Say a little, do a lot.
No excuses
On her second night behind the walls of Seaguard as Lord Mallister's guest, Arya muttered her hateful little prayer to Him of Many Faces (Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, Queen Cersei, traitorous black brothers, Walder Frey, the Kindly Man) before blowing out her candle and settling into her bed. Drifting into unconsciousness was no easy feat for the girl, however. Her mind was not quiet, occupied as it was with thoughts of her mother and what it was she had promised Catelyn, the impending assault on the Twins, the River lords and all of their intertwined ambitions, the reach of the House of Black and White, and Jaqen.
Always Jaqen.
She closed her eyes and called up his face. When she did, she could see his bronze eyes gazing at her and picture herself touching his cheek, his jaw, his lips with her fingertips. The memory of the feel of his skin was so clear and so real to her that for a flicker of a moment, it was as if he were truly there. Arya sucked in a breath at the unexpectedness of the sensation and her eyes flew open. All she saw then was the dimness of her chamber and the glow of a fire burning low in the grate, and she knew she was alone. Cursing her own stupidity and sighing, the girl turned over on her side. She curled her hands over the edge of her sheet, clenching her fingers as tightly as she could to stop the ache she felt in them at her master's absence.
When Arya finally did sleep, her dreams were no less agitated. They pitched and roiled, tumbling her about like a pebble caught in an avalanche. No sooner would she have her bearings (as much as anyone could within a dream) than she would slide helplessly from that place to the next, finding herself surrounded by different people and circumstances than she had just left. She fretted in her slumber, murmuring incoherently and unconsciously into the quiet loneliness of her chamber.
At first, she was a great grey direwolf; her wolf. Nymeria. She ran at the head of her large pack, a veritable battalion of vicious beasts, all teeth and claws and slaver and hunger. They were hunting in the wood north of the Mallisters' castle. The direwolf's instinct to feed drove her on and on but the girl relished the feel of running, her speed outpacing her smaller cousins easily. She crested a ridge and stopped, pointing her snout toward the night sky and releasing a deep, resonant howl. It was soon answered by scores of others and the girl's heart within the wolf's breast swelled.
It felt good not to be alone.
But with disconcerting suddenness, the girl left Nymeria to become another wolf, one slightly smaller, strangely silent, and pale as moonlight. Familiar. She was no longer hunting, but was in a warm room, staring out of red eyes at the sleeping form of a man whose face was hidden by a sweat-plastered mass of long, dark curls. She rose and moved toward him, wolf-claws scratching against the floorboards beneath her paws. When the man stirred and then turned at the sound, he passed his hand over his forehead, moving his tangled hair from over his eyes, blinking blearily at her.
"What is it, boy?" the man grunted, his voice roughened by the gravel of receding sleep.
She stared back at him with her wolf-eyes, taking in the thick scars revealed on his bare chest where the sleeping furs had fallen away. She tried to whine, her throat feeling tight, but no sound came. A realization fought to form in her mind but then she was gone from the room, from the wolf, whisked away to another place. It was dim and cold where she stood now, and she blinked. It only took a second to see this was a place where she'd found herself innumerable times, both in her past and in her dreams.
(In her dreams that were more than dreams.)
The crypts of Winterfell.
"You tarry long, my daughter," her father pronounced, seated atop the stone sepulcher in which his bones rested. She looked up at him, and the eyes that gazed back at her were so like the ones she'd just seen; so like the eyes which had drowsily looked at her from beneath dark, tangled curls. The realization that had tried to creep into her thoughts when she was a wolf began to coalesce again.
"Is this a dream?" she asked, looking around her. The frost creeping along the stone floor toward her feet swirled in lazy patterns, like the tendrils of a vine growing wild beneath the rays of the warm summer sun. She tried to take a step, to move toward her father so that she might touch him, but fine ropes of ice had curled themselves around the toes of her boots, rooting her in place.
"It's my dream," Lord Stark told her. "My fondest dream and deepest desire, to see you back in Winterfell, where you belong."
"Is… is Jon here?" Arya whispered, her heart pounding. Those grey eyes, so like her father's. Those dark curls. The silent wolf.
"You are my grey daughter," Ned declared. "The North has need of you." His voice softened and he leaned forward, piercing her with his sad gaze. "Jon has need of you."
Arya swallowed. Jon. Still alive. And in Winterfell.
"He was never meant to hold the weight of the North on his shoulders. Not alone." Her father's voice was stern then, as though he were chastising her. He seemed to scrutinize her, narrowing his eyes. The skin at their corners crinkled in a familiar way. Arya's chest tightened to see it and she longed to reach out for him, but she could not, frozen in place as she was. "Remember, child, the lone wolf dies. You must come."
"I am coming, father," the girl promised, a cold weight suddenly pressing against her brow, growing so heavy her head began to ache with it. "I'm coming, but you know I must fulfill my vow to mother first…"
She reached up and felt the icy circlet of a crown on her head, sharp points rising from it and stabbing at her hands as she grabbed at it. She knew from her past dreams that she would not be able to dislodge it, but she still fell to her knees with the effort of trying. She squeezed her eyes shut and when she opened them, she was no longer in the crypt, but kneeling in the very center of a circle of weirwood stumps. She stood, looking around in bewilderment.
"You again," the ghost of High Heart spat in her papery tone. "Haven't you troubled me enough, blood child?"
Arya turned to see the old, bent woman seated on one of the low stumps, glaring back at her.
"This is a dream," the girl insisted, her breaths coming short as she spoke.
"No," the woods witch replied with a snort, shaking her head. "Do you think you get the comfort of dreams, too? Gods-touched isn't enough for you? Dreams are your price, dark heart, as they are mine."
"How can you know that? I just saw my father! How could it be other than a dream?"
The witch laughed, the sound of it wheezing and brittle. "You're not really so stupid as all that, are you?"
