I can feel it coming in the air tonight
Oh lord…
Jon Brax's training sword clanged against the blunted long knife Ser Jaime had given Rickon for sparring. The little chieftain had groused, of course, saying he was skilled enough not to slice anything important off his friend if allowed his sharp weapon, but the Lord Commander of the Winter Guard was not swayed. He insisted the boys only fight with nonlethal steel. The queen had agreed, much to Rickon's chagrin, and so there was nothing for it but to spar with training blades.
They'd taken to rising early and training each morning while the company broke camp and loaded their supplies for the next leg of their trek. With so many men, a small wagon train, and the wheelhouse to be seen to, the boys were usually able to carve out a good hour or so if they got up to break their fast before first light.
Arya stood on the bank of the White Knife, near where it forked into its western and eastern branches, listening to the rush of the water and watching the boys clash and jabber. She'd concluded her own training with the Bear and the Rat already, having risen earlier than the boys, and so had the leisure to watch the youngsters circle each other and feint. What she found even more interesting than their technique, though, was their banter. Rickon had been teaching little Jon the old tongue (whenever Osha was not around to scold and correct).
"Skrell laukinn, dost mijn," the young squire said, lunging toward the magnar, sword pointed and shield up. His fighting style was Westerosi, undoubtedly Ser Jaime's influence. The boy was a bit clumsy but showing improvement. "Jatsidd a kalan pooledi valmis."
"Tukaj nie."
"Hvorfor nie?"
Rickon glanced around them, nodding his head toward Arya and her Faceless brothers, then answered, "Celo skale unt drevesa lahko fange vinden."
The girl understood their words very well, but she could not make sense of them.
Peel the onion, my friend. You left your fish half-cooked.
Not here.
Why not?
Even the rocks and trees may capture the wind.
Arya's brow furrowed. "I wonder if they've been training too hard," she murmured, turning to look at Ser Willem and Baynard. "Did either of you see them hit their heads?"
The false-Dorishman chuckled. "What makes you ask it?"
"They're not making any sense."
"None of the old tongue makes sense to me," the large assassin admitted.
"Nor me," his smaller brother agreed. "Why? What did they say?"
"Something about cooking fish in onions and then the trees imprisoning the wind."
A throat cleared near the trio, and Arya looked up to see Howland Reed standing nearby. "Good morning, your grace," he greeted, bowing respectfully, then moved closer to the assassins. "I think you'll find the little lads are communicating in code."
"Code?" The queen's eyes widened. "What sort of code?"
"From what I can tell, they're speaking the old tongue, which is indecipherable to most of the company anyway, but they're applying it almost exclusively to colloquial terms which only a very few know."
"Oh?"
"Phrases which won't make sense to any who dwell beyond the borders of the Great Swamp."
"Clever boys," the Rat said.
"It seems the lordling is teaching your squire the language of Skagos, and young Jon has apparently picked up a few things from my men." The edges of Howland's eyes crinkled, one corner of his mouth lifting as he spoke.
"Anything I should be concerned about, my lord?"
"Oh, I wouldn't say so. It all sounds innocent enough. I'm not sure there even are sayings from the Neck that will allow the boys to get themselves into any real trouble."
"And would you care to translate their conversation?"
Here, the crannogman looked sly. "Now, your grace, what good is a code that can be so easily broken?"
"Very well. They may have their secrets," the girl said, her lips twisting into a bemused smile, "so long as you let me know if you decipher anything worrisome."
Howland placed his hand over his heart and bowed again. "To that, I will swear, my queen."
Arya watched the lord leave to join the men he'd brought with him from Greywater Watch, directing their activity as they moved to depart the camp and continue northward. The girl was finding the pace maddeningly slow and wondered, not for the first time, if she would have been better off cutting out from Saltpans and simply riding like mad for Winterfell, with only her two Faceless companions in tow.
But then she would've missed seeing her mother again, and her father, in that veiled place they both now dwelled. She would never have reunited with her Uncle Brynden, or revenged her family at the Twins, or found Rickon. The Northmen loyal to Robb would've languished in a dungeon until their deaths and Rosie would still suffer under the loathsome hand of Hosteen Frey. She could not have saved Hoster Blackwood or discovered Nymeria or seen Gendry again.
Had she not taken her circuitous route, men who now shored up defenses in the Riverlands would have been compelled to march south behind Emmon Frey; would have given their lives in defense of Tommen Baratheon, their obedience to their Lord Paramount rewarded with a torrent of dragonflame.
When she thought of all she'd seen and done since stepping off the deck of Titan's Daughter, she realized she could not regret her path, no matter how much the pace of the company's advance now chafed. And, she realized, there might be more than just chance directing her steps along that path.
