I'm gonna fight 'em off,
a seven nation army couldn't hold me back
Candles burned bright in Daenerys Targaryen's royal pavilion, lighting her skin as she rose on unsteady legs. She carefully picked her way across the sheepskin throws which covered the earthen floor. Her pale hair seemed to iridesce like pearls in the sunlight as it caught the radiance thrown from the nearby brazier. False-eyes studied her movements, marking the details and filing them away for later use. There was the slight quake of her knees; the way her skin was flushed and damp but goose prickles still arose on her arms as if she were chilled; the slight smile she could not hide; the soft haziness of her eyes.
Her guard was down.
They had been talking in drowsing tones before she arose, and he continued the conversation as she walked away.
"So now you have your rose army, too. Nothing stands between you and the iron throne."
Daario was reclined atop Daenerys' thick sleeping furs, naked and stretched out languidly, speaking in a gravelly voice. His tone hinted at satiety. She would like that.
The khaleesi was standing on the far side of her pavilion now, reaching for a whisper-thin gown draped over a trunk there. She plucked it up and dropped it over her head.
"Well, I don't think I'd say 'nothing'," she replied, smoothing her skirts and adjusting the straps on her shoulders as she turned to face the man she thought of as Tyroshi. "There are the walls of King's Landing, for one…"
"What are walls against dragon fire?" the captain of the Stormcrows interjected.
"…but having the allegiance of the Reach certainly makes the path easier. We'll not have to waste precious time or blood reducing Highgarden to rubble. Much simpler to march on past with their consent."
"And with their men joining the ranks of your army."
The silver queen smirked. "Yes, that too."
"That must make the whitebeard happy."
"Ser Barristan? Mmm, it does," she agreed. "He is prepared to do what must be done, but he has no wish to see the destruction of great houses, if it can be avoided."
"He's too attached to the old order," Daario observed. "What do you care for great houses? You can make this land anew, if you choose."
"I'd hardly make many friends that way."
"This is your concern?" the captain snorted. "Friendship?"
"We were talking about Ser Barristan," she replied with a note of censure, "not me."
"Yes. Ser Barristan, your cautious general; your prudent advisor." Daario Naharis had a reputation as brash; a daring firebrand. He liked to remind her of it from time to time.
"You object to caution and prudence now?"
"Always," he grinned, but then added more seriously, "especially when it results in delays. We must move swiftly, before the usurpers can gather their strength." He'd been advocating for speed over diplomacy practically since he'd arrived in Dorne. The advice had tactical merit, of course, but the Faceless sellsword had his own reasons for the strategy as well. Or, more precisely, his own reason.
Though perhaps it was more accurate to say that it was the part of him which was not Faceless that had the reason.
Thus far, however, the whitebeard had checked the false-Tyroshi's influence at every turn. The cautious, prudent Ser Barristan, he loved his little dragon queen well, and meant to protect her and her interests at all costs. This did not suit the false-captain's purpose at all.
Daenerys crossed her arms over her chest. "Ser Barristan believes they'll not have much strength to gather if we choose our moves wisely…"
"Bah!"
"…nor does he like to put his army at risk unnecessarily."
"What else is an army for," Daario laughed, "but to put itself at risk for its monarch?"
"Aegon agrees with him, and I can hardly move without my nephew's support."
"You have dragons," he reminded her.
"And Aegon has Dorne, and Edric Dayne, and the Golden Company."
Daario grunted in acknowledgment. "And so, we spend a week playing at diplomacy in the Reach when we might've been camped beneath the walls of King's Landing by now."
"We will camp there soon," the woman promised, "and you'll have your fill of blood and glory, I'm quite certain." Daenerys' purple eyes seemed to nearly dance with at the prospect. He was unused to women so enamored with the idea of violence. He'd only ever known one other, but he could not think on that now, lest he dress himself and walk away in an instant. He still had work to do, for the order, yes, but also for her. "There will be enough conquering and plunder to satisfy all the ravenous soldiers of my army," the khaleesi was saying, "and now, you'll have the aid of the men of the Reach to help you claim it."
Daario's expression said all she needed to know about his regard for any aid he might receive from the men of the Reach, but he left that subject and broached another.
"And how did you convince the Tyrells?" The false-sellsword bent his elbows, slipping his hands behind his head and cupping the back of his skull with his interlaced fingers. His ankles were crossed comfortably. Daenerys smirked, more at his bold posture than his question. "Or did they just take one look at the shadow Drogon cast over their keep and shit themselves?" The black monster and his brothers had been pointedly circling Highgarden during the negotiations.
The queen laughed. "More like Olenna Tyrell took one look at Aegon and saw the return of Rhaegar."
The sellsword was befuddled. "Was the old lady such a supporter of your brother?"
"I have no idea. I think she merely sees the possibility of another royal wedding for her family. And to such a prince!" She laughed, and it was the sound of both delight and mockery.
"King," the sellsword corrected. "To such a king."
The dragon queen's laughter died. "Yes. He is that, isn't he? I suppose that makes him an even greater prize for that old battleaxe."
Daario's face looked amused, then thoughtful. "And how did your nephew react to that?"
"Diplomatically." There was a grudging admiration in Daenerys' voice as she pronounced the word. She walked over to the bed and sat on the edge, turning so she could look at her lover. The queen placed her hand on his hard belly, making a quiet humming sound as her fingertips brushed his warm skin. The Tyroshi's eyes dropped and he watched as she slid her palm across the ridges of his muscles, up over his chest and toward his tanned neck. When she reached his face, she curled her fingers around his jaw and leaned down slightly. "Aegon reminded them that I am also currently unwed," she murmured.
