Forgive me for my wrongs,
I have just begun…
By the afternoon, a chamber had been prepared for the Lady of Winterfell and her things moved from her guarded tent to the castle. A maid was found who might help her settle into her new accommodations and ready her for the feast that evening. It had been her mother's chamber, she was told, when Catelyn was but a girl, and the view from the window showed Arya the Red Fork, the large encampment beyond it, and the River Road, stretching back toward the east, drawing her eye into the hazy distance.
When she squinted, and stared, she imagined she could see all the way to the Narrow Sea, and beyond, to the Titan of Braavos. The stone behemoth stood tall over the ships which came and went, sailing into the protected harbors of the city. She could imagine herself on such a ship, perhaps Titan's Daughter once again, with Denyo's dark eyes watching her as she leapt from the gangplank onto one of Ragman's piers, bound for the House of Black and White.
In her imaginings, she would fly through the city, winding her way through the streets and alleys, crossing the stone bridges spanning the canals, bounding up the steps which would bring her to the ebony and weirwood doors of the temple. She sighed as she thought of it, of bursting through the entrance and striding down the long corridor beyond; of finding him waiting for her, the Kindly Man.
Her mentor.
Her nemesis.
Her master's master.
He would be standing before the dark pool in the main temple chamber. When she entered and met him there, he would smile at her in his benevolent way, longsword hidden somewhere in the folds of the robe which marked him as an elder.
Infuriating, that smile. It was a honeyed dagger; an unreasonable expectation.
Hollow regard.
Unearned disappointment.
A lie.
He would smile, but she would not. Not yet. Her lip would curl instead, marking her disdain. He would see that, regarding her coolly, and he would speak to her, using old words he'd spoken to her once before.
"You never change, child. You are still ruled by your rage."
He would say it, and she would nod, and answer as she drew her steel, using words much older than his own.
" Valar morghulis."
And she would finally allow herself a smile, but it would not be unearned. It would not be hollow or false.
It would be…
Malicious.
A raven swooped down from some overhead perch and crossed her line of sight, interrupting her daydream. Arya blinked, pulling her mind back from across the sea, and then her shoulders drooped.
Someday, she told herself, stepping away from the window. She heard her maid pour the last bucket of steaming water into the tub which had been placed in the corner of her chamber, near the blazing hearth. Rosie, Arya thought. That was the woman's name. She recognized her yellow curls from the memories of another; from the memories of the kitchen maid who had helped her with Ser Hosteen's tray. Yellow curls and a puffy, crusted lip. The Cat had borrowed them briefly only a few hours past.
Being made ready for a feast was the last thing the girl wanted to do just then, but in truth, after little sleep the night before and the activities of the morning, she did not have it in her to protest too much. Besides that, she had effectively deposed the Lord Paramount and installed a Tully back into the high seat of the Riverlands. The lords must be allowed to celebrate such a victory. As much as she loathed pageantry, it had its place. She understood that, even if it frustrated her.
Westeros is not Braavos, she told herself, kicking off her boots, then shucking her bloodstained jerkin and breeches. She would do well to remember that.
In Braavos, much of the power was exercised in shadow and secret. The Sea Lord, the Iron Bank, and the temple of the Faceless Men were the three strong pillars which propped up the city. They moved quietly, sometimes in concert, sometimes in opposition to one another, but always working to maintain the delicate balance which insured Braavosi stability. Often times, one had no idea who had dictated or achieved an outcome, the deeds merely hinted at, described by whisperings and suspicions, if they were discussed at all. The populace oftentimes chose to merely accept without questioning, for on the surface, all was bright and prosperous and peaceful in their city. Who would wonder at what worked beneath such a winsome surface? What would be the point?
Westeros, on the other hand, preferred an overwhelming display of strength, leaving no room for doubting who held the upper hand and by whose authority the ends were achieved. A bloody blade thrust overhead before a cheering crowd; a head on a pike; a public trial—grand gestures, all, in a land where grand gestures were valued over subtle movements and manipulations. Braavos revered its puppet masters and their quiet influence but in Westeros, it was overt dominance which commanded respect.
The Cat smiled as she considered it. Though she was not averse to revealing her capacity for violence, her hidden strengths would be valuable and unexpected weapons in this place. 'A wise man uses all the gifts he is given,' her master had told her once. 'A wise girl should learn to do the same.' Jaqen's words began to make more and more sense to her, surrounded as she was by men who would be lulled by the mere appearance of femininity; by the misconception of her own weakness; by the assumption that she lacked cunning. Being underestimated and dismissed had always chafed her, but she was beginning to see it for the gift it was.
The men of Westeros could learn much from their neighbors to the east. Barring that, they could continue to dismiss her at their own peril.
Her maid helped her pull her blouse over her head and Arya ignored the woman's gasp as she saw the blade strapped to the wrist of the Lady of Winterfell, and the one at her thigh. The girl unwound the leather straps which held the blades in place and laid her wicked little daggers in easy reach of the tub as she climbed in, careful not to slosh too much water over the sides.