Arya was fast losing her patience. "Speak plain, old woman!"
The ghost rose stiffly from her seat on the stump and took two steps toward the girl. "You forget yourself, your grace. You may be favored, but this is still my domain."
The girl's skin prickled at the witch's words and a wave of something seemed to pass through her then; something like dread. But more than that feeling, it was something the old crone had said which alarmed and confused Arya most.
"Your grace?" she echoed, frowning. Slowly, she reached up again, a chill seizing her, but she found no sharp or icy crown atop her head then. The heavy circlet had melted away. Her eyes narrowed and she glared at the woods witch. "Why would you say that to me?"
"Ask him," the ghost retorted, pointing one crooked finger toward the blazing bonfire which seemed to stay perpetually lit atop High Heart. The girl's eyes followed the witch's gesture and she found herself staring into the flames. It only took a moment for the orange and yellow tongues at its center to take shape, and then she saw a hill, and upon it, a single tree which was somehow known to her. To one side of the tree, she perceived the silhouette of a man standing tall; regal. His hair brushed at his shoulders and swayed as he turned his face up to stare into the mouth of a looming, ferocious beast.
A great dragon, black and dreadful, nearly as tall as the Broken Tower, and nearly as broad.
Arya had seen this before, this strange scene of man and beast on a distant hill. And she knew what was about to happen.
The girl reached her hands toward the flame, words bubbling up in her throat, a warning she meant to call to the man. Before she could give voice to it, however, flames spurted out of the dragon's mouth, pouring over the man so that her sight of him was lost amid fire and smoke. The heat of it seemed to singe the tips of her fingers and Arya snatched her hand back, sucking gingerly on her fingertips. The dragon flame died away and she could see the man stood in his same place, still and unharmed, his clothes and hair burned away.
"What does R'hllor show you, dark heart?" the old crone asked from her from behind, cackling derisively. Arya was unsure if the woman's disdain was meant for her, or for the Red god. "Is it your brother's brother?"
The words only registered vaguely in the girl's mind, and they made no sense to her, but she did not dwell on them. Instead, Arya squinted, leaning in even closer, staring at the ghost's bonfire to better see the vision before her. The distant man on the hill turned as if to face her, beckoning to her with an outstretched hand. She thought she heard her name then, for he seemed to be calling out to her from the very heart of the flames.
"Arya," he said, but it was not a far-away sound. Rather, it was as though it had been whispered into her ear by someone so close his breath warmed her cheek. Her spine stiffened at that, and she gasped, stumbling backwards and tripping. The girl fell to the ground with a soft thud.
She scrambled and sprang up, turning to berate the woods witch for her tricks, but found she was no longer on High Heart. Instead, she stood before a white stone house with a wooden door painted bright blue. She did not have to look behind her to know the house was set high above a sparkling, sapphire sea. The warmth of the sun overhead kissed her face and throat, soothing the prickling of her neck, melting it away. She relaxed, looking at the house with its window-box-flowers dripping down toward the cobbled path below. Her eyes drank in the vibrant pink of the blooms and she felt at peace.
Jaqen, Arya thought suddenly, and then she was bounding for the door, pushed by hope and fear. She didn't knock, she just burst through, entering the antechamber of the house uninvited.
"Jaqen?" she called, breathless.
"There you are, lovely girl," a deep voice purred.
At the sound of it, the girl's heart squeezed tightly, the ache of it exquisite and welcome, but no less painful. She drew in a great breath to steel herself against it and turned. There she saw him. Jaqen. He stood in an archway which opened into a much larger room, his one thumb hooked into his sword belt as he extended his other hand to her, meaning for her to take it. She ignored the proffered hand, flinging herself bodily at him instead. She wrapped her arms around his middle, holding him with all her strength and burying her face in his blouse, inhaling deeply.
Cloves and ginger. Cinnamon. Leather and steel.
"What has a man done to deserve such a greeting?" There was amusement in his voice.
"Oh, gods!" Arya cried, her voice muffled against his chest. "I've wanted to get back to you so desperately! I've been trying to find you!" She clutched at his back, thinking of all her failed attempts to thrust herself into her master's dreams, wishing her grasp was enough to keep them together forever now that she had finally succeeded. "I've tried and tried…" She stopped speaking then, so that she could choke back the sobs that threatened to burst from her throat.
Jaqen chuckled, returning her embrace. "A man has been here. If a lovely girl wishes to find a man, she need only come home to him, where he will always be waiting for her." He dropped his lips to the top of her head, placing a kiss there.
"Home." She barely managed to say the word out loud. The thought of it, the idea of home and Jaqen, all at once, was more than she could stand just then. Tears stung her eyes.
"What is this?" the Lorathi asked softly, befuddled. He swiped gently at her eyes, drying her tears.
"I just miss you so much," Arya replied hoarsely. "I can barely breathe for missing you."
"Shh," her master soothed. "A man is here."
The girl shivered, overtaken by a feeling of foreboding. She could sense herself going then, and wailed, a quick, gasping 'No!' pushing past her lips, but it made no difference. Her fingers grasped for Jaqen's collar, yanking his face down toward hers, and she frantically raised herself up on her toes to kiss him, and then he was gone, and she was alone.
The air around her was heavy with cold, a cold like she'd never felt before; she, who was born in the North, with the blood of the first men in her veins; a Stark. She, a descendent of the Kings of Winter, who prided herself on never feeling the cold.
It was dark, and she was outside, but the moon shed enough light for her to see that she stood in a field of snow, the soft silver glow of it nearly hypnotizing. Ahead of her was a hill, a gentle rise in the land, and atop it, a tall, gnarled tree stood, its vast canopy spreading wide, sheltering the whole of the hill. Despite the cold, the tree held its leaves and Arya knew it must be a weirwood. But not just a weirwood; the largest weirwood she'd ever seen; bigger than the great heart tree at the center of the godswood of Winterfell; bigger even than the ancient, petrified weirwood which gave Raventree Hall its name.