One corner of the Daario's mouth quirked up at that. The young king had a deftness to his statecraft that was hard not to appreciate. It was a delicate dance he was engaged in, both supporting and undermining his tenuous alliance with his aunt. If the intrepid dragon did not misstep, it was like to serve his cause well. And to avoid the treacherous pitfalls which might stymie his ambitions, Aegon had the shrewd Tyrion Lannister to advise him.
And where would that leave Dany?
Wisely, the Tyroshi did not voice this, and instead, scoffed, "You, offered as a marriage prize? To a Tyrell?" He propped up on his elbows. "I'm insanely jealous. Which one was it? Who should I duel?"
It was the right thing to say; the words Daenerys had been hoping to hear. Her face told him so.
The khaleesi snorted. "You'd better put on some pants if you intend to duel anyone."
The Stormcrow captain made as if to get up and do just that, demanding that she tell him where his boots were. Dany pushed him back down on the bed, laughing.
"Neither Aegon nor myself will wed a Tyrell, so there will be no need for any duels," she told him. "There are more important alliances which must be forged, to be sure. But the suggestion was enough for them to save face at the negotiating table. Now the Tyrells can tell the tale of how they may once again marry the crown instead of explaining that they simply did not wish to stand against dragons."
"Anyone who would question a man choosing to make way for a dragon is a fool." A fool whose ashes will soon be all that are left to speak for him, he thought then.
"Westeros is overrun with fools," she declared, "or hadn't you noticed?"
The woman's judgement was harsh, but that did not make it any less true.
"And what will you do with their little rose queen?"
"Margaery?" Daenerys straightened, pulling her hand away from the captain's chest and shrugging with disinterest. "As long as she doesn't make a nuisance of herself, we'll send her back to her white walls and flower gardens to live out her days in peace."
"The Tyrells are bound to be disappointed with that."
"Less disappointed than they'd be to see her head on a pike, I'd wager." She squinted, then added, "Though, if I find her sitting on my throne when I arrive, I may have no choice but to disappoint them."
Not 'the' throne, but 'my' throne, she'd said. She was not usually so careless, but then, she had no reason to doubt Daario's loyalty. After all, he was not sleeping with Aegon.
The Faceless-sellsword laughed. "Sometimes I forget how vicious you can be."
She leaned down once again, her lips hovering an inch above his, whispering, "Well, that won't do at all, love." She kissed him ferociously, biting his lip as she dug her nails into his scalp. The false-Tyroshi growled and dragged her down, throwing her onto the furs and rolling over top of her. As he tore at her gown, he thought the dragon queen did not truly understand what it meant to be vicious.
But she would learn.
"Ser Jaime, we've had three separate men say they've seen you in this garment."
Jaime looked up from his trencher, startled out of his reverie. He'd been eating his noonday meal, tucked away in a quiet corner of the great hall, alone with his musings about guilt and dreams and the uncanny perceptions of infants in fitted blouses and well-constructed doublets. He'd been so lost in his thoughts that when Lord Smallwood's steward had approached him, it had caught him unawares.
The golden knight cocked a brow curiously, regarding the black doublet the steward was holding out before him like an unfurled banner. "There it is!" he declared with a small laugh. "I was looking for that this morning. Wherever did you find it?" He turned his inquisitive eyes toward the steward.
"Next to the Lady Stoneheart's corpse," was the answer he was given.
Confusion swept away the Kingslayer's amusement. "What?"
"Ser Jaime, please come with me. Lord Smallwood wishes to speak with you."
It was then that the knight noticed the three household guards standing a few paces behind the steward, mailed hands on sword hilts. He scoffed. "Is that really necessary?"
"Please, Ser Jaime, my lord awaits."
Jaime sighed, frowning down at his trencher. "Ah, well, it was mutton again, anyway." He rose and felt the tension of the men who meant to escort him. "Don't worry, boys, I'll not harm you." His words did little to assure the guards, however, and they walked behind him with their palms still wrapped around their sword hilts. He had to admit, it felt good to still be feared, even after the passing of the years and the loss of his sword hand.
As he was escorted from the great hall, they passed Lady Brienne, who was walking down the corridor in their direction.
"Ser Jaime," she greeted, her look both perplexed and concerned. "Where are you going?
"It seems our host desires my company," the golden knight replied as the small group moved past her. He called back over his shoulder. "Something about my doublet. Perhaps he wants the name of my excellent tailor!"
"Do you need for me to…"
Whatever she was about to offer, the Kingslayer cut her off. "No, wench. Go enjoy your mutton. I'll be fine." He raised a golden hand over his head, waving at her without looking as he was marched away. The knightly woman stared after him but said nothing further.
Jaime ignored the guards but spoke with the steward as they made their way through Acorn Hall to Theomar's solar. Alger Pogwood was the man's name. Thin of nose, with small, dark eyes and close-cropped graying hair, the steward had a nervous sort of way about him. "Lady Stoneheart is dead?"
"We found her this morning," Pogwood replied, his voice clipped as he almost seemed to scurry through the keep.
"With my doublet…" Jaime was trying to make sense of it all.
"It was nearby."