Rosie washed her hair, humming quietly as she did, and Arya closed her eyes and thought of the morning's events.
Ser Brynden Tully had entered the great hall in his leather armor, a dark trout leaping across his gorget, and the Riverlanders had erupted into raucous cheers. He'd been apprised of all that had occurred prior to his arrival and understood that the Lady of Winterfell had secured his family seat with a thrilling display of bravery and ruthlessness. Stopping before the dais, the weathered knight had dropped to one knee, bowing his head in gratitude and respect.
" My Lady of Stark," he murmured.
" Rise, uncle," Arya had replied, abashed. "Riverrun is yours."
The Blackfish rose and nodded, quick and gruff, then ascended the steps and took the girl's hand. He lifted it to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. Arya had looked up at him, her brows drawing together and she shook her head, not liking the deference. She pulled her hand away and instead, threw her arms around her uncle, wrapping him in a fierce hug and pressing her cheek against his chest, eyes closed tightly, imagining her mother in the shadowlands, gazing down upon them with a look of pride and approval. When Ser Brynden had returned the embrace, she'd let out a shaky breath, so lost in the luxury of being in the arms of family, she almost didn't register the deafening roar of the assemblage at the action.
The Riverlands had always loved the Tullys, and with her restoration of a Tully to the high seat of Riverrun, they now loved this new Lady of Winterfell just as ferociously.
But not all were so approving. The Blackfish had not arrived at the castle alone. He'd been accompanied by several men of the Brotherhood, many of whom wore expressions indicating various shades of consternation, disapproval, and anger when they regarded Arya. Baynard merely sneered up at her, his judgement at her recklessness plain on his face, but Harwin's scowl was as black as the girl had ever seen it, and Gendry looked as though he might jump out of his skin with a combination of relief and rage when he saw his lady blood spattered but unharmed on the dais. But it was Ser Jaime whose reaction impressed Arya the most. He glared at her and shook his head as his lip curled and she knew when he got her alone, she would have to endure a tirade like no other.
She'd merely smiled back sweetly at them all.
Word of Ser Hosteen's ignoble demise had spread far and wide, and she supposed any man unafraid of berating her after learning how she treated those who made an enemy of her likely deserved the chance to say his piece.
"Milady," the maid said softly as she rinsed the last of the suds from the girl's hair. Her voice was hesitant. The words caused Arya's contemplations of the day's events to fade and she opened her eyes and looked up at Rosie expectantly. "I… that is… I should thank you, though maybe you'll think it's improper of me."
"Thank me?"
"For… Ser Hosteen, milady."
Arya closed her eyes again, feeling a pinch of guilt at the woman's grateful expression. She hadn't killed Hosteen Frey for Rosie, after all.
"There is no need for you to thank me."
"But I do, all the same." The maid drew in a hitching breath. "He… he wasn't a good man."
"No," Arya agreed, sinking down lower in the tub so that her chin began to sink below the surface. "He wasn't."
"If you only knew… the things he did…" Rosie swallowed, and whispered, "…what you spared me… Milady, what you risked… I can never repay that debt."
Arya frowned. She didn't like being anyone's savior. She didn't want anyone's gratitude.
"It was nothing. I risked nothing."
"That's not true!" the maid cried. "I've seen your bruises! He hurt you, too!"
Bruises! The girl withheld her scoff at the declaration. As if a few bruises compared to the rending of her heart when she'd learned what had happened to her brother, her mother, at the Red Wedding. This maid had no real understanding of Arya's hurts, and no real understanding of why Ser Hosteen's death was not a choice, but a need.
Or, so she thought.
Rosie soaped a cloth used it to make gentle, sudsy circles on Arya's neck and shoulders. "Milady, I know what he took from you. I know that compared to your own suffering, mine isn't so very great. I know you didn't do it for me, but I'm grateful all the same. It doesn't matter why you did it. You saved me, even if you didn't mean to."
The maid's words drew Arya up short. "I…" she started, but then stopped, not knowing how to answer the maid.
"I've heard tell of what you did in the great hall, too. They're saying you saved Hoster Blackwood's life and brought us the Blackfish."
"Well…" The girl frowned, then shrugged.
"You don't know what that means, milady, to those of us who serve here. When your grandfather sat in the lord's seat, this was a happy place. A safe place. It's not been either for such a long time now. But we expect it will be again, and that's thanks to you."
Arya sat up then, turning to look Rosie in the eye.
"Please don't…" She shook her head, struggling for the words she wished to say. "Only… I just did what needed doing. And I did it for my mother, in truth. For my family. I can't… take credit for anything else."
"Mayhaps you won't like to take it, milady, but the credit is yours nonetheless. Every stable boy, cook, maid, and fighting man is saying your name in reverence today. When the steward came to find a maid for you, I had to fight three others for the honor."
"The honor?" Arya cried in disbelief. "The honor of emptying my chamber pot and unsnarling my hair and enduring my moods?" The girl chuckled darkly. "The honor of struggling to make me look like a presentable lady so the lords and knights aren't left wondering what in the world they are to do with me…"
Rosie drew back and straightened, her expression all solemnity. "Milady, after what you did for all of us today, I would walk on hot coals for you."