The girl moved toward it; was pulled toward it, and she felt as though the ground vibrated beneath her feet as she walked. After a few steps, she realized it was she who was vibrating, the strange power trapped in her bones nearly singing out loud as she climbed the slope and approached the tree. When she was almost upon it, the wind moved the red leaves overhead, though they appeared as black as tar in the night. The ruffling movement of the leaves whispered to her.
"Sister," she heard. "At last."
As unlikely as it seemed, Arya perceived a light peeking out from beneath the tree, illuminating her feet. It shone from under a thick, raised root which shot from the wide trunk of the weirwood and dipped slightly beneath the snow and soil before climbing back up and curving above the ground. She moved closer to it, and realized there was an opening there, under the root, where the ground angled downward. It was a path, descending beneath the tree, the large root forming a sort of arched doorway.
"Come," the leaves chorused. "I've been waiting for you."
Biting her lip, Arya slipped beneath the root-archway. She felt strange as she did, the hairs on her arm and the back of her neck standing on end. She shivered. Taking a deep breath, the girl followed the path downward, below the ground, below the tree itself, entering a wide cavern.
It should've been as dark as pitch but was not. The walls there were lit but not with candles or torches. The girl could not rightly say from where the light came. It was almost as if small stars had been affixed at intervals along her path, twinkling and shining as she approached, then dimming as she passed. She followed the lights, and when her path forked, she knew she should take the tunnel to her right, for along that path, the lights continued, while the tunnel to her left was awash in darkness.
Though she was far underground now, with a ceiling of dirt and rock and roots between her and the high canopy of the weirwood, the leaves continued to murmur to her, directing her, encouraging her to move even deeper underground.
"Not much further," they assured her. "You're nearly here."
"Where is here?" she asked no one in particular, continuing to follow the small, shimmering lights.
"Everywhere," was the strange answer she got.
A moment later, her tunneled pathway led her into another cavern. She could feel the space open up around her, feel the surrounding air cooler than had been in the narrower tunnel, and could tell the space was vast, but she could not see it well, for the starry lights had dimmed and faded away behind her and no new ones had appeared to guide her further.
"Welcome," said a voice which echoed through the chamber. This sound of it was not like the whispering of the wind through the leaves, but solid, and deep. Authoritative.
"Who are you?" the girl demanded. "Where am I?"
A friendly chuckle bounced off the walls around her.
"Has it been so long? Don't you know me anymore?"
"I might, if I could see you," Arya retorted, testy.
"Ah, yes, forgive me. I forget that you need your eyes to see."
All at once, the room became as bright as a midsummer's day, a thousand of the peculiar, star-like lights blazing to life all around. The girl flinched, then squinted against the glare, her eyes needing a moment to adjust. And when they did, she could hardly believe what she saw.
The walls of the cavern were smooth and polished, marked by seams of sparkling gems and shining veins of gold and silver, as though she had stumbled into the very heart of the richest mine in the land. Tree roots, running and weaving and as white as alabaster, formed an intricate baldachin overhead, then joined together at six separate points, three on each side of the chamber, braiding themselves together and dropping down to the floor to form thick columns. The effect was as elegant and refined as any architectural wonder the girl had seen during her time in King's Landing, and yet it was also somehow wild and mystical in a way that nothing in the capitol city could ever claim to be.
Arya stared toward the opposite end of the chamber from where she stood, through the space between the weirwood columns to where the path ended. There she saw dense, intertwined weirwood roots climbed up from some deeper place, pushing through the ground below to make a strange sort of dais and the tall throne which was centered atop it.
There was a barbarity to the thing; an untamed, luxurious sort of savagery, but also an ethereal, courtly kind of grandeur that shamed the great hunk of jagged, melted iron which occupied the Red Keep and served as the seat of power for the Seven Kingdoms. The weirwood throne was beautiful, and terrifying, and dreadfully divine. It seemed to hum with power, a low, solemn sort of sound that was felt more than heard, and called to mind a dirge, and an edict; a caution, and the greatest rapture.
Sitting on that throne was a boy, calm and curious, and nearly of an age with her, if she had to guess, with long, auburn hair which spilled past his shoulders and shone in the glimmering lights which winked and wavered all around the chamber.
"It is good to see you, sister," the boy said, a smile shaping his lips.
Arya stepped closer, staring at his face; staring into his eyes the color of newly bloomed winter roses.
"Bran?" she said uncertainly, taking a step, then another, drawing closer to the throne and its occupant. His pale face was still as he waited; his pale face like Robb's and Catelyn's and Rickon's and Sansa's. "Oh, gods! Bran!" And then she ran.
"Arya!" Bran barked out in warning, but it was too late. She was already leaping up onto the gnarled, white dais, reaching for her brother, wanting to grab him and hug him and laugh with him and demand to know where he'd been all this time. But before she could do any of that, before she could open her mouth to laugh, or cry, or ask a single question, she felt as though she'd been struck by a bolt of lightning. Her foot hit a low weirwood root she'd meant to use as a step so she might vault her way to her brother, her hand grasping for another to aid her climb, and as soon as she touched the wood, she stiffened, but it was more than that. She was paralyzed, instantly rendered unable to move. Time stopped and Arya lost the ability to breathe.
Her mind was assaulted with a hundred images, her thoughts racing involuntarily with the speed and power of a cavalry charge. Children running through the crypts, Arya and her brothers and her sister at play, squealing in pretend fright; direwolf pups in the snow, fragile lives saved by boys who'd only just witnessed death being dealt to an oathbreaker; her mother floating in the river, flesh sickly grey and soft and slick as wet dough.
A man with hair as pale as the moon, standing on hill moments before dragonflame engulfs him.