The knight squinted, thinking. After a moment, understanding dawned on his face.
"Lady Arya," he breathed then, quietly enough that his words were unclear to anyone but himself. Of course! It made perfect sense that she would've been with her mother at some point after he'd parted with her. He'd finally recalled that he had wrapped the girl in his garment when he'd found her in the training yard the night before. Jaime snorted slightly as he thought of it. He'd done it because it was cold, and she was improperly dressed, and try as he might to disdain it, there was still something of a knightly code which guided him.
Shit-for-honor.
He laughed, remembering the dream he'd had later that night. It was the Stark girl's summation of his character. Sister-fucking, king-slaying, shit-for-honor, conceited… But no, that wasn't quite right. It wasn't her judgement, but rather her calling out his own comfort with such an unsavory guise.
But it was my dream, so really, I suppose I was calling myself out, he thought, ignoring the way the hairs on his neck prickled and a vague notion stirred in the back of his head. The dream had been so odd…
He pushed that thought aside and wondered why it was that he couldn't fully settle into that carefully crafted veneer that dream-Arya had so crudely described. And the fact that he hadn't, the fact that he'd done the knightly thing, no matter how small a thing it was, was apparently the reason his repast had just been disrupted. The irony amused him. If he made a more concerted effort to have shit for honor, he'd have kept his doublet to himself and be japing with Brienne while enjoying his mutton even now in the great hall.
Well, enjoying it as much as anyone is capable of enjoying mutton.
He snorted at his own derisive thought.
"I fail to see the humor," the steward grumbled, causing the Kingslayer's contemplations to fade away. "The lady was murdered, stabbed in the heart, and someone must answer for it."
"Stabbed…" Jaime's tone was incredulous. "Murdered?"
When Pogwood had mentioned the lady's corpse, the knight had been surprised, to be sure, but he'd assumed Lady Stoneheart had simply expired. She wasn't exactly the picture of health. He wasn't even completely certain she was fully alive, in the strictest sense; not with the tale of how she'd been found, three days dead, and revived. Or, resurrected. And then there was the way she'd begun to look lately. Since their reacquaintance, she had not seemed remotely like the Catelyn Stark he remembered, but her skin had become even grayer over the last few weeks, he'd noted, and her step had slowed.
His escort cut his eyes at him skeptically. The look was not missed by the golden knight.
"Well, I didn't do it!" Jaime protested. "Why would I?"
"Please, my lord, save your defense for Lord Smallwood."
"My… defense!" The knight began to get angry. "Now see here, you mewling little…"
The steward ignored the outburst and rapped on the solar door. "My lord," he called, "I've brought Ser Jaime."
A guard thrust the door open from the inside. The Kingslayer glared at him and then stepped through, noting a small gathering of men inside. Lord Smallwood was there, of course, seated comfortably in a chair, flanked by the ruddy Lord Piper and a visibly angry Harwin. Brynden Blackwood leaned against the far wall, arms crossed over his chest, his expression somber. Behind Harwin stood Thoros of Myr.
All the interests in the keep were represented, the golden knight realized. Smallwood, Blackwood, Piper, and the Brotherhood. Only a Stark was missing. But they wouldn't have thought to consult a mere girl, would they? Nor her man Ferris, who was from a minor branch of a minor house and a Dornishman to boot, with no stake in the North or the Riverlands. He studied the men for a moment and then squared his shoulders.
"My lords," he greeted, straddling the line between caution and contempt. "What is the meaning of this?"
"Ser Jaime," Lord Smallwood addressed the knight, "we have called you here to answer a serious charge."
Alger Pogwood stepped past the knight then and handed his lord the contentious doublet. Jaime frowned at it and thought perhaps he should have had the black one cut down for the little wolf rather than the red. It might've saved him some trouble.
"What charge, my lord?" Jaime gritted out.
"The charge of murder, Ser Jaime."
Ravella Smallwood sat in stunned silence and allowed Arya to speak. The girl explained herself, ruling her face to a degree, but allowing her hostess to see that she was pained, and that she grieved, but that she had sought sincerely to comply with her mother's own earnest wishes.
She did not relate all that had happened after her mother had died; how she had flown on her mother's heels to the land where souls reunite and rest. She did not discuss her father, or the conversation she'd shared with him. She did not explain her strange dreams or the faint shivering of her insides that took hold of her when she awoke; that alien power which seemed to suffuse the very heart of her.
Arya did not explain how since her return from that shadowy place, on the merest whim or with the vaguest application of her will, she could discern Ravella's thoughts; thoughts on her grief; thoughts of her own awful loss; a mother's loss. And she did not explain how she could do so as easily as if the lady had spoken those thoughts aloud to her, as if they were the closest of confidantes.
It had become so… easy.
"Finally, she made me understand how she suffered," the girl said. "I stopped fearing my own pain and loss so much. That allowed me to pity her. And I knew I had to help her."
It was plain to Arya that Lady Smallwood's thoughts turned to her precious Carellen then, and it made the woman's heart ache all the more for her young guest.
"Oh, my dear child," Ravella lamented, "I am so very sorry that you've had to endure this. Imagine any mother asking such a thing of her daughter…"
"But who else could she ask?" The girl looked down at her hands clasped on the table. "Who else could she trust?"