"That won't be necessary," the girl mumbled, nonplussed.
"At the very least, I'll empty your chamber pot, and unsnarl your hair, and endure every mood without any fuss." The maid leaned back toward the tub and dipped her cloth, applying the soap to it once again. As she bathed Arya's arms, she added, "What's more, I'm coming with you, should you leave. I've heard talk you may ride north."
"Have you nothing to hold you here? Won't you miss your home? Your people?"
"The only people I had died in the raids and the burning at the beginning of the Five Kings' War, and this place has been soured for me, ever since the Freys came to occupy it." The woman twisted the washcloth in her hands, wringing it out. "Is it true, then, milady? You're riding north?"
"It's true," Arya admitted. "Eventually. But it will be a hard journey, and I've no need of a maid."
Rosie laughed good naturedly. "Every great lady needs a maid!"
"But… I'm not…"
"Not what?" the woman asked, picking at the girl's fingernails, removing the blood which had dried around them.
"A great lady."
"Pardon me for disagreeing, Lady Stark, but in my opinion, you're the greatest lady in the seven kingdoms."
The girl had no idea what to make of that.
Rosie had dried her lady's hair then brushed it free of tangles before beginning to arrange it. The maid was creating an intricate style of small, interconnecting braids which pulled Arya's hair back from her face and left her high cheekbones and ears exposed. 'They say the dragon queen wears her hair like this,' the maid had told her. 'They say she wears bells in her braids, one for each life she's taken.' It had left the Cat wondering how many bells would grace her own hair, if she held to such a custom. Before she could complete her tally, however, a knock at her door interrupted her calculations.
"Enter!" she called. Her back was to the door, but the growl with which she was hailed alerted her to Gendry's presence.
"M'lady," he said, and she could practically feel his dark mood.
"Ser Gendry," Arya acknowledged, careful to keep her own voice cheerful. "What do you think of Rosie's work? She tells me she's making me look like a khaleesi."
"All finished now, Lady Stark, but for the ornaments."
"There's no need for all that," the girl replied.
"But your uncle had me fetch a box of your mother's things. Combs and pins she left behind when she went to live at Winterfell…"
Arya felt herself choke up unexpectedly at the thought.
"I… well… perhaps you can choose something for me, then," she said, swallowing, pushing Catelyn's face from her mind. "But, later. Leave me to talk with Ser Gendry alone, for I fear he has many grievances to level at me, and I don't wish his anger to distress you, Rosie." The girl had pronounced it with an air of humor, but Rosie seemed concerned with her words. The woman was reluctant to depart, at any rate.
"Are you sure, milady?" the maid whispered. "I'll not leave you if you have need of me." Rosie glanced up at Ser Gendry as Arya turned around to face him herself.
"I'm sure," the girl said, smiling. "Go. Take the box of my mother's ornaments and choose what you think would suit me best." Rosie nodded, picking up the box and scampering from the room.
Arya was wearing one of Lysa Tully's old gowns Rosie had procured from a trunk kept in a store room and shaken out for her. She'd at first tried to make use of some of Catelyn's girlhood clothes, but the younger of the sisters had been the slighter of the two in her youth, and Arya had not gained her mother's height, or her mother's bosom, so her mother's gowns had hung limply on the girl's frame. There had been no time for alterations, so her aunt's gown was chosen instead. It was perhaps old fashioned, but Lysa's dress was the color of a blood ruby, which suited Arya's complexion very well, and was remarkably well-preserved. The sleeves were fitted to the wrist, unlike the current style of dagged, trailing sleeves, and a delicate lace ruffle peeked from the edges of each, tickling the backs of her hands. The same lace edged the open square neckline which left her white throat and collarbones exposed.
The dark knight's gaze roamed Arya's body almost reluctantly as she stood from her seat, his brow furrowed and his eyes stormy as he took her in. He cleared his throat and shook his head as if to dislodge an errant thought.
"M'lady," he began, "did you not accept me into your service?"
"I did, Ser Gendry, as you well know."
"And you trusted me to stand at your side when you declared your intent to take your mother's place at the head of the Brotherhood?"
"Yes, of course."
"Then why…" The blacksmith-knight's lips pinched together and he glared at her, his jaw working as he tried to rein in his anger.
"Why what, Ser?" Arya asked innocently.
Her friend seemed to be warring with himself, his desire for self-control and propriety battling his anger. He finally settled on his question.
"Why did you enter the castle unprotected? When there are so many who have sworn to protect you? Why would you risk that?" He swallowed hard, then added, "Why didn't you let me protect you?" Gendry held his shoulders stiffly back, and his blue eyes flashed beneath his furrowed brow as he pierced her with his gaze.
Though Arya had only just resolved that being underestimated could serve her well, it irked her that her old friend was doing it just now.
"Do you really believe that I need your protection?" she scoffed, a frown marring her expression.