A blue door high above a sapphire sea and behind that door, a small child holding her father's hand, a white forelock falling over her stormy silver eyes.
A pool of poisoned waters in a dim temple, still and quiet until a hand dips a cup to fill, causing ripples which flow endlessly outward.
A narrow path through a murky bog, frogs singing in the darkness around it.
Her father kneeling on the steps of the Great Sept.
Her own hand, mixing ground glass with wine.
A young woman clutching at the dried, crumbling remains of a crown of winter roses, asking for a promise even as she lay dying.
Jon, bleeding in the snow as the light fades from his eyes.
Bran himself, when he was younger, staring into Jaime Lannister's face, the Northern sky framed in the window behind him.
The Tickler asking his hateful questions about gold, and silver, and Beric Dondarrion.
Gendry, clad in fine, polished armor, lifting her like a child, admonishing her about freezing her toes off.
A defiant Northman cursing his gaoler from the dark of his cell.
A fist, clutching a great handful of coarse salt as the grains spill between the bent fingers.
All this she saw, and more. The girl was buried beneath them, these shifting images, the weight of them somehow filling her lungs where the air should be. She felt as though she were drowning. She gasped and coughed, falling backwards onto the ground, striking her head so hard, her ears rang.
After a few stunned moments, Arya perceived that her brother was shouting her name, over and over, though it sounded to her as if she were hearing it from underwater.
"Arya! Arya! Are you alright? Arya!"
She pushed herself up onto her elbows and shook her head to free herself from the cobwebs that seemed to weigh her mind down. Slowly, the ringing in her ears abated and her eyebrows flew upward.
"What was that?"
Bran's expression showed visible relief and then he chuckled. "That, dear sister, was everything."
She didn't need to understand his meaning to know he spoke truly. She'd felt it, after all; she'd felt everything.
"But… why?"
"I know you've felt it before… I've seen you feel it before. In the weirwood circle on High Heart? When you touched the heart tree in the godswood of Raventree Hall?"
"How did you…"
"I told you, I saw you."
Arya sat all the way up then, wrapping her arms around her knees and staring up at her brother.
"But… how…"
Bran shook his head at her. "Arya, you and I both know there are more things in this world than can be easily explained. You're living proof of that. And so was our mother, for a time. And, so am I."
"You're touching the roots, though! You're sitting on them, surrounded by them!"
"Yes. Which is how it was I could see you. And how it is we are talking now."
"But you aren't… harmed."
"That is my gift."
Her expression was wry. "A gift I obviously don't share."
The Stark boy laughed again. "No. Not here, anyway. This place is… stronger. Though to be fair, I did try to warn you."
Arya stared up at Bran. "So... you have a gift?"
"Did you think you were the only one?" He looked at her, delight dancing in his eyes, and changed the subject. "I've been waiting a long time to speak with you. I'm so glad you've come." He stiffened a little, then closed his eyes and wrapped his fingers around thin roots that served as his armrests. After a moment, his eyes opened again, and he leaned forward. "We haven't long, though."
"What? Why not?"
"Because this is a dream, and you'll awaken soon."
"The ghost of High Heart told me I don't dream. Not really."
Bran smiled and nodded. "She's right, in a way. Your dreams are… more than dreams. Hadn't you noticed?" He leaned down to peer more closely at his sister's face, bracing his hands against his knees. "This is more than a dream. Do you feel it?"
"It feels… real."
"And so, it is. So, perhaps I shouldn't say it is a dream, but I can't explain it any other way. Not in the little time we have. And, just like a dream, when you awaken, we'll be parted."
"Bran, where are we?"
"North of the Wall. Well north."
"What?" The girl was incredulous. "That doesn't make any sense. How did you get here? Can you walk now? Did you ride? How could you even get a horse through the wall, or yourself, for that matter, without the Night's Watch letting you through? And Jon wouldn't have allowed that…"
The boy lifted a hand, stopping her barrage of questions. "I wish we had more time, but as it is, there are things I must tell you which are more important than how I got here and I've only a few moments left before you leave."
"I'm not going anywhere! You need to tell me…"
"Arya!" Bran hissed. "Listen!"
The girl's jaw snapped shut and she stared at her brother in confusion.
"There are many paths you may take. I know you struggle with that, but you must go north, no matter what may tempt you to the south."
Arya chewed her lip, thinking guiltily of her prayer (Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, Queen Cersei); thinking longingly of Jaqen. Bran continued.
"Dragon shadow falls across the Crownlands and we must leave King's Landing to those who would have it."
"It's not King's Landing I'm after," the girl muttered.
"Arya, please!" her brother said sternly. "You must go north, and you must go by land, no matter how sensible the sea may seem. Allies await you along your journey."
"What allies?"
"Allies who have already proven their worth and their allegiance to our family, many times over. In the Neck."
"The Neck?"
Bran did not pause. "And when you meet them, when you meet him, please tell him that his son died a hero…"
"His son? Whose son?"
"…and that his daughter is well, and a credit to her house."
"Bran, I don't understand."
"You will," he promised, and before he could say more, a knocking sound drew their attention across the chamber. Arya rose to move toward it, and as she did, she heard Bran call to her. "Farewell, sister."
The girl's eyes flew open and she bolted upright as her chamber door creaked.
"Beggin' pardon, my lady," Rosie was saying, "but you asked me to wake you at dawn so you could ready yourself for the ride."
"The ride?" Arya croaked, rubbing at her eyes, looking around for Bran.
"To the Twins."
The girl fell back into her pillows, moaning. The Twins. Her plans came rushing back to her then, and she tried to shake off the strange feeling her dream had left her with (Dream? her little voice asked. Is that what it was?) so she could focus on her tasks for the day.
She had much to do.