Whether that "more" was some plan of the gods, or a stratagem employed by the Kindly Man, she could not be certain.
The thought that it might somehow be both disquieted her immensely.
Tyto Arturis did not often leave the comforting gloom of the temple while the bright Braavosi sun blazed overhead. That he had consented to do so today spoke to his eagerness to have his news. He wore his older face, his kindlier face, for nothing more than sentimentality, he supposed. Both his impatience and his nostalgia were uncharacteristic, and an affront to Him of Many Faces. He reasoned he would be forgiven, for the sake of all that he had done and all he was sure to do to cement the supremacy of his order. And so, he did not lament it.
He never lamented.
Worry is not for us.
The Iron Bank was an imposing structure, as grand as the Sealord's palace and as feared and revered as the ebony and weirwood doors of the House of Black and White. It was made of the same grey stone that was so common in Braavos, but its façade was pristine and its dimensions immense. It boasted a domed roof at its center with smaller domes featured over the wings jutting out from each side. Pairs of columns flanked the main entrance, forty feet high, smooth, and thick enough around to conceal a meeting of two men in their shadow.
Tyto climbed the steps, glided past the columns and entered the bank. The guards just inside the entrance, already standing at attention, seemed to stiffen further as he passed. He was no more than three steps into the magnificent vestibule when he was greeted by an obeisant young man with a ledger and a short, pointed beard.
"Your eminence," the man said with a tight bow. "Allow me to escort you to Decimus Quinteron."
The elder said nothing, merely nodding, then followed the officious clerk down the corridor, past the tall doors and the statues of founders and keyholders which lined the way. At the end of the corridor, they came to a grand staircase, wide and white, and ascended to the highest level of the building. There, the offices of the head of the Iron Bank were located. The main chamber, reserved for the consul himself, was contained beneath the great dome in the center of the structure, with large windows placed all around. This afforded a view of the city from every possible angle. From this height, it was easy to make out the Drowned Town, the harbors, even the Titan and the sea beyond.
Tyto strode to a westward facing window and his eyes drifted to the roof of his temple, small and unassuming from this vantage point.
Such was the Faceless way, all the power hidden within, shielded from the probing gaze of men. Let the bankers and the Sealord make a show of their prestige and strength. The influence of the order was remarkably far-reaching and deep without all that. And if everything continued to move according to his plan, that influence would become practically limitless.
His gaze moved beyond the temple then, beyond the Titan, and stretched across the Narrow Sea. Blue eyes grew ever shrewder.
"Tyto, my friend," a voice murmured from behind.
For all the ostentation of the bank itself, its leader was a measured man, not prone to bluster or vainglory.
"Decimus," the elder greeted, turning to look at the consul. He was dressed simply, in robes of charcoal grey belted with black leather, but the quality of the silk was of course the finest, the craftsmanship impeccable. The men embraced before the consul escorted the elder across the vast space, directing him to a cushioned chair arranged before his desk. As he rounded the desk to take his own seat, he remarked, "It was good of you to come all this way. I know you are a busy man."
"No more so than you, I imagine," the Faceless elder replied mildly.
The banker gave a wan smile as he lowered himself into his chair. "Shall we get down to business?"
"I would not presume to waste your time with else."
"Nor I yours." The consul leaned forward and rested his wrists on his desk, steepling his fingers. "Of course, I cannot know for a certainty, seafaring being what it is, but an envoy should have been received in the Riverlands by now. He was authorized to make the trade pacts as desirable to the Westerosi lords as possible so they would have no reason to refuse. Hopefully, their influence over the Lady of Winterfell is enough to convince her to agree to a similar pact in the North, though I assume it will take another two moons to receive word of success."
"Seafaring being what it is."
"Precisely."
"The Lady of Winterfell will not negotiate with your man."
The only indication Decimus gave of surprise was the slight lift of his eyebrows before he spoke. "Oh? And what makes you say so?"
"Because there is no Lady of Winterfell," Tyto informed him. "She is now styled the Winter's Queen, and any contract made with the River lords is made under her authority. She rules from the Riverlands to the Wall." He pulled a scroll from his sleeve and handed it to the banker, his expression not hinting at the consternation he'd felt when he'd seen whose hand had penned the missive.
Decimus only hesitated a second before reaching out and receiving the parchment. Once he had read the handsome man's report from White Harbor, he leaned back in his seat. "Unexpectedly swift," he observed.
"Her ascension? Or my receipt of the message?" the elder chuckled.
"Both."
"We have you to thank for funding the vessel. Well, you and the genius of the ship builder's guild. A fair wind and a fast sloop can now carry word in a moon's turn." There was admiration in his voice.
"And what was it that carried the girl to her throne? Nothing so simple as a fair wind, I should think."