"No, m'lady. I know very well that you don't need me," he retorted, bitter, "but then I'm left to wonder why you accepted my pledge of service in the first place, and why you spared me infection from my wounds, and allowed me to ride with you when you might've let me be banished. If you won't allow me to protect you, why do you keep me at all?"
"Oh," the girl said, her frown dissolving. She bit her lip softly, then approached the dark knight, reaching for his one hand, cradling it between her two palms. "I keep you because… you're part of my pack, Gendry." I keep you near so that I may protect you, she did not add, knowing he would not thank her for it.
"What good is a pack when you insist on fighting alone? When you won't allow me to fight for you?"
"Fight for me?" the girl murmured as if this were the most ridiculous thing she'd ever heard. I am not a pretty banner around which men should rally. "Am I a queen that declares wars and directs armies?"
"Well, fight with you, then! The pack fights together, doesn't it?"
The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.
But her pack, her first pack, was no more. And her second, the piecemeal band that had once boasted Yoren and Lommy and Hot Pie and Gendry himself, had been decimated as well. How could she endanger another? The pack she had worked so hard to cobble together since her arrival in Westeros?
"Gendry, this… this wasn't your fight." Her brow wrinkled as she spoke. "This wasn't the place for you to…"
"To what?"
"To risk your neck proving yourself to me! I know you're loyal. I know you want what's best for me. You're a wolf now. You've earned your place here. No one can question that."
"What good is a wolf without teeth?" His voice was low and the anger had bled from it. He gazed down at her hands, drinking in the sight and the feel of her touch. One corner of Arya's mouth lifted, and she told him that he wasn't toothless, even if he was a little stupid. He shook his head at her in a sort of perplexed dismay. "Arya, you… you can't risk yourself without a thought," he chided softly.
"Why do you think it was without a thought?" Her hands slipped away from his. He ignored the question.
"There are so many willing to do your bidding. It's not worth the risk to your life…"
"And why do you think there was ever any risk?" she interrupted with a laugh.
"Bloody hells!" Gendry cried. "You're not made of Valyrian steel! You're not invincible!"
It was a familiar admonishment; an idea the Bear himself had stressed to her shortly after their arrival in Westeros.
"Neither are you!" the girl shouted back.
"But there are so many just like me; so many who could take my place if I fell. There's only one Lady of Winterfell! There's… only one you."
Arya sucked in a breath at that and her face softened. She reached out for his hand once again, and turned it over, using a finger to trace the callouses of her friend's palm. The dark knight stilled at the action. They were quiet for a long moment, the girl's head bowed as she studied Gendry's rough fingers. Finally, she spoke, her voice low and almost coaxing.
"And there's only one Gendry, who left King's Landing with me, and escaped Harrenhal with me, and rode the Riverlands with me, twice now. There's only one Gendry who hammered me the finest breastplate ever made and endured a flogging for my sake. Do you think I'd be willing to sacrifice you for my own revenge?"
It was the blacksmith-knight's turn to suck in a breath. His fingers curled around hers tightly, stilling her motion, and the heat of his palm seeped into her flesh so that her hands felt as though she were holding them before the blazing flames in a forge. Gendry made as if to answer her, but a knock on her door interrupted whatever thought he had, and Rosie poked her head in.
"Sorry to disturb you, milady, but the time is much later than I thought. If we don't finish dressing your hair, you'll be late for the feast and your uncle has already asked after you."
"Thank you, Rosie," the girl said, pulling her hands from Gendry's grasp and walking back to her stool so she could sit and the maid could add the ornaments she'd chosen to her braids. The woman entered, carrying the box of Catelyn's pins and combs and set it down on the dressing table.
"I'll see you at the feast, Ser Gendry," Arya called back to her friend, a gentle dismissal. Rosie commenced to working on her lady's hair again and Arya did not turn to watch the knight take his leave, and so she did not see the deep ache in his Baratheon blue eyes.
At the feast, the Lady of Winterfell was flanked by her great-uncle and Lord Blackwood. The high table was so full of jovial lords—Vance, Piper, Mallister, and Smallwood joining them—that Ser Jaime, Lady Brienne, Ser Brynden Blackwood and his two brothers, Ser Marq, and a bevy of lesser lords were relegated to the lower tables. This served to keep Arya out of earshot of any acid remarks the Kingslayer longed to deliver but did nothing to protect her from his decidedly angry glares. By the end of the meal, she'd had enough of it and decided to confront the golden knight head-on, knowing neither of them would have any peace until she did. As the tarts were being served and the musicians struck up a tune, Lord Blackwood asked if she might like to dance. Arya declared she was stuffed the gills.
"I need to take a turn out of doors for some fresh air if I'm to be expected to dance," she replied, a laugh dripping with charm punctuating the declaration.
"I'm happy to accompany you, my lady," Tytos replied.
"Oh, no, my lord, you must stay and enjoy your tart. I think Ser Jaime may accompany me, as it seems he has no plans to enjoy anything this evening," she called out, looking over at the knight with a radiant smile.
