"The thing will be done, but a girl must obey," Mask said. "An otter has no time for talk."
"A girl will obey," said Meg. "What should I do?"
"A hundred men are hungry, they must be fed, the lord commands hot broth. A girl must run to the kitchens and tell her pie boy."
"Broth," she repeated. "Where will you be?"
"A girl will help make broth, and wait in the kitchens until an otter comes for her. Go. Run."
Hot Pie was pulling his loaves from the ovens when she burst into the kitchens, but he was no longer alone. They'd woken the cooks to feed Vargo Hoat and his Bloody Mummers. Serving men were carrying off baskets of bread and tarts, the chief cook was carving cold slices off a ham, spit boys were turning rabbits while the pot girls basted them with honey, women were chopping onions and carrots. "What do you want?" the chief cook asked when he saw her.
"Broth," she announced.
He jerked his carving knife at the black iron kettles hung over the flames. "What do you think that is? Though I'd as soon piss in it as serve it to that goat Hoat. Can't even let a man have a night's sleep." He spat. "Well, never you mind, run back and tell him a kettle can't be hurried."
"I was told to wait here until it's done."
"Then stay out of the way. Or better yet, make yourself of use. Run to the buttery, his goatship will be wantin' butter and cheese. Wake up Pia and tell her she'd best be nimble for once, if she wants to keep all of her hands and feet. Vargo likes choppin' hands and feet off."
She ran as fast as she could. Pia was awake in the loft, moaning under one of the Mummers, but she slipped back into her clothes quick enough when she heard Meg shout. She filled six baskets with crocks of butter and big wedges of stinky cheese wrapped in cloth. "Here, help me with these," she told Meg.
"I can't. But you better hurry or Vargo Hoat will chop off your foot." She darted off before Pia could grab her.
Hot Pie was stirring the kettles with a long wooden spoon when Meg returned to the kitchens. She grabbed up a second spoon and started to help. Then she heard a familiar voice. "Cook! We'll take your bloody broth!"
Disguised as a human again, Mask came into the kitchen with Rorge and Biter, the two guys who had been in the cage with him. He sidled over to Meg and discreetly passed her a knife, which she slipped into her pocket.
"The bloody broth isn't bloody ready yet," the cook told Rorge. "It needs to simmer. We only now put in the onions and…"
"Shut your hole, or I'll shove a spit up your ass and we'll baste you for a turn or two," Rorge snarled. "I said broth and I said now."
Hissing, Biter grabbed a handful of half charred rabbit right off the spit, and tore into it with his pointed teeth while honey dripped between his fingers.
The cook was beaten. "Take your bloody broth, then, but if the cook asks why it tastes so thin, you tell him."
Biter licked the grease and honey off his fingers as Mask donned a pair of heavy padded mitts. He gave a second pair to Meg. "A girl will help." The broth was boiling hot, and the kettles were heavy. Meg and Mask wrestled one between them, Rorge carried one by himself, and Biter grabbed two more, hissing in pain when the handles burned his hands. Even so, he did not drop them. They lugged the kettles out of the kitchens and across the ward.
Two guards had been posted at the door of the Widow's Tower. "What's this?" one said to Rorge.
"A pot of boilin' piss, want some?"
Mask smiled disarmingly. "Prisoners must eat too."
The guard remained stubborn. "No one said nothin' about…"
Meg cut him off. "It's for them, not you."
The second guard waved them past. "Bring it down, then."
Inside the door a winding stair led down to the dungeons. Rorge led the way, with Mask and Meg bringing up the rear. The steps opened onto a dank stone vault, long, gloomy, and windowless. A few torches burned in sconces at the near end where a group of guards sat around a scarred wooden table, talking and playing at tiles. Heavy iron bars separated them from where the captives were crowded together in the dark. The smell of the broth brought many up to the bars.
"There's the ugliest servin' wench I ever saw," the captain said. "What's in the kettle?"
"Your cock and balls," Rorge said. "You want to eat or not?"
One of the guards had been pacing, one standing near the bars, a third sitting on the floor with his back to the wall, but the prospect of food drew all of them to the table.
"About bloody time they fed us."
"That onions I smell?"
"So, where's the bread?"
"Fuck, we need bowls, cups, spoons…"
"No ya don't." Rorge heaved the scalding hot broth across the table, full in the guards' faces. Meg and Mask did the same. Biter threw his kettles so they spun across the dungeon, raining soup. One caught the captain in the temple as he tried to rise. He went down like a sack of sand and lay still.