The assassin's smile was cagey. "No, nothing so simple as that."
"This is a positive development, if unanticipated."
"Not wholly unanticipated."
"Oh? I had believed it a different throne you'd secured for the girl."
"Indeed. And she'll sit atop that one soon enough. The one she now occupies makes the journey toward it that much shorter. More… assured."
"I have always found your confidence a comfort."
"Confidence is easily had when one's faith is strong." The elder's countenance and tone as he spoke the words starkly conveyed his meaning.
"Valar morghulis," Decimus said softly, punctuating his words with a respectful bow of his head.
"Valar dohaeris."
The consul's look was thoughtful. "A new kingdom…"
"The Kingdom of Winter."
"Strengthened by its trade routes."
"And its relationship with the illustrious Iron Bank." Here, the elder held his hand aloft, palm up, indicating the splendor of the domed space.
"Supported by the Sealord himself…"
"Such a fine gift," Tyto pronounced, a keen glint in his eye. "A wonderful symbol of the affection Braavos holds for the young queen."
"Wonderful, yes. And deadly."
The elder's smile was small but genuine. "Is there anything more wonderful than a deadly gift?"
"Hmm." Decimus narrowed his eyes, then changed the subject. "Your man confirmed that King's Landing has fallen."
"One might say it has finally come under rightful rule."
"More beneficial rule, certainly. For our sakes."
"And for the sakes of those who toil under the edicts of the Iron Throne," Tyto asserted, his expression almost beatific, as though he'd concerned himself even for a single moment about the plight of Westerosi subjects. "The Targaryen king has removed the scourge of wasteful extravagance and the cavalier disregard of obligation from the Red Keep."
It was a point the elder knew his friend could not dispute. While Robert Baratheon had been adept at delaying the repayment of his debts to the Iron Bank, Cersei Lannister had been outright defiant about it, declaring they would have their coin when she saw fit to provide it. All while never denying herself a single luxury or taking any steps toward the replenishment of the kingdom's coffers.
And the Iron Bank would have its due.
"With the aid of dragonflame," Decimus pointed out. "Dragonflame, I will remind you, that Aegon himself does not control." The consul tapped one finger lightly against his desk, staring pensively at his guest. "What makes you so certain the new king won't wed his aunt to solidify his power?"
This had been Decimus' gravest concern for years, practically since dragons had become known again. The Braavosi elite had a natural mistrust of the beasts, dating back to even before the city's founding, and the Iron Bank had a natural mistrust of anything that weilded power greater than its own.
"Aside from the irresistible pull of a new kingdom and its fascinating young queen, well positioned in the world," the principal elder started, then paused, and added, "thanks in no small part to your tireless efforts?"
Blandly, the consul replied, "Yes, aside from that."
"Let us say, I have taken… measures."
The banker nodded, accepting his counterpart's reasoning. "Over the years, I've found even more comfort in your measures than I have in your confidence."
Amused, Tyto chuckled.
A knock at the door disturbed their meeting. The two men continued to look at one another, not sparing a glance for the clerk who entered.
"Consul, the emissary from Pentos has arrived."
"Ah," Decimus said softly, "today has indeed been auspicious. You've brought good fortune in your wake, my friend."
The elder rose, replying, "I'll leave you to tend your business."
"Our business," corrected the banker.
Tyto Arturis inclined his head slightly. "Just so."
The khaleesi was not kinetic by nature. Not outwardly, at least. Where others might pace, she sat, still and upright, her eyes staring straight ahead. Inside her head, though… Daario had seen evidence to convince him that was a place which swirled and sloshed, vibrated and veered, while plots and plans made and remade themselves a hundred times.
A generous proportion of them involved resolving whatever troubles and slights she perceived with a single word. Dracarys.
"I will not be relegated to the shadows, as though I am something shameful to be hidden away," Daenerys seethed.
"No?" Daario's voice was sultry. He moved closer to her, cupping her shoulder then sliding his hand along her collarbone until he clutched the nape of her neck. Her eyes flared. "You should not dismiss the notion so quickly. There is much to… entertain in the shadows." She drew in a breath and tilted her head. The sellsword took her invitation, leaning down and nipping the pulse in her neck. Her seething gave way to a throaty rasp as she replied.
"I need you on my side."
"Where else," he began, kissing her along her throat, "would I be?"
"Ser Barristan says I should marry Aegon," she whispered, her breath hitching. "I know Lord Connington feels the same."
The Tyroshi's kisses ceased, and he stood straight. "Now that, I cannot abide."
"It need not mean an end to us."
"Who do you think I am?" His brow creased with anger, and he strode across the room, demonstrating their opposite natures. For Daario Naharis was nothing if not kinetic.