The direwolf banner flew once again at the forefront of the column as the great force of Riverlanders and outlaws made their way toward the Twins. Arya herself rode beneath it, amid the lords of the great houses, who led the army. The houses of Tully, Blackwood, Vance, and Mallister were all represented in that front line, but it was Jaime Lannister and Willem Ferris who flanked the girl, serving as her personal protection. Arya had an odd feeling when she looked at the Kingslayer, some lingering sensation from her dream she couldn't quite name. She could see him with Bran, in her mind's eye, but could not quite understand why. She did not recall her brother and Ser Jaime ever interacting and could not make sense of the image. Ser Brynden nudged his mount in closer to her, calling out to Arya and distracting her from her thoughts.
"My lady, I've told my father of your tale," he began.
"My tale?"
"The History of Arya Stark," Brynden replied, making the girl laugh.
"And did he tell you to hush yourself, lest you bore him to death?" she asked.
"Quite the contrary, my lady, he was wroth with me for the abrupt way in which it ended. It occurs to me that we've been travelling companions for so long now that you ought to have finished the telling, yet the tale is woefully incomplete."
The Lady of Winterfell shrugged. "I suppose we had more urgent things which needed our attention. There's been little time for tales of late."
"True though that may be, we have a long ride ahead of us now. The journey might pass easier with some entertainment."
"Bah!" the girl scoffed. "I doubt very much these lords would be entertained by my ramblings about my girlhood memories."
Others spoke up to protest then.
"I should like very much to hear, my lady," Patrek Mallister said.
"Yes, indeed," Lord Blackwood called over to her.
"You've not led an ordinary girlhood, Lady Arya," Karyl Vance reminded her, "and have survived much."
"Such a story demands to be told," Ser Brynden urged.
"Yes, Stark," Jaime Lannister surprisingly chimed in. "Tell us. It will make the ride go faster."
The Cat exchanged looks with the Bear then. He shrugged, seeming to say he could see no harm in it, but the girl wasn't so sure. Much of her story involved her time spent in the dim corridors of the House of Black and White, and she didn't know how much detail about her time in Braavos was wise to reveal. Still, she'd already told them of her journey south with King Robert's entourage, and of her time in the Hound's company, so she supposed she could find a way to safely fill in the details of what happened in between.
And so Arya spoke, describing her arrival in King's Landing with her father's household. She made them chuckle with tales of her defiance of her Septa and told how her father's men indulged her with sweets. She told them about Syrio Forel, the First Sword of Braavos, and chasing cats, and finding dragon skulls after descending into the forgotten cool chambers beneath the keep. She told them about overhearing a plot and though she had not understood it then, she now realized that what friends her family had in King's Landing at the time had disappeared like dust blown in the wind with the death of King Robert.
She told them how quickly things had changed for her after that; how Stark men were murdered, and her dancing master died defending her, and her father must have been captured then.
She told them how she had killed for the first time.
She told them how she had learned to live out in the open of the streets, and how she fended off starvation.
She told them how she watched her father die beneath the sharp edge of his own blade, and she only a helpless little girl at Baelor's feet.
She told them how a Night's Watchman who owed her nothing had rescued her and made her a promise that he would be unable to keep. And how she saved a man from burning to death who would pay for her kindness with blood.
'The Red god has his due, sweet girl, and only death may pay for life. This girl took three that were his. This girl must give three in their place. Speak the names, and a man will do the rest.'
"Jaqen H'ghar," Jaime Lannister said quietly, startling Arya out of her own memories.
"What?" she asked, her brow lifting in surprise.
"The Faceless assassin who came to the Hollow Hill to retrieve Oathkeeper," the golden knight murmured, pensive. "He said his name was Jaqen H'ghar. He was the man who you saved from the fire; the man who found you in Harrenhal."
Arya swallowed. It felt strange to hear Jaqen's name on the tongue of someone who hadn't really known him. She nodded.
"Yes. That was Jaqen."
"How did he end up in Harrenhal with you?" Ser Patrek wanted to know.
"Somehow, he'd managed to join the Brave Companions."
The Kingslayer's lip curled at that. "The Bloody Mummers, you mean."
"But he wasn't like them," the girl said quickly. "He… it was just a mask."
"And why would a Faceless Man need to ride with the Bloody Mummers, or enter Harrenhal at all?" Lord Vance mused curiously. "Did he have business there?"
Arya realized she'd never actually considered Jaqen's reasoning for joining the disreputable sellswords, or his reasoning for coming to Harrenhal when he might have just gone back to Braavos, or wherever it was he disappeared to when he left her with his iron coin. And come to think of it, he'd never fully explained to her why he was in the black cells of the Red Keep in first place, or why he was trapped in that rolling cage with Rorge and Biter when she knew very well there was no cell or cage or gaoler who could hold the Lorathi if he did not wish to be held.
What were you doing in Harrenhal, Jaqen? she wondered then, feeling a deep shift within herself as she did; the sort of monumental change one experiences when confronted with a question which alters the appearance of a fundamental truth of one's life. For Arya, Jaqen and Harrenhal just were. They were both things in her life which had shaped her irrevocably. Without Jaqen, without his presence in Harrenhal, there would have been no weasel soup, no iron coin, no Titan's Daughter or Cat of the Canals or Olive and little Syrio and Bear. No kiss by the fountain in the courtyard of the temple garden. No stolen moments in stairwells and cells and inns. No man's reason. Not for her. The shape of her life would be altered until it was unrecognizable, compared to today. All that, she understood. But the why of it all…
She'd never stopped to speculate about it.
Arya mulled over Karyl Vance's question of "business" at Harrenhal. Jaqen had ridden with Vargo Hoat's company, doing the Goat's distasteful bidding, but nothing he'd achieved could've satisfied any edict of the Kindly Man. There were powerful men aplenty who'd moved through the corridors of the castle, yet none of them had mysteriously died. In fact, no man had died mysteriously, save those she'd named.
Gods, she thought to herself, was I his business at Harrenhal? Did he come there only for me?