"To desire such a thing… to seek one's own end…" The lady seemed nearly overwhelmed as she spoke. "It's a grave sin, however pitiable one's existence. But to enlist one's child in the endeavor… Lady Stoneheart must have been desperate indeed." The Cat was certain it was only Ravella's good breeding that dictated she voice so generous an assessment of her mother. The lady's true opinion, however she tried to mask it, was writ plain on her face.
"I believe she was, my lady." Arya spoke softly and raised her gaze to Lady Smallwood's. "Very desperate."
"But… if she felt she must… Why in the name of the all the gods did she burden you with the ill deed? She should've done this thing herself and not made another share in her sin!"
The girl sighed and leaned back. "She might've tried it herself, but I think she knew her hand lacked the strength to do the thing. Any man may stab himself, but can any man cut through to his own heart? Won't his strength fail him before he succeeds? And she needed for it to be done right."
"Right?" Ravella shivered.
"I think she did not wish…" Arya blew out a heavy breath. "She did not wish to risk survival. She trusted me to do the deed as it needed to be done. And she knew I would not make her suffer."
"But surely one of her men…"
The girl gave a small, bitter laugh. "Do you think so? I have my doubts that any one of them would have had the stomach for it."
Lady Smallwood shook her head, her expression sad. "And now you are marked by it forever."
Arya did not dispute this. She supposed it was true. She would be marked forever by her mother's death. Both of them: the one at the Twins and the one by her own hand in the sept at Acorn Hall. But she had carried the burden of her lost and murdered family and friends with her for so long, she did not suppose one more mark would make much difference. At least this time, she had the comfort of knowing Catelyn rested in true peace, and would, forevermore.
As long as Arya kept the vow she had made to her mother.
She could feel Catelyn's kiss then, her mother's warm lips pressed against her cheek. She could hear Catelyn's words too, her mother's last words before Arya had fled the darkening godswood of the shadowed Winterfell and plunged through that heavy veil that separated one world from another.
'Remember,' Catelyn had whispered. 'Remember your vow."
But this, she did not say to Ravella.
"I was not wrong to do it," the girl finally said. "It would've been wrong to let her linger like that, when she did not wish it. It would've been wrong to neglect my duty simply because it was difficult."
(And then it was different words and a different memory that filled her mind.)
A girl must do her duty, whatever is asked.
Jaqen's admonition came to her, sharp and hard, piercing her with its clarity, and its rightness. She wondered if her master would be proud of her in this moment. She had given the gift, compassionately; lovingly. She had given the gift to one who had prayed for it ceaselessly. She had given the gift, and it truly was a gift. She wondered what he might say, but even as she wondered, she knew. She could hear it as plainly as if the Lorathi had been standing beside her, softly speaking the words in her ear.
Valar morghulis.
"So, you do not admit to the murder of the Lady Stoneheart?" Lord Smallwood clarified. They had been going round and round, he and Ser Jaime, with Theomar putting the question to the knight in various ways, and the knight alternating between incredulous snorts, disbelieving stares, and contemptuous rebuffs. At this latest question, Jaime opened his mouth to speak but before he could do more than shake his head in disgust, Harwin broke in, his impatience having eaten away his decorum.
"Then how did your doublet come to rest near her body?" the Northman demanded.
The golden knight hesitated a moment. He had worked it out, he thought, at least in part, but did not like to say. "I can only speculate, but unlike these fine lords gathered here, I am loath to do so when it may implicate another innocent person."
"Then you will not answer?" was Harwin's seething reply. His dark brows were furrowed furiously.
"Why so much interest in my doublet?" Jaime asked. "Was she strangled with it?"
The question was too flippant for the mood of the room and several cries of protest rose up then. Brynden Blackwood stepped in, attempting to tamp the anger and reach a satisfactory resolution.
"Ser," he began, addressing Jaime, his tone infinitely reasonable (much to the golden knight's chagrin), "we merely seek to find the truth of the matter. Such remarks are not helpful to that end, nor do they help your own case. And I would ask that you remember there are those here who loved and respected Catelyn Stark."
"But not you, eh Kingslayer?" Harwin goaded. "You misliked milady, did you not?"
Jaime could not deny the truth of the man's words. Catelyn Stark had taken his brother as a prisoner. Later, she and her upstart son Robb had held Jaime himself captive, and in deplorable conditions, too. He'd never seen so many lice in his life. Catelyn had thought herself better than Jaime; better than his whole family. Such a wound to his pride would have never ingratiated her to the knight (not that she cared a whit for his regard). As for Lady Stoneheart, he had to admit he reviled her, even more than he did Catelyn Stark (the knight considered the two as almost entirely separate entities). Even as he understood what drove her, vengeful revenant that she was, even as he sympathized with her plight, he found the lady herself…
Repulsive.
"Strange, isn't it," the Kingslayer mused sarcastically, "how one can dislike a lady and yet still manage not to murder her?"
"So, you deny it?" the Northman pressed.
Jaime looked pointedly at Harwin, then at Brynden, and finally at Theomar. "Categorically," he said.
"Then perhaps you'd tell us who you think did kill her?" Lord Smallwood suggested.
Jaime snorted, causing Harwin's frown to deepen. "Why would I have any idea? I didn't even know she'd been killed until your steward told me."
"Only moments ago, you said you could speculate," the lord reminded him.
"About why my doublet was found near her, not as to who killed her!"
"So, you've no idea who killed milady?" the Northman cut in gruffly.
"All I know," Jaime growled back, "is that it was not me."