"Be reasonable."
He snorted, then watched her stand and come to him, as he knew she would. He gave her a frown he believed she would be compelled to erase. The khaleesi circled him, trailing her fingers across his waist. When she came to stand before him, she cast her great, purple eyes upward, imploring him.
"If I hope to have a place in my own kingdom, then this must be."
Inside, the assassin warred with himself. A part of him wanted exactly what Daenerys wanted; a union between the Targaryens would settle the question of the Iron Throne's interest in the newly made Winter's Queen. But should word of the betrothal reach the principal elder, or his agents in the North, before Jaqen himself could arrive at his lovely girl's side, the consequences might be too great to bear. He reasoned that with patience, both he and the khaleesi could have what they wanted. While the dragons traveled northward, a bond between aunt and nephew could be fostered, all while bringing the Lorathi closer to his reason. Once he was able to protect her, the two dragons could marry or murder each other, for all he cared. But for now, only an unattached Aegon guaranteed Arya's safety.
Daario sighed and softened, signaling his acquiescence. He gripped her shoulders, then moved his hands to each side of her face. "You're right." Daenerys did so love to be right. "Forgive me."
"I need you to be on my side," she reiterated softly.
"I pledged you my sword and my life," he reminded her. "I may be a sellsword, but I'm no oathbreaker."
She tipped up on her toes and kissed his lips, the touch of her mouth light. "Then what do you advise?" she murmured against him.
"You trust my advice in this matter?"
"More than any others."
How foolish. How convenient.
"Support the new king, in all his endeavors."
"What?" Daenerys hissed, pulling back from the Tyroshi.
He clutched her chin, tipping her face upwards until she met his eyes. "Be compliant. Be doting."
"And allow him to march across the kingdom in pursuit of this so-called Winter's Queen without objection?"
"Yes."
She jerked away, putting some distance between herself and the sellsword. "I'd rather set her alight with Drogon." The khaleesi's tone was bitter.
He stopped himself from grinding his teeth at her words. Instead, Daario stalked her, slowly, his look shrewd. "The journey north is long," he pointed out.
"Is that supposed to be some great revelation?"
"Stop behaving as a child and listen!" he spat, drawing her up short. "The journey is long. And you will accompany the king when he makes it." The false-Tyroshi slipped one hand beneath neck of her gown, and she gasped. He yanked at the fabric, forcing it over her shoulder and down her arm, baring the flesh there. "You will have all that time to entice and simper…"
"Simper," she scoffed, lip curling, but when he tugged at the laces at her back, loosening them and causing her gown to slip the rest of the way to her waist, her scoffing gave way to a moan.
"Yes," he continued, kissing the notch below her neck. "Simper." She let out a whine as he wrapped his fingers around her throat and kissed his way down her breastbone, muttering each time his lips lifted from her skin. "Flatter. Cajole. Seduce."
"Seduce?"
"By the time you arrive at Winterfell, you'll have him begging for your hand."
"Why must," she gasped, "why must we travel northward for this? Would it not be much simpler to employ your advice here, in the Red Keep?"
"Aegon needs to have his way," Daario said, walking her backwards to a low, cushioned bench. "He feels thwarted, and it frustrates him. His own Hand opposes him. Be the voice which lends strength to his argument. Give him an ally."
"He'll suspect me," Daenerys protested as she allowed herself to be lowered to the bench.
"Perhaps, at first. But if you stay the course, he'll soon come to trust you, and appreciate your backing." He dropped to his knees beside her, one hand slithering up her leg.
"And when he meets this Stark girl?"
The false-Tyroshi snorted. "Let him meet her. Let him see the little barbarian for himself." His eyes flashed at the insult. He knew the khaleesi needed to hear it; needed to hear that no one could hope to compare with her silvered beauty. But he also knew that no matter a lovely girl's savagery and violence, no matter the degree of her burning hatred for those who had wronged her, she had too much of grace, too much of love inside of her to ever be considered barbaric. "The contrast will be undeniable, and your appeal will only grow in the king's eyes."
"It seems a risky plan," she stuttered as Daario's fingers reached the top of her thigh.
"Does it?" He drew back, his eyes raking over her form. "I think not. Look at you."
She swallowed. "He may choose her after all, even if only for the guarantee of reuniting the kingdom."
The sellsword shrugged. "If he does, she still must accept him. That is no sure thing."
"But if she does…" Daenerys' brow wrinkled with her worry.
"If she does, well, I suppose you can decide if you've brought your dragons along for show or… for something else."
He'd shove a dagger through her neck before she'd ever have the chance to enact such a plot.
Her purple eyes narrowed but then a mean little smile shaped her mouth. She stared up at the ceiling as though she could envision the moment in perfect clarity.
