first, perhaps… But the past is the past. King Euron is returned and the queen is… not well. The dragons draw nearer every day. If we want to survive, we must act swiftly and discreetly. Compose yourself. Your presence will be needed in the throne room. Our last best hope has just arrived."
King's Landing – The Red Keep
They are called the Golden Company. And in appearance, Tyrion thinks, they certainly do not lie. A score of the sellswords were in attendance beneath the Iron Throne, led by three of their high officers, their rank shown by the lord's ransom in gold armbands each wears.
Captain-General Harry Strickland seems an odd match to lead the men behind him. A head-and-a-half shorter than the officers behind him, even shorter than the slender young squire with blue-dyed hair that attends him, with grey hair brushed over a bald scalp, "Homeless Harry" does not seem the intimidating sort. But those tend to be the most dangerous kind, Tyrion thinks, recalling the Company's battle-cry.
Beneath the gold, the bitter steel.
"Queen Cersei," Strickland bows over-zealously. "The songs of your beauty are all true, I now see. And King Euron, it is an honor to meet a man of such renown." The king, Tyrion notes, seems half asleep, barely listening. "My men have found Dragonstone most satisfactory. Only give the word and we will strike upon it."
"Can you kill a dragon?" Cersei asks, icily, from atop the throne. She looks heavier with child every day now. Tyrion thinks. Perhaps the king will finally kill her once he sees its golden locks. A shame to rob me of the pleasure.
"To kill dragons?" Strickland dumbly repeats the question.
"Yes!" Cersei shouts back. "Yes, yes, yes! Dragons! I did not send for you, my aunt did. You may have dazzled her with your words but you are nothing to me if you cannot plant two dead dragons at my feet!"
"We have many scorpions already lining the walls, general," Qyburn interjects. "But they are only as good as a man's aim, and a truly lethal shot is one in a million."
"Scorpions," Strickland muses, rubbing his stubbly chin. And in that moment. Tyrion glimpses something truly frightening. "What are your bolts made of?"
"Iron," Qyburn answers.
"Tell me, are there still weirwood trees in the south?"
"A fair amount that I can think of."
"Good. Bring them to me, and I will bring you dead dragons. Now," he claps his hands together as if the task he has accepted is already done. "Let us celebrate. The Golden Company has returned home!" Cersei nods approval and the men in the hall cheer to applause from the court. But not from Tyrion.
His queen was coming for them all, with the armies of the North and the West. This had always been his plan. But now she had abandoned him. He will burn with all the rest now. Unless Cersei wins… He shudders. He would truly rather die.
Kingsgrave
At last, Arianne Martell is alone. Ever since first presenting herself as the Vulture Queen, she had been surrounded by lords and ladies and knights, all demanding to know her next plan. Prince Anders men are through the Boneway, the armies of the Northern Marches are massing at Summerhall and a great host of Reachmen march down the Prince's Pass. But she has no plan. You have an army, girl, she hears the voices of her uncle and father, accusingly. What are you going to do with it?
She rubs one hand over her silver halfmask, the other over the scars on her face. She listens to the wind blow against the red stones of her tower and traces the lines the sun cuts on the floor through the window. She had a dream to nights hence. A hunter had rode down from a great beacon in the sky and a book had opened up before her. The ink on the page had blurred together and taken the shape of a wolf with wings that breathed blue fire.
Suddenly, she hears a heavy pounding on the door she knows to be Ser Rolland. Placing the mask back on her face, she bids him enter.
"Outriders from the Tarly host, my queen," the huge, bearded knight reports. "Their leader requests a personal audience. A woman… I think."
Carefully placing her vulture mask and crown, Arianne makes the walk across the bridge from her tower to the main Skull Keep, past the glowering Mangoody guards with their painted faces. But as she enters the audience chamber, where the great stone skull-throne sits, she loses her regal composure. For there, in dark green vest and breeches, quiver on her back, her short black hair, teak skin and wry smile unmistakable – Sarella Sand.