"I don't believe you," Harwin declared. Jaime took a step toward him, only to feel the hands of the guards pulling him back.
"Are you calling me a liar, Harwin?" the golden knight asked, his voice low and menacing as he strained against the guards' hands. His eyes had narrowed and his scorn was plain to see. His expression declared the sort of derision of which only a Lannister was capable. How dare this low-born Northman question his honor.
Shit-for-honor.
"Aye," the Northman clapped back, standing from his seat. "A liar, and a murderer."
"I always knew Northmen were too stubborn for their own good," Jaime said, "but now I see that they are also too stupid to understand even the simplest concepts. Let me speak it plainly so you do not mistake my meaning: I did not kill her."
"And I say you did!"
Before the two men could lunge at each other, Thoros stepped in, moving between them.
"You're too impassioned, Harwin, because of your loyalty to the Starks. It's an admirable quality, but it blinds you," the red priest said softly, placing one palm flat against the Northman's chest. His other palm pushed back against the golden knight with a surprising strength. "And Ser Jaime," he continued, looking toward the Lannister's face, "you're too irreverent for anyone's comfort, especially now. Have some respect." Jaime and Harwin paused at the priest's words, and he continued. "Both of you settle down, and let us resolve the issue."
The combatants backed off of each other, and Harwin regained his seat at Theomar Smallwood's side. Jaime stood before the assemblage with his left hand clasping his golden wrist and his spine ramrod straight.
"Ser Jaime, can you offer no reasonable explanation for how your doublet came to rest near Lady Stoneheart?" Lord Smallwood asked.
The Kingslayer's jaw worked for a moment and then set itself before he spoke. "I can, my lord."
The chamber quieted expectantly. When Jaime made no move to answer him further, the Lord of Acorn Hall prompted him.
"And will you share with us this explanation?"
"No. I won't," was the knight's measured response.
Lord Smallwood frowned at Jaime, then called Alger Pogwood over. "I need you to find my wife and deliver a message."
There was a knock at the door to Lady Smallwood's chamber. Both Arya and Ravella looked toward the door, then at each other. There was no maid, or servant, or guard in the chamber with them, and so the lady herself rose to answer. When she opened the door, she found the steward of Acorn Hall standing on the other side.
"My lady," he greeted, bowing respectfully. "I bring word from your husband." He glanced past Ravella at Arya, then leaned in to speak with his mistress in low tones. After a few moments of his whispering and the lady's nodding, she turned to face her guest, discomfort etching lines around her mouth and on her forehead.
"What is it?" the girl asked.
"My husband feels you should be present to weigh in on… the accused."
"The accused? What accused?"
"Ser Jaime Lannister."
"Jamie?" Arya shrugged. "What's he been accused of?" Dispensing unsolicited fatherly advice around the keep? Gifting clothing to those he considered unfashionable? Dwelling too much on his past? Being almost fatally arrogant?
Her own thoughts amused her.
"Of murdering your mother, my dear child."
The Cat did not bother hiding her surprise. "Why in the seven bloody hells would anyone blame Jaime Lannister for that?" A vague irritation began to gnaw at her. Things could never be simple. Everything in Westeros had to be accomplished with the absolute maximum number of complications, it seemed.
Pogwood spoke up then. "His doublet, my lady… It was found…" He paused a moment and cleared his throat, struggling to be delicate, it seemed. "I beg your pardon, my lady, but it was found near your mother's… body."
The girl sighed. She crossed her arms over her chest and dropped her head back to stare at the ceiling, groaning with frustration all the while.
"My lady, are you in distress?" the steward asked. "Shall I tell Lord Smallwood you aren't up to it?"
"No!" Arya barked, snapping her head in his direction. "No, indeed. You tell your lord…" She was having her own struggle, then. It was the struggle to choose a course of action and commit to it.
"Yes, my lady?" Pogwood prodded timidly as the girl bit her lip and lingered over her thoughts. At the steward's words, though, she squeezed her eyes shut tightly for a moment and decided. Arya released her lip from between her teeth and blew out a breath before answering him.
"Tell him I will weigh in. In the great hall. Tell him everyone must be there. Everyone. Within the half hour."
The steward hesitated, looking at Lady Smallwood for confirmation as he spoke. "Lady Arya, are you sure?"
"Go!" Arya bellowed, rising from her seat and pointing at him.
"You'd better go and do as she says, Alger," Ravella quietly instructed the steward. As the lady closed the door after the scurrying man, she turned to find Arya pacing, looking sober and pensive.
"Ser Jaime is innocent," the woman stated plainly.
Arya stopped her movement and turned her eyes to Ravella's. "I know."
"It would be wrong to allow him to…"
"I know."
"Then what are you going to do, my dear?"
The girl sighed, turning to face Lady Smallwood. There was resignation on her long face.
"Something I'd hoped to avoid," she said.
Her window was brief, yet Arya had managed to find the Bear and apprise him of her plan, listing out her instructions in rapid-fire fashion. His face made his opinion apparent enough that she did not need to see into his thoughts to know his mind.
"You don't approve," the Cat said flatly.
"It's not at all what you wanted," he reminded her, his voice sounding dubious.
"I see no way around it, though, do you?"
He made her no answer, but nodded in agreement.
"Alright, then. You find Baynard and Lady Brienne. I doubt we'll have need of them for more than a show of support, but they should be armed nonetheless." The girl herself tapped Frost's hilt lightly with her free hand. Her other hand was wrapped around the handle of an unfamiliar and heavy weapon. Grey Daughter was strapped to her back.