There was a knock at the door of the khaleesi's antechamber. From the other side, Greyworm's voice called out.
"Mhysa, I've come to escort you to the small hall for your supper."
Daenerys cleared her throat, then called back hoarsely, "I'll… be out in a moment."
Daario threw an irritated look at the door, convincing enough, then pulled her to sit and helped her straighten her gown. She stood, an unsettled look on her face, but smoothed her hair as she smoothed her expression. After a moment, she walked to the door, tossing a glance over her shoulder at the Captain of the Stormcrows. He watched her walk through the door then softly close it behind her.
And because his mind was too full of grey eyes and dark hair that had surely grown longer in his absence, he was grateful for the interruption.
There was a purity in their drills, these water dancers, and it brought to mind her earliest lessons in the training room of the temple. Arya joined with them, more often than not, after their supper and before retiring to the bedroll in her tent (she overcame the objection of her men who wished to raise her pavilion each night, saying she could forgo such comfort if it made the breaking of camp faster and easier in the morning. A simple tent would do. She'd have slept under one of the wagons, truth be told, but that was a step too far for the lords among them).
The girl moved in accord with the Bravos, listening to their captain as he called out the number of each step in Braavosi. Hearing those words, spoken in that accent, filled her with warmth and more than a little longing. That night, such longing had sent her digging through her pack until she found what she was looking for.
At times, the Bear joined them, standing in the back so as not to be a distraction if he missed a step. Tonight was such a night.
He grinned when he saw what his sister was wearing. "You still have it."
"Of course I do." She ran her hand over the scarf she'd tied around her head, dark blue with silver cats embroidered all over.
"Why are you wearing it tonight?"
Arya swallowed. "It makes me think of…"
"Happier times?" the Lyseni suggested.
"Well, simpler times, anyway."
His grin widened. "You almost look a proper Bravo wearing it."
"Almost?" They began moving through their steps.
"Well, you'd need some silken pants to really sell the role. Purple and orange striped, perhaps? With a yellow blouse. No, red."
"Or both, more like." They spun in unison, timed with the captain's cadence.
The Bear barked a laugh at that. "It almost hurts my head to think of it."
The two friends drilled in silence for a time, the Cat holding Frost out before her when they stood side-face. Grey Daughter, as ever, was strapped to her back. She glanced disapprovingly at the training sword her brother used, something he'd presumably picked up from her squire before joining the Sealord's company for their nightly ritual.
"You're using the wrong blade," she remarked.
"Does it matter?"
"It throws off your balance. These drills aren't meant for such mean weapons."
"You could loan me Needle."
The girl snorted. "It would look like a tiny twig in your great paw!"
"I can't help that the gods made my form so impressive." He stopped his drilling to strike a pose, fists resting on his hips as he turned his head to the side and gazed haughtily toward the night sky. She spun around to watch him, snickering all the while. "That's right," he continued. "Drink it in."
The queen glanced sideways, then laughed under her breath. "I would, but I'm not sure there will be any left for me." At her brother's quizzical expression, she jerked her head toward the campfire, where Lady Dyanna, Lady Wynafryd, and Rosie were all standing, smiling appreciatively at the false-knight. Even Osha had peered over a time or two. "Which lady's company will you choose?" she wondered aloud.
The assassin's brows pinched in close, and he looked down at the Cat. "You're the only lady whose company I care for."
The girl bit her lip and stepped in closer to the Bear. She thought to reach a hand out and touch his arm but did not wish to scandalize the company or create any rivalry between her and her ladies. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I know you still think of her."
"I think only of her," he corrected. "Of her, and of you."
"I meant no disrespect."
"I know you didn't." His look was glum.
"Olive…" She sighed. "You know she would want you to be happy."
The Lyseni nodded, murmuring, "She would. And I am happy, Cat. Maybe sometimes I just… think on simpler times." He stared at the scarf wrapping her head for a moment, then stepped from the formation. Bowing to the queen, he said, "I'm afraid I'm too tired to finish the drills tonight. I'm for bed."
"Sleep well, ser."
"And you, your grace."
The girl watched her brother walk away, her eyes shining silver in the firelight.
Later, tucked beneath her sleeping firs, Arya ran with the wolves. Nymeria and her cousins ranged ahead of the company, straying far from the riverbank and into the hills further west. There was prey to be had in the hills, and so they hunted. The direwolf's jaws were ripping into a hare when the girl within her felt a pull. Off she went, the world growing small below her, and she took flight, the wings of a nighthawk carrying her further and further north. High she flew, through flurrying snow, leaping from hawk to heron, then heron to owl. Eventually, she spotted a raven below, perching on the frosted sill of a high tower window. She shed her barred feathers then, diving down until she donned raven skin.