Had she been his reason, even then?
The girl bit her lip, and, looking at Lord Vance, shrugged.
It had been well-past midday when the girl had begun her tale, and so by the time Jaime had spoken Jaqen's name and then Karyl Vance had asked his unwittingly weighty question, the sun was sinking low enough on the horizon for Lord Blackwood to suggest they stop to make camp. Arya had wanted to resist, to ride on through the night so that she might reach the Twins all the sooner, but she knew that was not how things were done, not when you had an army at your back. And so, they settled in for the night, all the lords gathering round a fire that had been built for them, while others cooked the food which they would eat and raised the tents in which they would sleep. It all made Arya twitch.
Gendry found her pacing near the horses. "Your bed is ready for you, should you have want of it," he informed her.
"What? Do they have you on nursemaid duty now?" she asked distractedly. "I'm sorry for it."
"Don't be."
"Why are you raising my tent and throwing down my bedroll?"
"So that I can know your tent is secure, and your bedroll harbors no dangers."
"Dangers?" Arya snorted. "In sleeping furs?"
The dark knight looked abashed. "Ser Jaime keeps me from your watch schedule, so I must do what I can to guarantee your safety."
"Oh, Gendry, don't think I… I mean, I wasn't insulting you."
He gave her a half-smile. "I know it's little enough, and you'll say you don't need my protection, but it makes me feel better to know I've done what I could nonetheless."
"Of course," she nodded. "And, I thank you."
"Why are you hiding out here with the horses?" he asked then. "Aren't you hungry? The men are eating."
"Not all the men," the girl smiled. "You're here with me instead."
"Very deft, m'lady."
"What do you mean?"
"The way you managed not to answer my question."
Arya sighed. "What would you say if I told you I was thinking of jumping on my horse and riding like mad for the Twins?"
"I'd say that'd be a great mistake, and one uncharacteristic of so intelligent a tactician as yourself."
She smiled. "Very deft, ser."
It was Gendry's turn to feign confusion. "What could you possibly mean, m'lady?"
"The way you tried to distract me with such specious flattery."
"Tell me, then. Why do you wish to run away?"
"I just hate all the waiting."
The blacksmith-knight threw back his head and laughed, a deep, genuine sound. "Oh!" he cried. "Well, I don't know if you realize this, m'lady, but the most prominent feature of a siege happens to be waiting." He laughed some more then, but not unkindly.
She looked at her friend, thoughtful, wondering how he would react if she told him she had no intention of waiting; that as soon as ever she could, she planned to enter the Twins with her Faceless brothers and win it for their cause; for her cause.
For vengeance.
A part of her wanted to tell him, because she remembered how upset he'd been at her for her behavior at Riverrun: sneaking in and killing Hosteen Frey, then announcing her presence in a bid to save Lord Blackwood's son. Gendry had been insulted that she hadn't allowed him to protect her, and here he was, once again, doing what he could to keep her guarded. If her entering Riverrun among so many friends had bothered the dark knight, how much more aggrieved would he be to learn she had snuck into the Twins with naught but a false-knight and his false-squire for allies?
But she could not risk his interference, or his insistence that he accompany her. The Cat could not accomplish what she must if she were saddled with a well-intentioned but ill-equipped knight to look after. And so, she said nothing about her plans and instead, punched his arm playfully, calling him a stupid bull.
"We should join the others," Arya suggested. "I don't want to be accused of making you miss your supper."
The Lady of Winterfell settled in among the River lords and politely nibbled at the supper that was offered her. She listened to the good-natured japing and war stories of the men, paying particular attention when the Blackfish spoke. She knew his reputation, of course, as a strategist and a fierce fighter with even fiercer loyalty, but hearing his descriptions of his exploits firsthand was something else altogether. When he spoke of his escape from Riverrun at the end of the crown's siege by swimming beneath the slightly opened river gate and making his way downriver, the girl was duly impressed.
As the raucous laughter and retellings began to die down, Brynden Blackwood, who had seated himself next to Arya, leaned over to ask her if she would continue her own tale.
"Surely these men are bored of my jabbering," the girl replied.
"Not by half, niece," the Blackfish piped up. "You've told us next to nothing about Harrenhal, and I for one would like to know how a girl of one and ten came to escape that cursed place."
Arya craned her neck, scanning the gathered men, and her gaze settled on Gendry, lounging in the background, not quite in the lords' circle, but close enough to hear their tales (and keep a watchful eye on Arya).
"Perhaps Ser Gendry ought to tell this part," the girl suggested, projecting her voice so that the blacksmith-knight was sure to hear. "After all, we came to Harrenhal together, and we left together."
This proclamation seemed to quiet the chatter around the fire considerably, and Gendry stiffened, straightening his posture and looking at Arya in mild alarm.
"Well, then, what say you, Ser Gendry?" Ser Patrek inquired, turning to look at the large man.
Gendry cleared his throat. "I say Lady Arya is much better suited to tell this story. All I did was keep my head down, beat a few swords out of scrap metal in the forge, and run when she told me to. The heroics were all hers."
"You have his answer, my lady," Lord Smallwood declared. "The story is yours to tell."
Arya bowed her head graciously but then said she would tell it only if Ser Gendry joined them and helped her remember the details. The dark knight entered the lords' circle with reluctance, but he obediently sat next to her, on the side opposite of Brynden Blackwood. Once the blacksmith-knight settled himself, the girl began to relate how she and Gendry and Hot Pie had been brought to Harrenhal to replace servants who'd been killed or died of disease during the War of Five Kings.
"It takes an army of servants to run the castle," Arya said. "It's so immense."
"That it is," the Kingslayer agreed, and Arya recalled that he'd seen the castle both in his youth as well as more recently, under less-pleasant circumstances.