"Why are you carrying that warhammer?" her brother demanded, calling after her retreating form. "And where are you going?"
"Bring them to the great hall!" Arya called back to him, ignoring his question. "I'll meet you there in a quarter hour!"
She jogged through corridors and down staircases, hefting the hammer all the way, until she arrived at a familiar door. Fishing a lone, bent pin from her hair and a dagger from its hidden spot beneath her sleeve, she worked the lock in seconds. Gendry was sitting on his bed, staring at the door as Arya walked through. He eyed her suspiciously and greeted her with a question.
"Why do you have my warhammer?"
"It makes a statement. Get up, you're coming with me."
He stood, stretching up to his full height and looking down at her. "Is this it? Today is the day?"
"Today is the day," she agreed, her face grim.
"You've come to say goodbye, then?"
"No."
"But I'm being banished…"
"Some things have changed since we last spoke," Arya said, a hint of impatience creeping into her voice and her manner.
"Am I being sent away today or not? I must know!"
"Gendry, you're not going anywhere, except to the great hall with me. Now take this heavy thing and let's go." She held out the warhammer, using both hands. The blacksmith only hesitated a second, then took it from her. "I'll explain on the way," she promised, turning on her heel and moving swiftly toward the door.
"Explain what?"
The girl growled and whipped around to face the blacksmith-knight, her grey eyes darkening. "Please! There is no time. You're going to have to shut up, try very hard not to be stupid, and listen. Now, let's go."
Rather than be offended by her condescension, the dark knight's mouth pulled into a grin. He placed the hammer head-down on the floor, cradling the end of its long handle in his two palms, and bowed low before her in a courtly manner. He lifted his head just slightly so he could catch her eye.
"As m'lady commands."
Lord Smallwood, Lord Piper, and Ser Brynden entered the great hall to find a partially assembled crowd. Men streamed in behind them as well, including Harwin and Thoros and a host of Smallwood men-at-arms. In the midst of them all strode Ser Jaime, tall and strong, his height and golden hair marking him among the mostly dark-headed retinue. As men filed in and found seats, the master of Acorn Hall stopped short, staring up at the dais where the head table usually perched.
There was no table now. It had been moved off to the side of the hall. Theomar's chair remained, with its intricately carved back and velvet cushioned seat, the lone piece of furniture on the dais. Situated in the center of the dais by itself, flanked by armed men (and Lady Brienne), two on each side, the chair had taken on the look of a throne. Sitting on that makeshift throne, one leg crossed over the other, was Lady Arya, the flat of a Valyrian steel bastard sword resting across her lap. Her fingers played lightly on the rippled surface of the blade as she watched the last of the crowd enter the hall.
The lords and great knights who were assembled in the center aisle, looking alternately befuddled and discontent, did not take seats. Rather, Theomar detached from them and approached the dais.
"We're here, as you have asked, my lady," he said, addressing himself to Arya, "and perhaps now you'll tell us what you mean by all this?"
"Certainly, Lord Smallwood," the girl replied, rising from her seat. Grey Daughter, she gripped down low, resting the blade against her own shoulder, in the manner of a sentry standing guard with weapon unsheathed. She looked out over the hall which quieted at her actions. Raising her voice, she addressed the assembly. "My lords, I have the unenviable task of informing you of the passing of Lady Stoneheart."
Audible gasping and cries of disbelief rose from around the chamber. Of course, the small group standing in the center aisle made no such exclamations. They were all well-aware of the news already and had been engaged in the job of trying to get Ser Jaime to claim responsibility for it when word came that their presence was desired in the great hall.
"You have my sincere condolences for the loss of your mother, Lady Arya," Lord Smallwood said, but before he could continue, the girl spoke over him.
"I lost my mother long ago, my lord, at the Twins, along with my brother and many loyal men and women who supported my family. But I will accept your condolences for the Lady Stoneheart. She meant a great deal to me and I appreciate your kindness."
Theomar bowed his head, acknowledging Arya's words, then asked, "Do you mean to hear the evidence against the one accused of her murder?"
"No, indeed, my lord, for I know the intimate details and have no wish to relive them here."
Lord Smallwood seemed confused, but nodded, deferring to her wishes. "My lady, it is your right to make a statement."
"I intend to."
"To weigh in against the guilty party," he clarified.
"Yes, my lord. I understand. If you'll allow me, I shall do it now."
"By all means…"
Arya looked away from Theomar and gazed out over the crowd, stepping forward on the dais. She looked down at Ser Jaime, meeting his eyes and studying his expression, a mixture of intrigue and amusement and perhaps a bit of dawning uncertainty. She saw Harwin, black anger plain on his face, and Thoros, who seemed supremely tired. Alger Pogwood had taken a seat near the aisle, clutching a dark garment in his hands. The orphans she spied at the back of the hall, grouped together in a tight little cluster. There were Piper men who were unknown to her, and Smallwood men whose faces were more familiar. A smattering of servants who had heard of the gathering had slipped into the chamber and were lurking around the edges, along the walls. Ravella had entered quietly at some point and was situated among a small group of attendants.
"My lords," Arya began, a slight nod of her head towards those men of noble blood who stood before her, and then, looking out at Ravella Smallwood, she said, "my lady." She paused, considering her words. After a moment, she said, "Lady Stoneheart's death has left the Brotherhood Without Banners a rudderless ship, with no direction and no purpose, adrift in this unsettled land."