"Ah, hello, Lord Raven," an unfamiliar man greeted her. His attire and the clanking chain around his neck marked him as a maester. He leaned in closer, then said, "Or should I say Lady Raven?" He snagged a scroll wrapped around her leg and then she watched him leave the tower. She blinked her rounded raven eyes and then she was somewhere else; inside a voiceless body, drowsing on the floor before a great fire in a hearth. A knock at the door caused her to lift her head.
"Come," a familiar voice called. If she could have whined, she would've. Instead, she rose, padding over to the bed where a man sat, still and staring toward the door. From the look of him, he'd not yet been to sleep.
Jon, she thought, bumping her great head against his cheek. He smiled at her as the door opened, stroking the fur of her head. "What is it, boy?"
"Sorry to disturb, my lord, but you did say to bring you any message, no matter…"
"Aye, I did, Maester Rhodry." Jon rose from the bed, moving toward the open door and the grey-robed man. The wolf followed close behind. The somber lord held his hand out for the scroll. "Thank you."
Rhodry relinquished the parchment, bowed, and left.
"Who do you suppose, Ghost?" Jon asked, moving back to his place on the bed as he looked at the small scroll. "It can't be her, unless she has ravens and a maester in tow." He laughed a little then. "Though I suppose with the pace they're keeping, she may have a whole mob of maesters with her, carting a wagon load of books they stop to read every league or two."
I'm sorry, she could not say. I'm trying to reach you.
There were actually two scrolls, one wrapped around the other. She craned her thick neck, peering with wolf eyes but reading with her human understanding. The first was a short message, signed by a maester unknown to her. Matias. The scrawl explained, in simple terms, the companion message had arrived two days past from the Dreadfort. Jon's face darkened as he read the news and he let the first scrap of parchment drift to the bed as he glared at the second.
He turned to look at Ghost. "The last time a Bolton sent me a message…" His voice drifted off and his eyes narrowed, lips curling themselves into an unconscious look of disdain. He blew out a breath, one harsh puff through flared nostrils, then pulled the scroll open and began to read.
Bastard, it started.
"Well, he's consistent, I'll give him that," Jon muttered.
I've received word that my lady wife travels home. She has been too long absent from my care. So long, in fact, I shouldn't wonder if she looks completely different now. She appears to have been recently visiting our neighbor to the south, the fat merman.
She has risen in rank since we parted. I am eager to hear the tale of how that came to be. Rest assured, I will draw it out of her, one way or another. But I suppose in all practical ways, bastard, this makes me your king.
This message is a courtesy—do not bother preparing for her arrival. I've sent men to escort her to the Dreadfort, where she belongs. I trust you'll respect the holy bonds of marriage, but know that if you do not, I will sack your pathetic husk of a castle again. When I am done, I will feed your flesh to my dogs, one piece at a time. Though if I am feeling merciful, I will first let you watch me fuck my heir into your sweet sister's belly. Would you like that, bastard?
Don't worry. I know exactly how to care for my bride, and this time, I'll not let my little grey girl stray from my sight, even if I must chain her to make sure of it.
It was signed Ramsay Bolton, King in the North.
Jon's jaw clenched as he crushed the message in his fist. Wasting no time, he rose and dressed, strapping his sword to his back and donning his boots and cloak. He stormed into the hallway, calling for the maester and someone named Tormund. She started to follow but was yanked unceremoniously from wolf's hide and dropped in the middle of the chamber beneath the great weirwood beyond the wall.
"Bran!" she hissed.
"I'm sorry," her brother said from atop his bone white throne. "I regret having to be so abrupt, but time is of the essence."
"Isn't it always?" she retorted, crossing her arms over her chest. It was then she noted she was wearing her breastplate and gorget, marking her with a crowned wolf. She spread her arms wide then. "What's this about?"
"He will come for you."
She did not find Bran's words shocking. The Bolton by-blow had said as much in his letter, hadn't he? Truth be told, she welcomed it.
"Let him!" Arya cried, thinking she'd been remiss in not adding Roose's bastard to her nightly prayer. "I owe him for Winterfell. For… Ser Rodrik and Maester Luwin. That was him, wasn't it? Ramsay Bolton?" She spat his name with disgust.
"Not him."
"What do you mean, not him?"
"He will not come for you. He's sent men in his stead."
"They won't have long to regret their mistake," the girl vowed. Her mouth twisted into a feral snarl. "And just how stupid is this man? I have an entire company of Bravos at my back, not to mention fighting men of the Riverlands and White Harbor, Northern lords and clansmen, crannogmen, three Faceless assassins, a wildling woman who even scares me a little, and Jaime-fucking-Lannister! Do you think any of them would allow a hair on my head to be harmed?"
