"There's ghosts, I know there is." Hot Pie was kneading bread in the bakery at Harrenhal, his arms floured up to his elbows. "Pia saw somethin' in the buttery last night."
"Pia's always seeing things in the buttery," Meg said. "Usually men. There's no ghosts in Harrenhal. That's just made up garbage." She noticed a tray of lemon cakes, her favorite food, on the counter. "Hey, can I have one of those?"
"No, I need the whole tray. They're for Chiswick." Lord Tywin and Ser Gregor had left now, and Chiswick was the guy they'd put in charge while they were gone.
"I hate Chiswick. He brags about raping people. Let's spit on them."
Hot Pie looked around nervously. The kitchens were full of shadows and echoes, but the other cooks and scullions were all asleep in the cavernous lofts above the ovens. "We can't do that! He'll find out, and then he'll kill us!"
"He will not," said Meg. "You can't taste spit." Peter had taught her that.
Hot Pie stopped his kneading. "You shouldn't even be here. It's the black of night."
It was, but Meg never minded. Even in the black of night, the kitchens were never still; there was always someone rolling dough for the morning bread, stirring a kettle with a long wooden spoon, or butchering a hog for Chiswick's breakfast bacon. Tonight, it was Hot Pie.
"If Pinkeye wakes and finds you gone…" Hot Pie said. Pinkeye was the guy in charge of the servants.
"I'm not scared of Pinkeye. He's always threatening to hit someone, but he never follows through. I bet we could escape, and he wouldn't even notice we were gone."
"I don't want to escape. If we hadn't been captured, we'd be freezin' our balls off at the Wall by now." He said "our balls" because he still hadn't quite realized that Meg was a girl. "I'd rather be here. 'Ere, sprinkle some flour on the board."
Meg cocked her head. "What's that?"
"I don't hear nothin'."
"Maybe you would if you shut your gob and gave it a chance," Meg snapped. "That was a war horn. Two blasts, didn't you hear? And there, that's the portcullis chains, someone's going out or coming in. Want to go see who it is?" The gates of Harrenhal had not been opened since the morning Lord Tywin had marched with his host.
"I'm makin' the mornin' bread," Hot Pie complained. "Anyhow I don't like it when it's dark. I told you."
"I'm going. Can I take a lemon cake with me?"
"No."
She filched one anyway, and ate it on her way out. It was delicious. Lemon cakes were hard to come by in the north. Eating Chiswick's lemon cake made Meg feel daring.
The horn had stirred the castle from sleep; men were coming out into the ward to see what the commotion was about. Meg fell in with the others. A line of ox carts was rumbling under the portcullis. Plunder, she knew at once. The riders escorting the carts spoke in a babble of queer tongues. They were the group called the Brave Companions, otherwise known as the Bloody Mummers.
There was a huge brown bear in one wagon. Other carts were loaded down with silver, weapons and shields, bags of flour, pens of squealing hogs and scrawny dogs and chickens.
Then Meg saw the first of the prisoners. He was someone she had seen before many times. Lord Cleveland Brown. The man behind Cleveland was fat and bald, with yellow skin. She could see mail glinting beneath his torn red surcoat. His sigil was a fish with three eyes, the symbol of House Simpson.
"They're Northmen," she thought. "My father's men, and Chris's."
The Bloody Mummers began to dismount. Stableboys emerged sleepy from their straw to tend their lathered horses. One of the riders was shouting for ale. The noise brought Chiswick outside. "What's all this?" he demanded, frowning.
Vargo Hoat, the leader of the Brave Companions, stepped forward. He spoke with a lisp. "Captiths. Rooth Bolton thought to croth the river, but my Brafe Companions cut his van to pieceth. Killed many, and thent Bolton running. Theeth are their commanderth, Lord Cleveland Brown and Lord Homer Thimpthon."
"Very well," Chiswick said. "Ser Cadwyn, take these men to the dungeons."
"Hey, that ain't fair!" Cleveland protested. "We were promised honorable treatment!"
"Silenth!" Vargo Hoat screamed at him, spraying spittle.
Chiswick gestured to the guards. "Put 'em in the great cell under the Widow's Tower."
Meg ran to find the Mask. He was wearing his human face, but when he saw her, he switched back to his otter form. "I need you to help me free the prisoners that were just brought in. They're my father's men. They're gonna put 'em under the Widow's Tower. It's just one big cell down there. We have to kill the guards and open the cell door somehow…"
"A girl forgets," he said quietly. "Two she has had, three were owed. If a guard must die, she needs only speak his name."
"But one guard won't be enough, we need to kill them all to open the cell." Meg bit her lip hard to stop from crying. "I want you to save the Northmen like I saved you."
He looked down at her pitilessly. "Three lives were snatched from a god. Three lives must be repaid. The gods are not mocked." His voice was silk and steel.
"I never mocked." She thought for a moment. "The name… can I name anyone? And you'll kill him?"
Mask inclined his head. "An otter has said."
"Anyone?" she repeated. "A man, a woman, an otter, or Lord Tywin, or the High Septon, or your father?"
"An otter's sire is long dead, but did he live, and did you know his name, he would die at your command."
"Swear it," Meg said. "Swear by the gods."
"By all the gods of sea and air, and even him of fire, I swear it. By the seven new gods and the old gods beyond count, I swear it."
"Even if I named the king?"
"Speak the name, and death will come. On the morrow, at the turn of the moon, a year from this day, it will come. An otter does not fly like a bird, but one footpaw moves and then another and one day an otter is there, and a king will die." He knelt before her. "A girl whispers if she fears to speak aloud. Whisper it now. Is it Joffrey?"
Meg put her lips to his ear. "It's Mask."
"Huh? Hey, wait, that's my name!"
"You swore you would kill whoever I named," said Meg. "The gods heard you swear."
"A girl will weep. A girl will lose her only friend."
"You're not my friend," said Meg. "A friend would help me. I'd never kill a friend."
A smile flashed across his furry face. "A girl might… name another name then, if a friend did help?"
"A girl might," she said. "If a friend did help."
"Okay. Come with me."
"Right now?" She had never thought he would act so quickly.
"An otter hears the whisper of sand in a glass. An otter will not sleep until a girl unsays a certain name. Now, evil child."
"I'm not an evil child," said Meg. "I'm the ghost in Harrenhal."