"My lady, I hardly think that is the most important issue at stake right now," Theomar remarked, somewhat taken aback. "We need to determine who is responsible for…"
The girl held up her hand, quieting the Lord of Acorn Hall, then continued, "In my view, this leaves only two choices. The Brotherhood may choose to disband and each man may find his own way in the world, or it may choose to remain intact, under the guidance of a new leader."
Harwin walked forward, drawing even with Lord Smallwood. "Milady, your mother…"
"My mother is gone, Harwin," Arya said. "Truly gone, and at her peace."
"With respect, little lady, she didn't just go," the Northman intoned. "She was murdered. By Jaime Lannister! His doublet was found near her body!"
The room erupted then, cries of disbelief and anger and surprise all mingling together. Jaime glared at the back of Harwin's head but did not speak to defend himself. For his part, the Northman clenched his fists and stood his ground, giving Arya a hard stare. The girl held her hands up, a gesture meant to quiet the chamber. It worked. When the roar subsided, she spoke once again, addressing Harwin's accusations.
"I know your loyalty to my family," Arya said, "and to my mother. But it wasn't murder, Harwin. It was mercy. And Jaime Lannister is innocent."
"And how do you know these things, my lady?" Lord Smallwood demanded. "How do you know Ser Jaime is innocent, as you say?"
"Because Lady Stoneheart asked me to kill her, Lord Smallwood," the girl replied. "She asked me to give her mercy, and I did."
This time, instead of a roar, the room dissolved into gasps and whispers. The lords stared up at her, their doubts etched into their expressions. Those standing behind her on the dais stepped forward then, protectively. The Bear was to her right, his hip suddenly pressing against her lower ribcage. Lady Brienne was to her left, the stiff leather of her jerkin creaking a bit as the knightly woman took her stance. Ser Gendry and the Rat stepped up as well, fingers wrapped around the grips of their weapons. The household guards below shifted, foot to foot, looking first at Lord Smallwood, then his wife, as if for guidance.
It all came down to this moment. Either the lords and their men would accept her justification, or she would fight her way out of the hall with her friends and ride north.
For his part, Jaime Lannister appeared to be truly shocked. He was not so uncouth as to let his mouth hang agape, but his lips were parted slightly, as though there was some exclamation he meant to make, but did not. A crease appeared between his eyes and as he looked at Arya, his expression changed ever so slightly. He looked as though he'd had… a realization. It caught the girl's attention, and she reached for the golden knight, softly, entering his head as easily as breathing.
She found herself there, standing in a bloodstained nightdress. 'It was my work,' she was saying and then she felt his understanding take shape. It was a strange sensation, experiencing the birth of someone else's comprehension. It felt like sliding a key into a lock and turning. It felt like the key finding the notch and engaging it, levering the bolt to move it, disengaging the lock. There was a barely perceptible click, but it was a real, physical thing. Reverberating gently down the iron shaft of the key, the small click arrived at the fingertips and buried itself there. The feeling flickered, then settled, and became a perfect, smooth facet of truth, cut into the landscape of the mind.
A truth, realized, in Jaime's mind.
Arya began to pull back, but another of his thoughts stopped her for a moment. It was her again, in that same nightdress but this time, the bodice was pristine and white. She saw herself being wrapped in a black doublet, and Jaime's voice was saying, 'It's too cold for bare arms.' She stared back out, realizing the garment the steward was holding was the same doublet; the same one Harwin had mentioned.
The evidence against Jaime; the thing which had tied him to her own crime.
And it was her fault it was found with her mother in the first place.
The girl realized that on some level, Jaime must've suspected her. When he'd learned what the evidence was against him, he must've known she'd been the one to leave it in the sept. Yet Harwin seemed oblivious to that fact, as did the lords standing in the aisle before her.
Jaime had known, but he'd said nothing.
It was Arya's turn to be shocked. Why would Jaime Lannister protect her? And why would he do it at his own expense?
But as she thought about it, she knew she had her answer. Redemption.
'You'll have to find your redemption elsewhere, Lannister,' she'd told him. 'That's not what I am.'
Apparently, he had not believed her.
The girl's attention was pulled away from the golden knight as Harwin stumbled forward two steps, then three, his eyes imploring Arya to say it was a mistake; that she'd misspoken. To say she had not been the one.
"Milady?" he whispered.
"She asked it of me, no, she begged me, and I couldn't deny her the peace she sought. I couldn't be so cruel as that, though I tried," the girl explained directly to the Northman, ignoring the others then. He'd known her since she was born. Of all those present, Arya needed most for him to understand. "It wasn't easily done, Harwin, but it was done by my hand."
Lord Smallwood's voice cut through the crowd noise. He sounded stern. "Lady Arya, how can you expect us to believe your mother asked for her own death?"
"Because it's the truth, Lord Smallwood."
"Have you any proof?"
"Only my word, my lord." The fingers of Arya's left hand wrapped tighter around Grey Daughter's hilt. Her right hand moved to Frost, resting against her left hip. "Are you prepared to question it?"
That was more than Bryden could take. He rushed forward, stepping between the dais and Lord Smallwood, commanding the attention of the chamber and preventing Theomar's answer.