Arianne rushes to her cousin's arms, crying tears of joy as they embrace. For a moment, they stay locked together until at last
"Garin, get us wine! What are you here for, Sarella? I've been on the run for so long, if you've sent any more missives, they are in Prince Anders' hands now."
"Don't worry about that. I've learned to keep my secrets close," Sarella taps her head and flings herself onto the skull-throne, grinning. "I see you've done well for yourself, Queen Arianne. You were just a princess when we left." She pulls her cousin in close. "And back with Garin, I see. I always thought he was one of your finer lovers."
"Garin is a loyal servant, not a suitor," Arianne chides her.
"Then you won't mind me getting my hands all over him," Sarella smirks and jumps back up as the handsome rogue returns with the demanded wine. She winks at him as she claims the bottle and leads Arianne out of the chamber, until they are alone atop another archway, looking down upon the red canyon below. She takes a long drink from the bottle and sighs happily.
"A blessing. The Tarlys have no good wine."
"The Tarlys," Arianne snaps her back to focus. "Do you march with them? Are they friends or foe?" Sarella grins enigmatically.
"That sounds like a puzzle. You do know how I love puzzles..."
Arianne snatches the bottle away, impatiently. "No more wine until I get a straight answer!"
"Samwell Tarly wants war against no one but the dragon bitch who killed his father and brother. He will gladly make peace with you so long as you don't stand in his way. But he carries far greater import."
"What do you mean?"
"Knowledge, cousin. Knowledge is the most powerful tool in the world," she wrenches the bottle back. "We have a witch with us, for one. And a glass candle. And most importantly, we have the final piece to your fathers puzzle. The answer that will give you Dorne and all Seven Kingdoms along with it." Her hand flits to the vulture mask. "Let me see what the Darkstar did to you."
"No!" Arianne's swats her away. "What do you mean? I swear, if you jest again…"
"The heir, Arianne," Sarella drops the empty bottle over the edge into the canyon below and places her hands on the queen's shoulders. "The true heir to the Iron Throne."
Storm's End
Arya can hear the crowd, beyond the door, as Lord Selwyn guides her, Mya and Gendry to the banquet hall. The new grey jerkin, shirt and pants, embroidered with a direwolf fits shockingly well. Tarth's tailors are truly gifted. They had crafted matched black and yellow doublets for the Baratheons as well, after Mya had brashly refused to wear the gown that had been prepared.
Arya herself had helped Gendry change into his finery. The bull-headed new lord's nerves had turned him hopeless with even the simplest garb, having been used to the simplest of clothes his whole life. Perhaps she had let her eyes stray too long on his muscles or his manhood, for she feels he is even more uncomfortable now than before.
She can feel him shaking beside her now. How a man can be so brave in battle but tremble before a crowd was strange, but a feeling Arya knew all too well. She grasps his left hand tightly, Mya already holds his right. And then Lord Selwyn swings open the doors and the roar of the crowd is deafening.
Even with only half the stormlords attending, the hall is overfull. Food has already been served. Sparse for a feast, the meal was, but Gendry had reminded Lord Selwyn that it was winter, and the new lord did not wish to feast as hunger descended upon the land. Davos said that was very wise. Arya agreed. Gendry will make a better lord than all those fools who used to cheer Joffrey, she thought. Mya only insisted they not hold back the ale.
They can scarcely get at what meal has been prepared, however, for first the lords insist upon paying their respects.
All come with gifts for the Baratheon siblings and to pledge their sword to their cause – From Lord Rogers, a dagger and necklace inlaid with amber. From Lady Maertyns, huge tapestries of the stag. Ancient Lord Penrose, barely able to walk, found the strength to deliver a ponderous tome, the annals of House Baratheon. He wet its pages with tears, begging forgiveness for failing Gendry's father and uncles and receiving an embrace from both siblings. A more humble gift came from Davos, at last reunited with his lady wife – An engraved steel bowl holding a fine assortment of onions.
But most grand of all is the gift of Lord Selwyn Tarth himself: The whole hall falls silent
As two knights haul it in: The Warhammer of King Robert, that fearsome weapon that had slain Rhaegar on the Trident. Gendry, already overwhelmed, must be nearly shoved forward by Mya. Seizing the hammer with both hands, he lifts it into the air to thunderous applause and chants of "Fury!" "Stag!" and even some of "King!"