"Of course, my lady," the Kingslayer said, rising from his seat and approaching the high table to offer Arya his arm, "though I think I shall enjoy a chance to chat with you very much."
"I thought you might," the girl said as she took Jaime's arm. She was surprised that he had the decorum to hold off berating her until they were indeed out of doors, the cold night air rendering their cheeks rosy within minutes.
"I'm pleased to see you've recovered from the flux so quickly, Lady Arya," the knight began sourly. "When I'd heard you'd been struck, I spent the morning trying frantically to get word to the maester that he was needed in the camp."
"Oh, I am sorry that you wasted your time," the girl began, her expression the very picture of contrition, "and I certainly never meant for you to be alarmed…"
"Alarmed? You little shit!" Jaime spat. "Do you have any idea how worried I was? I've seen that disease wipe out whole companies of men in a day and a night! A bloody flux would drain a tiny thing like you in less than half that time. And then, to find out you'd deliberately put yourself in even greater danger than that disease would pose… Did I not warn you to stay away from Hosteen Frey?"
"Yes, and now I have no choice but to obey," she whispered conspiratorially. Perhaps she should've thought the better of winking as well, but she couldn't help herself.
Jaime glared at her and the corners of her lips twitched as she feigned helpfulness.
"Because he's dead now, you see," she explained, biting the inside of her cheek to keep herself from laughing, and the look in the knight's eyes became murderous.
"Do you think this is some game, Stark?"
The girl dropped all pretense of innocence and amusement. Her back straightened and she regarded her companion haughtily. "No, Ser Jaime, I don't think it a game. But did you think I'd let anyone stop me from avenging the Red Wedding when the chance presented itself?"
"I promised I'd clap you in chains if you entered the castle, and ride you back to Acorn Hall."
"I can't allow you to do that," the girl explained, her tone all matter-of-fact, "because I have plans to travel north soon."
"I don't give a bloody fuck about your plans, Stark. Gods! It's as if you were born with double your Uncle Brandon's foolhardy stubbornness! Do you really think I'll stand back and watch you end up just like him?"
"The way you stood back and watched him choke himself to death trying to save his father from the Mad King's flames?" She ignored the way the knight's expression darkened even more at her words. "At least my uncle did something, Ser Jaime. And I'm trying to do something, too."
"Yes, he did something. He worsened an already awful situation, and committed suicide in the process! And you're trying to do the same!" Jaime growled, drawing up short and yanking her around to face him. His good hand gripped her shoulder and he shook her a little, as though he could shake sense into her. "And it was futile! A waste! Do you think he had to die? Did your father? Or Robb? Did any of that have to happen? Are you trying to live up to the Stark legacy of making shit decisions that will get you killed?"
Arya glared at the knight who glared right back. "You know, I find it completely infuriating that the only person who seems to appreciate how I handled Hosteen Frey is Rosie!"
"Rosie? What are you blathering about, Stark? Who in the seven bloody hells is Rosie?"
"Never mind that," the girl groused. She looked up at Ser Jaime. "Tell me this, Lannister: are we or are we not better off than before? Emmon Frey has been removed. My Uncle Brynden holds Riverrun. You've been feasting in the castle when just this morning, you'd have been thrown in the dungeon if you'd been seen entering the gates. And Hosteen Frey, a man you were so sure was a threat, is dead, and threatens us no more. Honestly, I don't understand your problem."
"My problem, Lady Arya, is that I cannot trust you. You have given me charge of your safety, yet defied my plans and refused my counsel at every turn."
"That's not true!" she insisted. "Have I not allowed you to stand guards over me? No matter how unnecessary I found it, did I not consent to cloister myself in the center of the camp, at your behest?"
"Ah, yes, a pretty picture you made, too, nodding in agreement, playing along, all while planning to do whatever the hell you wanted, despite my advice or wishes."
"You seem to have mistaken me for some meek and frail thing with no will of her own."
Jaime barked a laugh at that. "Would that you were! It would certainly make it easier on me. But have no fear, my lady, I have not mistaken you for anyone remotely weak or pliant. No one ever could." He sounded bitter as he said it.
"Then why demand blind obedience?"
"What you name blind obedience, I call sense! If you'd get that chip off your shoulder, Stark, you'd see that!"
"Well, if you'd get that chip off your shoulder, you'd see that I don't need a nursemaid to coddle me!"
Jaime straightened, crossing his arms over his chest. "Warning you to stay away from Hosteen Frey wasn't coddling, but I'm beginning to wonder if perhaps you do need a nursemaid, if only to keep your childish impulses in check."
Arya's posture mimicked his own then and she crossed her arms over her chest as well, but mostly to keep her twitching fingers from plucking a dagger from beneath her sleeve. "Slitting Ser Hosteen's throat and watching him bleed out wasn't a childish impulse, it was me keeping my word to my mother."
"You may dress it up as duty all you wish, but the fact remains that you have thrown yourself headlong into danger at every opportunity when caution would have cost you nothing…"
"Caution? You mean sitting on my hands and letting them get away with it! That's not nothing! That's everything!"