"I was too insolent for the cook's liking," the girl revealed, causing Brynden Blackwood to snort and comment 'imagine that' under his breath, "so while Hot Pie was sent to the kitchens, I served as a sort of steward to a tower master. There was a lot of cleaning and running to and fro on errands."
"Much of that to and fro was to the forge, to bother me," Gendry laughed.
"I cannot help that Weese's business took me to the forge on occasion," the girl sniffed. "And don't pretend you weren't happy to see a friendly face from time to time."
"Happy? I was terrified! Every time you came around, I was sure you would say or do something that would get us both thrashed within inches of our lives or run-through with one of the dull swords I was meant to sharpen!"
"The worst I ever got was a sharp slap or my ears boxed," Arya replied, "and Weese paid for that in the end."
"How, my lady?" Lord Vance asked.
"With his life, my lord," was her answer.
"Jaqen H'ghar told her he owed her a life debt," Gendry revealed to the company. "She'd saved his life, and that of two others, so he promised to repay her with three deaths."
"He wasn't repaying me," Arya murmured. "He was making me repay the Red god."
Clement Piper shifted uncomfortably. "This assassin forced you to name his victims?" the Lord of Pinkmaiden asked, clearly ill-at-ease with the idea. The girl regarded him for a long moment, cocking her head to the side a little as her eyebrows pinched together.
"Forced?" she finally spoke. "No, my lord, not forced. Allowed." Didn't he understand? It had been a gift, the first of many her master would give her. She was a mouse, and Jaqen had made her a ghost. Her expression softened and she added, "Only death may pay for life."
Her master had been the first to tell her this, but the lesson had been reinforced many times over in the House of Black and White. But that was the Braavosi way, the eastern way. The shadowbinders of Asshai knew it, and the Faceless assassins who had taken her in, and the scattered maegi who practiced their rude magics in places like Lhazar and Ghiscar and Yi Ti. But these were Westerosi lords and knights camped around the fire, listening to her tale, and despite all they had known of her and all they had seen her do, it was still burned deep within them to think of her as a lady, pious and perfect, lighting candles at the feet of the mother and the maiden. No matter how she protested, these men continued to regard her as someone who needed their protection.
Her eye caught Lord Blackwood's then, and she saw he understood. At least a little. But then, his hall boasted no sept. He kept to the old gods, like the Starks did, and was not so constrained by traditional notions and prejudices as the other Riverlanders. Tytos Blackwood was lordly, yes; dutiful and loyal. But above all else, he was practical. While other lords might ring their hands and lament the idea of a highborn girl being subjected to what was cruel and ugly in the world, Tytos Blackwood would not toss an advantage aside to preserve some useless notion of chivalry. Arya Stark had seen death, and dealt it, and rather than mourn her loss of innocence, Lord Blackwood would welcome the armor such experience would provide the Lady of Winterfell against the horrors of the war to come.
And she loved him all the more for it.
Seeing Arya become quiet and pensive, Gendry took over telling the next part, explaining how she'd cleverly tricked Jaqen H'ghar into helping her free the captured Northerners and Riverlanders within Harrenhal's dungeons so that they might take the castle for King Robb. As her old friend regaled the assemblage with the story of weasel soup, his admiration for her was as clear as his distaste for the strange, foreign assassin he had never trusted.
"Not long after, the forces of the Dreadfort arrived," the dark knight said, "and Weasel became Nan, cupbearer to Lord Bolton."
"Nan?" Hoster Blackwood asked, confused.
"Short for Nymeria," the girl replied softly, her look still far away.
"But why did you not tell Lord Bolton who you were, my lady?" Hos pressed. "He was a Northman, bannerman to your brother at the time."
Arya shrugged. "I didn't trust him."
"And a good thing she didn't," the Blackfish growled, "considering what a treasonous turn-cloak he is."
The youngest of the Blackwoods looked thoughtful, shaking his head in disbelief. "But, it's remarkable," he was saying softly. "The discernment… A girl of one and ten… Anyone else, in those circumstances…" His voice trailed off.
Arya didn't tell him that he needn't be so impressed; that those she did trust at the time were so few, they could be ticked off on the fingers of one hand, with fingers left to spare. Gendry. Hot Pie.
Jaqen.
She stood then. "My lords, I'm for bed. Until the morning…"
The men rose, bowing their heads, a chiming a chorus of "Goodnight, my lady" and "sleep well."
"I'll escort you," Ser Jaime offered.
"No, thank you, my lord. I think Lord Hoster shall escort me," the girl replied.
Hoster Blackwood stood straight then, stammering, "Me, my lady?"
"Him?" Ben Blackwood blurted, earning a stiff smack to the back of his head from his father.
"Did you not offer your service in any capacity I should require?" The Lady of Winterfell admonished the youngest Blackwood lightly.
"Indeed," Hos answered quickly. "Indeed, it should be my honor!"
Ser Jaime's look was puzzled, while Lord Blackwood's own visage was one of satisfaction. The Bear merely regarded his sister with playful suspicion. She ignored them all and took Hoster Blackwood's proffered arm, leaving the circle of lords behind and walking slowly through the camp with her escort. Her assigned guard, one of Lord Vance's trusted men, trailed at a discreet distance.
Hos cleared his throat, then hesitated.
"Do you have something you wish to say, my lord?" the girl prompted.
"Only that I can't understand why you favor me with your attention, my lady."
"No?"
"I have a father and two brothers far more noble, and witty, and skilled in battle than me, not to mention that you are surrounded by great lords and their heirs every moment."
"So?"
Arya heard Hos laugh lightly under his breath. "So, any one of them would make a more suitable companion for you than I do."
"When I have need of practiced nobility, or amusement, or skill with a blade, I will be sure to single them out, but for tonight, only you will do."
The tall lad drew up short at her words. "What do you need of me, my lady?" He sounded so earnest, Arya found herself touched, and squeezed his arm reassuringly, urging him forward. They resumed their stroll.