One guard who had not been sprayed lurched at Meg. He was reaching for the knife at his belt, but she drew her own knife first and stabbed him in the stomach. Biter grabbed a man by the head and cracked his neck with a single twist of his large pale hands. He hurled the body against a wall. Mask and Rorge took out swords and killed the other guards.
The key to the cell hung from a hook on the wall above the table. Rorge took it down and opened the door. Homer and Cleveland stepped through the door. Meg saw that they still had all their hands and feet. Weird that Vargo didn't cut them off if he liked doing that so much.
Cleveland saw the dead guards lying on the floor. "Oh, that's nasty."
Homer addressed Mask. "Yello. I am Lord Homer Simpson." Mask gave him a bow.
"That was pretty cool, how you made 'em think you were delivering soup to them and then you threw it in their faces," Homer said. "Was that Lord Vargo's idea?"
"Why would it be his idea?" Meg asked. "Isn't he the one that captured you?"
"That was all a ruse," said Cleveland. "Vargo Hoat and his Brave Companions have gone over to us. Roose Bolton bought their services. They brought us in, pretendin' we were prisoners, so we could take control of the castle." He peered down into Meg's face. "It seems to me you look very familiar. What's your name?"
Meg didn't want her real name said here, in front of Rorge and Biter. She repeated the old lie. "My name is Sansa Stark."
When they climbed back up the winding stair, they found the door guards lying in pools of their own blood. Roose Bolton and his Northmen were running across the ward. Meg heard shouts. The door of Barack's Hall burst open and a wounded man staggered out screaming. Three others ran after him and silenced him with spear and sword. Rorge, Biter, Cleveland, and Homer rushed off to join the fighting, but Mask stayed and knelt beside Meg. He ran a hand over his face again and changed back into an otter. "Now will a girl unsay an otter's name?"
"I take back the name." Meg chewed her lip. "Do I still have a third death?"
"A girl is greedy." Mask touched one of the dead guards and showed her his bloody paw. "Here is three and there is four and eight more lie dead below. The debt is paid."
"The debt is paid," Meg agreed sadly.
"A god has his due. And now an otter must die." A strange smile touched his lips.
"Die?" she said, confused. What did he mean? "But I unsaid your name. You don't need to die now."
"I do. My time is done." Mask passed his paw down his face again. This time he changed into a squirrel.
Meg's mouth hung open. "How did you do that? Who are you?"
"Sometimes I'm an otter, sometimes a squirrel, sometimes a man, sometimes a fox. Ha, I was even a half-grown badger for a while. It's no harder than taking a new name, if you know the way."
"Show me," she blurted. "I want to do it too."
"If you would learn, you must come with me."
Meg grew hesitant. "Where?"
"Far and away, across the narrow sea."
"I can't. I have to go home to Winterfell, to my mother and brothers."
"Then we must part," he said, "for an otter- I mean, a squirrel- has duties too." He lifted her hand and pressed a small coin into her palm. "Here."
"What is it?"
"A coin of great value."
Meg bit it. It was so hard it could only be iron. "Is it worth enough to buy a horse?"
"It isn't worth anything in this country. It comes from Bravos, my second home. If the day comes when you would find me again, give that coin to anybeast from Bravos, and tell them these words- 'valar morghulis.'"
"Valar morghulis," Meg repeated. She felt she had once heard those two words before somewhere. "Please don't go, Mask."
"My name's not Mask anymore," he said sadly, "and I have promises to keep. Valar morghulis, Meg Griffin. Say it again."
"Valar morghulis," she said once more, and the squirrel bowed to her and stalked off through the darkness, cloak swirling.
Gendry and Hot Pie came up to her. "Come on," Meg told them. "Now's our chance to get out of here."
Gendry was confused. "Where would we go?"
"To find my brother."
"I didn't know you had a brother," said Hot Pie.
"My brother is Chris Griffin," she said. "The king in the north."
Hot Pie's mouth opened wide.
"But isn't this Lord Bolton your brother's bannerman?" said Gendry. "Couldn't you just ask him for help?"
"He's a Northman, but not a Winterfell man. I don't trust him. I've heard stories about how he flays people alive. Believe me, you don't want to work for him. You're better off coming with me."
She started walking across the courtyard towards the gates, not looking back to see if her friends were following. After a brief moment of hesitation, the two boys ran to catch up with her.
No one was guarding the door. They were all too busy fighting. It was the perfect opportunity to escape.
Once out of sight of Harrenhal, Meg sighed in relief. Only then did she realize that the last time Mask had spoken to her, he had called her by her true name. Where could he have learned it?