"… and you seem determined to ignore every warning and do exactly as you like with no regard for anyone else, like a petulant child!"
The accusation stung, particularly because the girl felt it unfair. She had planned her mission most carefully and had taken all reasonable precautions. She'd only used her own face when necessary (except as she'd watched Ser Hosteen die. That had not been strictly necessary) and had been armed to the teeth with her brother to back her. She would've much rather remained an unknown squire than to have revealed herself amongst the River Lords. If she'd been able to do so, Ser Jaime would have no complaint, because he would not even know she was responsible for the death in the castle. It wasn't her fault that Emmon Frey decided to threaten Hoster Blackwood, thus forcing her hand.
Was it?
Arya changed tacks. "Ser Jaime, let us not quarrel. I value your counsel, I do, but that doesn't mean I always agree with it and…"
"And that means I can't trust you not to behave like a little fool."
The girl's demeanor became icy at his words. "How fortunate, then, that I do not require your trust," she sniffed, "and I would certainly have no problem releasing you from any obligation toward me you may feel."
"I have never sought to escape a vow. I don't intend to start now."
"I hold you to no such vow! Be easy, my lord. You've made me no promise."
"No, but I've made one to myself."
"Ser, I fail to see why you would bother continuing on with me when I so clearly frustrate you. You owe me nothing, and so you should go, and find someone who has need of you."
"You have need of me, you stubborn girl," the golden knight insisted, his annoyance evident in his tone, "even if you can't admit it. You face the same threat Brandon and Lyanna and even Ned Stark faced. I haven't quite figured out how, but I will find a way to safeguard you against it."
Arya knew she shouldn't ask; knew she wouldn't like his answer. But still, she spoke her question.
"And what threat is that, Ser Jaime?"
"Yourself," he muttered, reaching out for her and squeezing her shoulder for emphasis. "Enemies everywhere, and disease, and bloody dragons, and the biggest threat you face is the one you pose to yourself."
If the stronger-willed men of the Brotherhood seemed less than pleased with Arya's recent actions, the river lords more than made up for their lack of enthusiasm. When the Lady of Winterfell entered the great hall to break her fast the next morning, she was greeted with a loud cheer from the assembled men. She found it quite startling, but kept her face placid. When the Blackfish heard the cheer and saw her make her way into the hall, he stood and indicated that she should join him. She strode down the aisle towards his table.
Harwin was standing on the opposite side of the table from her uncle, and the two men had obviously been engaged in conversation which her arrival had interrupted. When the girl reached them, the Northman bowed his head to her respectfully, mumbling, "Milady," but he looked unhappy. Her uncle turned his stern gaze upon Harwin and the Northman inclined his head once again and took his leave.
"Good Morning, uncle," the girl said as she sat.
"A good morning to you, my lady," the gruff man replied, reaching for his niece's hand and squeezing it.
"What was that about?" Arya asked lightly, gazing after Harwin's retreating form.
"That?" the Blackfish replied, his tone equally light. "That was nothing more than a tactical disagreement among strategists."
"Oh?" Arya sipped at the chilled goat's milk a serving girl had just handed her. "About which tactics are you two in disagreement?"
"The ones which will settle you in your home."
The girl was confused. "I don't know what you mean."
"Harwin would prefer see you ride north posthaste. He wishes to see you ensconced in Winterfell," Brynden explained. His eyes became shrewd and he added, "And installed on the Winter Throne, if I had to guess about it."
"And you disagree?"
The Blackfish smiled at her. "I would have you stay at Riverrun, with me. You'd be safe here, and with family."
"That's so kind of you, uncle…" She bit her lip, thinking on it.
"Kindness aside, the stability of Winterfell is still in question. I believe they lack a maester to see to their ravens, or perhaps whoever holds the castle does not wish for the Riverlands to know their schemes, for our ravens go unanswered and there are such rumors…"
"Winterfell is my home, uncle. I shall return someday."
"Yes, someday, my lady, and I shall see you safely there, but for now, the security of the North is too uncertain, and the journey far too perilous. Stay, niece, here, among your friends. Your family." He patted her arm.
"I cannot make for Winterfell," Arya admitted. "Not yet…"
"There's a good lass," Ser Brynden remarked fondly.
"But neither can I say here. Not for too long, anyway."
"Nonsense! You may stay as long as you like!"
"No, uncle, I can't. My mother…"
The Blackfish's face became grim. "My lady, I loved Catelyn as though she were my own child, and her death grieved me greatly. But I've heard all I need to of her more recent endeavors to know that what was raised from that river was not your mother."
Arya sighed. "You're right. She wasn't. And… she was. Uncle, it's hard to explain, but the things I swore to her, the things… things I must do, these came from my mother. Your niece. Not… not whatever R'hllor sent back to us."
She could not tell her uncle how her mother, her mother, not Lady Stoneheart, had beseeched her to remember her vow as they stood in the godswood of the shadowed Winterfell. She could not explain that her mother, made whole in her final death, after thanking her daughter for delivering her back into the arms of her husband, had whispered to her that she must do what she had pledged and complete their vengeance.