But as Arya looks out at the guests at their tables, joyous in their celebration, her mind slips back to a different feast. Instead of stormlords, she sees the dying Freys, clutching at their throats, coughing blood, writhing in agony on the floor… all at her hand. So many dead, all her fault. She feels bile rising in the back of her throat and rushes from the hall.
In the midst of the clamor, only Sandor seems to notice. He limps after Arya into the hall, heavily and noisily, finding her cowering in a dark corner where the torches have gone out. She can hear his approach and then feel his silent presence as she pounds her fists into the walls, crying angry tears, praying for the pain to drown out the memories. She had thought it would be done. She killed the God of Death, she was trying to start her own pack, like Nymeria, but...
"It feels wrong, don't it," Sandor finally speaks, struggling to find tenderer words than normal. "Sitting in a room like that, tryin' to look like everyone else. But we're killers. We can't hide who we are from ourselves."
"You don't know what I've done, Hound," Arya snaps back.
"Oh, I've got a good idea. I heard all about what happened to House Frey. Only Walder's little wife was left. She said a girl had killed them all, a little girl from the North, with the wolfsblood in her. No one believed her. But me… I thought you were dead then, but I think part o' my brain always knew."
Slowly, Arya turns around, stepping out of the shadows to show her red eyes and bloodied knuckles.
"How do you do it? Sit like nothings wrong, after all you've done."
"You think I'm happy out there? I wanted to die, you know. I followed your brother beyond the Wall, followed Beric on his grand crusade. Because everywhere I went, every time I tried to find peace, good people died. When the sun went out, I thought it was finally over. But the light came back, and that's when I realized, I'll always be the Hound. I've gotta to live with the past. It's the only way to face the future."
Perhaps unnerved by his own sudden insight, Sandor turns and limps away back to the hall. Arya watches him go, rubbing the blood from her hands and clearing her face.
Fear cuts deeper than swords.
She thought she killed her fear, but in the end, it was herself she was afraid of. Trying to numb the screams in the back of her head, she slowly takes the steps forward, back to the hall. Another night to try and live again.
Blackhaven
The whole Dondarrion family stands assembled in the yard, even as rain pours down from the sky. Even Lady Penelope has made it from her sickbed, the frail woman shielded with an umbrella held by her eldest daughter, the ever-grim Alysenth. Ser Gerold and Lady Allyria have joined them as well to watch the gates swing open and Lord Harlan ride in, flanked by Edric Dayne and Ser Balerion. Behind them ride a dozen grim Horpe warriors, their white cloth plastered to their bodies by the rain.
Little Barristan rushes through the mud to his father, but gets a cold reception. Harlan marches on, nodding curtly at each member of his family in turn. Edric rushes to greet his aunt. Tywin notes that the beautiful Allyria pries a smile from his father as he walks on towards shelter inside. Tywin and Darkstar hastily follow, but Harlan turns on them at the door.
"There is word from the east. The dragon queen as produced two bastards of Robert's loins and given them Storms End by decree. House Swann has sworn to them, and fell upon Prince Anders' army. They were beaten back and are besieged within Stonehelm. But I must make haste to Summerhall. The war has begun."
Summerhall
Under the winter sun, the once great Targaryen manor has slowly begun to reshape into a mighty keep once more. Workers toil away every hour, even as the marcher armies begin to arrive. And then, a hole in the earth opens up. The shouts summon Maester Otto, architect of the project. Deep within the hole, filtered through air and dust undisturbed for four decades, lies a pile of human bones. And beside it, a horn, polished but burnt, inscribed with ancient, arcane texts.
Otto shivers, as if a ghost has passed through him. He sends men down to claim the artifact. But he will not touch it himself. He had begged Lord Dondarrion not to disturb these ruins. And now it seems his worst fears have come to life. Or, more accurately, death.
Special Guest Star - Donal Logue as Harry Strickland