"No, sister."
"I'd even trust Rickon to give more than he got, not that I'd need any of them. I can handle these creeping daggermen without…"
"Arya!" Bran snapped, stopping the girl's rant. "Listen to me. Ramsay's men are coming, yes, but he is coming for you."
"Who?"
"Jon. Didn't you see him?"
She drew up short. "I… yes. I saw him, but…"
"What did you think he was doing, strapping Longclaw to his back and rushing out in the middle of the night?"
"I… thought he was going to find the maester."
"To pen a strongly worded scroll to the Boltons?"
"Well… yes. What else?"
"He is leaving. Even now, he hastily packs provisions and tries to dissuade his friend from riding with him."
"His friend… Tormund?" she guessed. Bran nodded.
"He does not wish to be slowed."
That, she understood very well.
"Well, this is good, isn't it? I'll see him all the sooner. He can join the company and we'll ride to Winterfell together."
"No, Arya, this is not good. His pace will force him to into the path of Ramsay's men, barely a league from the ruins of Hartcourt."
Hartcourt had been a small holdfast from the time of the earliest winter kings. No more than a stack of mossy rocks now, it had once guarded the bridge over the western branch of the White Knife. The ruins stood a spare few leagues from spot where the kingsroad now crossed the river.
Her throat suddenly felt very dry. "What?" she croaked.
"Both he and Tormund are fierce fighters, but even they cannot hope to survive an ambush of twenty men."
"Well, do something!" she cried. "Can't you stop him?"
"My only hope of reaching him is when he is at prayer or sleeping." Bran closed his eyes for a moment before opening them again and looking at the girl. "But now, he has accepted that Tormund won't allow him to ride alone. They are heading for the stables."
"They're riding out in the dark?" She was nearly beside herself, vibrating with her worry and disbelief, but took a deep breath, willing herself to stillness. She had to think, to calculate. The man who fears losing has already lost. Fear cuts deeper than swords. "The ruins of Hartcourt? That's almost two days ride from Winterfell, even at speed. More than, really, unless he means to kill his horse. We can't be even a day away ourselves. If we set out with a few riders after we break camp, we can easily catch him and turn him, then…"
"He's not at Winterfell."
"What?" The girl's head was spinning. "What are you talking about?"
"He's at Cerwyn, Arya. He was so anxious to see you, he went to Cerwyn. He'd thought to ride out and greet you as soon as your banners were spied from their highest tower."
The girl's heart throbbed painfully beneath her breast. "He's riding out from Cerwyn. Now?"
Bran leaned forward, his pale fingers wrapping tightly around the arms of his even paler throne. "Time is short."
She tamped down her near panic frantically, pacing, thinking, thinking… "The wolves," she said, snapping her gaze to her brother.
"They cannot ford the river, even if you could manage to send them. Ramsay's men will be on the east bank and armed with crossbows. They do not need to cross in order to harm Jon. Unless he turns back, their bolts will find their target, even from the other side of the water."
Will find, he'd said. Not, could find. Might find.
Will find.
Arya felt as though she were trapped in a nightmare. She supposed, in a way, she was.
"I will go," she told him. "Wake me up, I will go."
"If you pass the ruins of Hartcourt before you meet Jon, you are both safe. Go now."
At Bran's words, the girl had only two thoughts.
Get to the ruins.
Wake up.
Wake up. Wake up. Wake up!
The queen bolts upright with a gasp, clutching at her blouse over her pounding heart. Her eyes are open, staring wildly, and she throws her furs off, pulling on her boots without hesitation. She reaches for her swords and cloak even as she is moving. She finds her assassin's belt, too, laden with her thin throwing blades. This, she slips on, crossways over her chest. Flying from the tent, she nearly collides with Ser Jaime who had been standing guard over her as she slept.
As she traveled.
As she congressed with Bran.
"Your grace," he says, confusion in his voice. "Are you well?"
"Jaime," she breathes hoarsely, "there is no time for me to explain myself now." She whips her cloak around her shoulders, fastening it at her neck. "I'm asking you, and only you, to come with me, but we must leave now."
He eyes her assassin's belt with suspicion. "Leave? Stark, what are you…"
"No time!" she hisses, jogging toward the edge of the camp where the horses are corralled.
"Your grace," he calls, following close behind, "I don't understand!"
"I know you don't. And I know it's dark, which makes the journey treacherous for you, so I understand if you wish to stay back. I ask you to go for two reasons. One, I know you will not be easy if I go alone…"
"Go alone? Where are you going?" He nearly laughs, as if this is all some great jape that he does not yet grasp.
"…and two, you are the only rider fast enough to accompany me without slowing me down." She grabs Bane's saddle and lifts it over his back as she explains. "And we must fly."