"I've been told of your declaration to the river lords yesterday. I know you mean to have vengeance for your mother, and your brother…"
"Not just them," the girl murmured, "but for the North, and for the Riverlands, too. Many lives were lost at the Twins, thanks to Walder Frey's treachery."
The Blackfish sighed. "I know the sort of work Lady Stoneheart was about these last few years. You have her men to command now, and you'll have the backing of the Riverlands as well. Thanks to… your mother's ruthlessness, there are few enough left who had a hand in the Red Wedding. We should be able to mete out justice in short order, without involving you. You've no reason to step a toe beyond the walls of Riverrun, sweetling."
"My father used to say that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. And I rather like swinging my sword."
"The man who passes the sentence," Ser Brynden emphasized. "That's no work for the Lady of Winterfell." His words echoed Lord Piper's from the day before. And, her words echoed her reply to the Lord of Pinkmaiden.
"Perhaps it's no work for the Lady of Winterfell, or any lady, for that matter," the girl shrugged, "but it's my work." And I will be bloody, too.
Once the servants had cleared the breakfast things away, the river lords, along with the closest of Arya's advisors amongst the Brotherhood (Thoros, Ser Jaime, Lady Brienne, the faceless Ser Willem, and Harwin) settled in for a great council. The Blackfish declared that they must make plans, for he had only just this morning received ravens from both the Red Keep and Highgarden. The crown, it seemed, had commanded that Riverrun (under the leadership of Emmon Frey, it was assumed) detail the plans for marching south to defend the capitol while Highgarden had announced its allegiance with the dragon army and urged the river lords to follow suit.
"What do we know of the dragon forces?" Lord Keath asked.
"With the addition of the army of Highgarden, I estimate their strength at near one hundred thousand men," the Blackfish replied.
"Gods be good!" young Lord Goodbrooke cried.
"More than half the force is Dothraki," Lord Blackwood explained, "undisciplined, but mounted."
"And let's not forget the dragons," the Kingslayer added. "The actual fire-breathing kind."
"I don't expect King's Landing to have much chance of defending against that," Lord Blackwood continued. "It would be wise of young King Tommen to simply surrender."
"Cersei will never allow it," Jaime muttered, shaking his head.
"Not that it matters much," the Blackfish remarked, "practically speaking. King's Landing is lost, with or without our aid. Not that I have much inclination to defend a crown which gave my ancestral home to Emmon Frey."
"So, you suggest we follow the Tyrell's advice and ally ourselves with the Targaryens, Ser Brynden?" The question was Patrek Mallister's.
Brynden Tully looked thoughtful, pondering the idea. "I don't have much inclination to do that, either. Not without knowing their intentions. Do we even know who they plan to sit on the throne?"
"It's hard to say," Lord Vance admitted. "Word that spread earlier from Dorne indicated tension between the Targaryen girl and her nephew, but later reports indicated a unified front. Perhaps they plan to marry?"
"An aunt marry her nephew?" Lord Keath laughed darkly. "Aye, that sounds like a Targaryen."
"Regardless, the dragons don't need us to guarantee their victory, and I am loath to commit to a battle so far from home without knowing their intentions toward the Riverlands," the Blackfish said. "We'd be better served using this time to fortify our own defenses and seeking to parley with them."
Harwin cleared his throat. "And in returning Lady Arya home," he added. "To Winterfell." The bearded man glanced at the girl as he said it, but her expression revealed nothing.
"And what welcome do you expect her to receive there?" the Blackfish asked crossly. His expression revealed much.
"A Northman's welcome, my lord," Harwin bristled. "She's Ned Stark's daughter. The North hungers for a Stark in Winterfell."
"Is that so?" Brynden Tully's voice dripped with skepticism. "Does Roose Bolton hunger for a Stark in Winterfell? Or, how about his bastard son, the one who claimed to have married my niece? Will he be glad to see her riding through the gates to stake a claim? What about Stannis? What sort of greeting will he give her, assuming she makes it through an army of wildlings first?"
"We've heard rumors that the Boltons have retreated to the Dreadfort, and that Stannis has made some sort of peace with the wildlings," was the Northman's answer. "Her own brother sits in Winterfell!"
"Rumors," Tytos Blackwood scoffed. "You'd stake your lady's life on rumors? I've heard rumors as well. Roose Bolton is dead, and Ramsay rules Winterfell. Jon Snow is dead, and the wildlings raid the North. Stannis is dead, rotting in the snows outside Winter Town. Or, he's alive, and encamped in Winterfell, calling it his northern stronghold, with Bolton heads decorating the gates. Or, he's retreated to Castle Black, wounded but not defeated. Who knows what is true?"
"Lady Arya would be safest here, in the Riverlands, where she will have the protection of everyone who owes fealty to the Tullys," Ser Patrek agreed. "At least until we are more certain of the situation in the North."
"Lady Arya belongs in the North," Harwin argued.