"My lady," the Blackwood heir began, "you must indulge us a moment, and allow for our shock. You have given us… some most unexpected news, but no one here is threatening you." This last, he said with authority, and though his gaze was upon Arya, the words were meant for the chamber. It was as much a command as a reassurance. "No one disbelieves you. It's just… it's a lot to sort." He had his hands held up, a gesture that both implored calm and indicated surrender. The girl did ease a bit, but less due to the gesture and more because she read Brynden's sincerity on his face.
"You may take all the time to sort it that you need, ser," the girl replied, "but that is not why I'm here."
"Why are you here, then?" Lord Smallwood demanded.
Arya's stared down at the master of Acorn Hall, saying, "My reasons are two-fold. First, I mean to end this false prosecution of Ser Jaime. As I've said, he is innocent. Lady Stoneheart's death is on my hands, no one else's. Ser Jaime, you have my apologies for the blame you have endured for my sake. You were unjustly accused, though I never meant for it to happen."
The golden knight nodded at her, then shrugged, and said, "The only real harm was to a trencher of mutton stew, my lady, which had the misfortune of being left to grow cold." His words were a jape, but his eyes held a sincere admiration for the girl that she could clearly see.
"My second reason," she continued, "is to declare my intention to lead the Brotherhood."
This caused another uproar, cheers and jeers and exclamations of support, and confusion, and doubt. Ravella clutched at her throat, distressed. The orphans hopped up, their reaction a unified, wordless cheer, except for Elsbeth, who kept her seat and glared out at Arya. Harwin was stunned, caught between his grief over Lady Stoneheart's end and his loyalty to her daughter. His desire to protect the girl warred with his desire to honor her rightful role as a leader. Theomar protested, and Arya could hear him calling for her to reconsider, saying that riding rough in such dangerous times was no fit occupation for a lady of noble blood. Thoros looked contemplative, nodding and saying, "Yes, perhaps… perhaps…" Ser Jaime laughed, really laughed, head thrown back and eyes watering.
"Lady Stoneheart's work was not done," Arya declared, "but I mean to finish it. I vowed to her that I would. I swore it. I mean to uphold that vow."
Ser Brynden approached the dais, closely followed by Lord Smallwood. They stood at Arya's feet, close enough to reach out and touch her now. The heir to Raventree Hall sought to make himself heard over the crowd.
"Lady Arya, how can we protect you if you insist on riding recklessly out into the open land? This is still a country at war," Brynden reminded her.
"Yes, my lady. I implore you to stay here, with my wife, where you are safe and cared for," Lord Smallwood said, his words tinged with desperation. "Direct us, if you must. I'm certain we can conjure brutality enough to do this thing you have vowed, even for you. We will seek to avenge your family, as we are able…"
"As you are able," the girl repeated, cutting him off. "No, my lord, I did not promise my mother that I would avenge Robb, and herself, and the North as I was able. I vowed justice. Final justice. I mean to have it. I mean to portion it, and serve it with my own two hands."
"Lady Arya, it is my duty, as a Riverlander, loyal to both the Tullys as rightful wardens of this province, and the Starks, rightful rulers of the kingdom, to insure your safety," Theomar protested.
"My lady, I'm certain my father will be of this same mind," Ser Brynden added.
"If you wish to protect me, then allow me to ride with you when you leave on the morrow, and draw your swords in my defense if I am threatened. Barring that, I have no use for you or your concerns for my safety. Mark me, my lords, I am leaving this place to finish my mother's work, and you will not stop me."
Ravella had moved through the crowd by this point and was standing at her husband's side. It was Ser Brynden's sleeve she gripped at this point, though.
"Ser, can you not make her see sense? Convince her to stay with me! Stay yourself, if only it will keep her here!"
The Riverlord looked down at his hostess and shook his head. "My lady, I've sworn my sword to Lady Arya. If she is of a mind to leave, then I must go with her, or else be named an oath breaker."
Ravella bowed her head, overcome by her worry. Arya did not fault her. The world had proven to be an unsafe place for Carellen Smallwood, so it was not shocking that her mother should fear for Arya as well.
Lord Piper, who had been largely silent to this point, spoke up then. "My lady!" he called out from the aisle. "I know you very little, it's true, but I knew your father and your mother. I supported your brother's claim to rule in the North and the Riverlands. If you will not be deterred from this course, then you'll have the swords of Pinkmaiden to guard you as you ride out."
"And you'll have me," Harwin added. "The North remembers."
"Not just Harwin," Thoros said, "but the whole of the Brotherhood."
"I'm grateful," the girl replied, looking at the Red priest, "but can you speak for the entire Brotherhood?"
"I'm not speaking for them, my lady," Thoros replied. "I'm simply speaking the truth I've seen in the flames, long ago. I didn't understand it then. I wasn't sure what it meant, but I am now. You'll leave Acorn Hall with the Brotherhood at your back, and the Riverlords at your side. The Red god has decreed it."
"Don't presume to speak for me, you pink sod!" Ser Jaime called out. "I may be part of the Brotherhood, but I have conditions!"
"What conditions do you demand, ser?" Arya asked, feeling both curious and indulgent. She knew she owed Ser Jaime a debt, anyway, for his actions this day.
"Well, my lady, I insist on being included in any of your protection details."
"Done," the girl agreed without hesitation. "And?"
The golden knight gave her a look of consternation, then replied, "And I'd like my bloody doublet back now."
Seven Nation Army—The White Stripes