"You mean to leave camp, in the dark, on horseback, alone?" the Kingslayer scoffs. "Are you mad?"
Before she makes him an answer, Lord Reed approaches the pair with swift strides.
"Your grace," he says, bowing hastily, and Arya can hear the urgency in his tone.
"You've seen it," the queen guesses.
The crannogman nods. "Aye, green and true." He helps her secure the saddle as Jaime absently saddles Goldshitter and watches Howland and the girl with befuddlement. His expression indicates he believes them to be speaking nonsense.
"Tell Rickon where I've gone, and why," the queen directs the Lord of Greywater Watch. "Tell him I could not bring him, that there was no time. He'll understand. Tell Ser Willem and Baynard as well."
"Baynard?" The golden knight makes a face. "Why would you tell a squire anything?"
"Yes, your grace," Lord Reed answers as though Jaime had not spoken.
"The rest of the company…"
"I'll let them know you rode ahead to meet your brother, and that we will join you soon," Howland pledges. "Do not trouble yourself over it."
"You'll warn the men to be on their guard…"
"I will, your grace."
"I want their heads. If they dare to come here, I want their heads to send back to the Dreadfort," the girl seethes and the crannogman nods once.
"The Dreadfort?" Jaime echoes, his confusion evident. He stares hard at his queen. "Who is coming here? Whose heads do you want? Just what sort of conspiracy have you two cooked up?"
"Is there anything I should know?" she asks, ignoring the Kingslayer as she searches Howland's lined face.
"If you follow the river, your path should be easy and clear, all the way to Hartcourt." He gives her a meaningful look before adding, "And beyond."
"Hartcourt?" Jaime barks in disbelief. The golden knight watches, aghast, as the girl lifts her booted foot into one stirrup, hoisting herself onto Bane's back. "Why do you want to go to that rubble pile?"
"I don't," she snaps, frustrated. "I need to get past that rubble pile, and as quickly as possible, if I'm to save Jon. Now, are you coming with me, or am I going alone?" She pulls on the reins, turning Bane and walking him a few steps away.
The golden knight stands at his mount's side, staring with mouth agape. She can read his contemplations easily enough. He considers a plan to yank her down from her horse, toss her over his shoulder, and carry her back to her tent while telling her toddlers need their sleep. But her expression stops him.
Jaime closes his mouth, looks at Howland a moment, then nods. He mounts his horse, faces his queen, and says, "Well, are we going or not?"
Arya blinks away the sting in her eyes, biting at her bottom lip, and she hopes he can see how she appreciates his loyalty. But time is pressing, and so, instead of thanking him, she says, "Do not stop, Ser Jaime, for I won't."
And with that, she is off like a shot.
"You're no good to anyone if you break your neck," Tormund reproached, "least of all your snow queen sister."
Jon appeased the wildling by slowing his pace to a trot. His horse needed the rest, anyway. They'd been riding hard under the light of the moon. Ghost swiftly passed them both, ignoring the change in speed. "You didn't have to come."
"Well, you'd already disturbed my peace. Didn't figure I'd get back to sleep after all the fuss you made." The wildling snorted a laugh. "Poor Lady Cerwyn. You had her stumbling out of her chamber like the others were climbing through her windows, ready to turn her eyes to dead sapphires." Tormund shook his head, his laughter trailing off. "Now, there's a lass who can't afford to lose beauty sleep."
Jon grunted. "I'll make my apologies on the return trip."
"There won't be a return trip if you get tossed from your horse into a ravine."
"There are no ravines nearby."
"The river, then."
"I can swim."
"Mayhaps, but you'll freeze your cock and balls off if you take a swim in this weather, and if you ask me, that's worse than death."
"I'm not going to freeze my c…" Jon stopped himself and drew in a great breath, working his jaw for a moment. "Look, I told you the Boltons have sent men after her. I didn't tell you what Ramsay said he was going to do to her once he has her."
The wildling man dropped his teasing tone and turned to look at his friend. "You don't have to tell me, lad. I've heard tales of the bastard's handiwork. I can guess well enough."
"Then you understand."
"Aye, I do. And believe me when I tell you, we won't let the Boltons lay one finger on your sister. Don't forget, we've seen the terrors that lurk beyond the Wall. This boy's a child merely playing at being great lord. He's nothing we can't handle. Mark me."
Jon's expression was grim, and he shook his head. "He's no child. And if he gets his hands on my sister, he'll not play the great lord for her benefit. He'll play the monster from her nightmares." He let his words sink in, then dug his heels into his mount's sides, urging the beast back to a gallop. After a moment, Tormund followed suit.
In the Air Tonight—Phil Collins