Arya had listened to them all, patiently; quietly; taking in all their opinions and judgements. But finally, she'd had enough. She stood from her seat and placed her palms flat against the table as she leaned over it to glare at the men who had deigned to decide her fate.
"Lady Arya will make her own decisions," she declared hotly.
"Don't be rash, my lady," Lord Piper urged. The girl laughed.
"Since I set sail from Braavos, I have known my path, Lord Piper. Since I found my mother at Acorn Hall, I have known which direction that path must take. I have moved across Westeros with clear intentions since my arrival. How can you name my actions rash?"
"And what are your intentions, my lady?" Lord Vance asked quietly.
"Exactly the same as I told you all yesterday in this very room. The North remembers, my lords. I intend to punish those who betrayed my brother Robb and killed my mother. And I cannot do that from behind the walls of a castle, be it Riverrun or Winterfell."
"But my lady, you have all our houses, all our men at your disposal," Lord Piper reminded her. "Let us seek your vengeance. It is our vengeance as well!"
"You've had more than five years to seek my vengeance, and to seek your own," Arya retorted. "Yet, Walder Frey lives."
"The gods will take old Walder soon enough," Ben Blackwood chuckled. Others joined in, laughing and nodding their agreement.
The girl murmured, "Oh, I hope not, Ser Ben. Most ardently." The way she said it caused a hush to fall over the group. Ser Jaime broke the silence.
"You'll not stop her," he told them, his tone one of resignation. "There's no point in trying." He frowned as he said it, but Arya glanced at him and bowed her head in acknowledgement of the truth of his words.
Various men spoke up then, offering their opinions and exhortations. Harwin beseeched the girl to continue on to Winterfell. Brynden Blackwood declared his intent to stay by her side as he had pledged regardless of her decision. Lord Vance offered her the shelter of Wayfarer's Rest, should she be inclined to accept. But it was what Thoros had to say that seemed to put the matter to rest.
"She'll ride for the Twins," the red priest told them, his voice gravelly, "with the whole of the Riverlands and a pack of wolves at her back. I've seen it."
Arya's heart clenched at the words, for Thoros had named her intentions precisely, though she had certainly never meant to drag an army behind her. But hearing the plan uttered aloud filled her bones with a buzzing more intense than she had felt in days. The room quieted again as the assemblage considered the pronouncement.
"What else have you seen in your fires, priest?" Marq Piper wanted to know. Thoros looked at the Lady of Winterfell, locking eyes with her.
"Blood," he finally said. "And salt."
Their tasks set, the river lords and the Brotherhood Without Banners moved with purpose, organizing the defenses of their houses (for the Brotherhood, this meant sending a group back to the Inn at the Crossroads to help Jeyne and the orphans who had remained behind), stockpiling supplies, and dividing their forces into two: those who would stay to protect the castles and holdfasts, and those who would march north behind the Lady of Winterfell. Ravens flew in waves, in and out of the rookery, to and from houses great and small, the maester kept busy with his work.
One raven, though, had been flying; had swooped down before Arya's very eyes days before, and had finally found its destination: the high tower made of half-frozen stones far to the north.
A maester there saw the new arrival, bending to inspect the feathered messenger, the links of his chain clinking softly against one another as he did. The dark-winged bird pecked at one of the shinier links, then cawed in protest as the small scroll coiled around his leg was removed. The man chastised the raven absently, mumbling something like 'Quiet, you,' while glancing over the message. Seeing the salutation and signature, he made haste down the winding steps of the tower, the message clasped tightly in his palm. Across the bailey yard he strode, past the sept and through the doors of the great keep. He swept along the corridors until he found the door to the lord's solar and knocked. There was no answer, as was so often the case, and so he waited to the count of three and then opened the door and walked through. There, standing tall and silent before a blazing hearth, the maester found the man he sought.
"My lord," the maester hailed, "a message. From Riverrun."
The man turned, casting his sad, grey eyes upon the robed man and, after a moment, extended a scarred palm to receive the message. The maester placed the scroll in his lord's hand, bowed, and left him alone once again before the fire. The lord turned and gripped the edge of the missive against his palm with one thumb, using the other to unroll it, reading to himself. When he was done, he looked away from the words inked onto the parchment to stare at the flames in the hearth, his sad eyes becoming pensive. He stared harder, as if trying to find some confirmation of the message in the orange and yellow tongues which rose and writhed before him.
He had been misled before, and had had his hopes dashed. But this… this was different. This was no flawed vision of a red witch, no rumor, no fever dream that would fade with the sunrise.
"Arya," he finally whispered, his dark brows drawing together. "She's alive."
From the corner of the room, the faint sound of movement emanated. The direwolf sleeping coiled there had awoken at the sound of his master's voice, and had risen. He walked slowly toward the hearth to stand at his master's side, his large, white head brushing against the man's shoulder. They both stared into the flames in silence, contemplating.
Finally, the man spoke again, though it was barely more than a whisper.
"Come home, little sister."
Purple Lamborghini—Skrillex & Rick Ross