"I only have need of your ear tonight, my lord."
"You have it, Lady Arya."
The girl chewed her lip thoughtfully for a moment, then said, "It's just this, Hoster. You should know… that we are much alike."
The young man chuckled. "I think not."
"Hear me out. Your admiration, while flattering, is unearned. In Harrenhal, I was a hostage… No, not even that. I was little better than a slave. A captive, doing what I must to survive."
"But you see, I find that remarkable…"
"Then what of your own story, Hos?"
He shrugged. "My story is that I read and studied the works of the maesters until I was taken from my home and locked away in someone else's home where they sometimes brought me books to read so I might study the works of other maesters."
"We were both captives, you see? Your story is my story."
"I did nothing," he hissed. "I never raised a hand to fight for myself, or my family."
"You were a mouse," she said softly.
His laugh was bitter. "I suppose I cannot argue the point, however it stings my pride to have you say it to my face."
"Don't you see? I was a mouse, too! I scurried around Harrenhal, trying not to be seen, scrambling for scraps so I wouldn't starve, trying to keep from drawing attention so I wouldn't be beaten, or… worse. We do what we must," the girl told him. "To survive."
"But you didn't just scurry around, cowering. You freed your brother's men. You took Harrenhal from the palm of your enemy and delivered it to the hand of your ally. A girl of one and ten."
Arya snorted. "A fat lot of good that did me, too."
"But you were brave!"
"As were you," the girl said.
"Me?" Hoster scoffed. "When was I ever brave?"
"When Emmon Frey was calling for your head," she reminded him. "I was there, remember?"
"How can I forget? You saved me, my lady, a debt I shall spend my life endeavoring to repay."
"I saw you. I saw everything. There you were, forced to your knees, and not without a fight, whatever you may say. You were seconds away from having your head removed from your shoulders, but the look in your eyes… on your face… You may not be trained in the art of war, my lord, and you may not be an anointed knight, but I'd wager your heart is every bit as stout as that of any man sitting around that fire tonight."
Hoster was stunned by her words. "I… uh…" He blew out a breath. "Waiting to be killed isn't really bravery."
"I've seen many men face their own deaths," Arya murmured. "Many, many men…" She could tell the young lord wished to ask her about that, to understand the life she'd led that could allow her to make such a claim, but he exercised his self-control and waited for her to finish. "There was only one I can name who was as brave as you in that moment, and he was the best man I ever knew."
"Your father, my lady?" Hoster's voice was gentle.
She smiled sadly. "So, you see, I am in a position to know, and I name you brave." The girl laughed a little then. "And it would be most impolitic of you to argue with me about it any further."
They arrived at her pavilion where a Blackwood sentry was already stationed. "My lady," the guard said, bowing his head sharply. Looking at Hoster, he added, "My lord."
"I do not know why you bestowed such kindness on me when I already owe you everything, Lady Arya, but I thank you," Hos said, placing a kiss on the back of her hand.
"I simply wish for you to understand your worth, Lord Hoster. You cannot revere me for my tale and disdain yourself for your own. As I've said, your story is my story." She leaned in close and whispered, "Either we are both heroes, or we are both pretenders. I leave it to you to judge."
In the moonlight, Arya could see his broad grin. Hos turned to leave, but then stopped, and turned back.
"May I ask one thing, my lady?"
The girl shrugged. "Sure."
"How did you escape Harrenhal?"
"Ah." In the dark of the camp, it was easy to call up that night in her mind. She could see herself approaching the gate guard and dropping her iron coin. "I rounded up Gendry and Hot Pie, stole food and horses, then tricked a guard into looking on the ground for money so I could slit his throat when he bent down. And then I did."
The young man nodded, taking in the details but making no remark.
"Do I shock you, Lord Hoster?"
"Lady Arya, I feel certain that nothing you could tell me would ever shock me, save saying you longed for a gown of Myrish lace to wear to a tourney feast."
His boldness startled her, but only for a moment, and then the girl threw her head back and laughed.
"Oh, Hos," she chuckled, tears of mirth gathering in the corners of her eyes, "I think we shall be great friends."
"I sincerely hope so, my lady," was his reply. "Now, if you will excuse me, I must go beg a pot of ink off the maester."
"A pot of ink?" She laughed some more. "Well, good night then, my lord. Enjoy your letters."
Another day and a half of fair weather and hard marching brought the army to the borders of Frey land. They could make out the hulking silhouette of the Twins from their camp. The lords' council met and decided to send a small contingent to the gates to demand negotiations. There was much arguing about the futility of such a move ('Walder Frey would sooner piss over the battlements onto our heads than open his gates to negotiate,' Marq Piper had insisted) but in the end, it was agreed that an attempt at a bloodless solution should at least be made. Lord Smallwood remarked that perhaps the weakened position of the Freys might influence them to consider surrender.
Though Arya had no intention of accepting any surrender, she did not object to the plan, for it was a useful way for the lords to occupy themselves as she and her brothers carried out their own schemes.
They knew Ser Jaime would not be fooled by a second claim of illness, nor would he trust Baynard or Gendry as guards for the Lady of Winterfell as she slept. The Bear had wondered if Lady Brienne might be enlisted to help, but Arya had rightly determined she would be just as likely to thwart them as to help, respectful as she was of the Kingslayer's judgement.
"It must be a face," the Cat finally said.
"But whose?" the Bear wondered.
"Leave it to me," the girl said. "Tonight, at supper, do you think you could make sure my cup has a small hole in the bottom?"
The Lyseni grinned. "Leave it to me," he parroted, "as sorry as I will be to see you waste good wine."
"Good? Hardly!"
That night, the camp was abuzz with talk of the day to come. Would negotiations ensue or be rejected? Would the siege begin? Would the gates open so that Frey troops might pour out of the castle to meet them in open battle? The men were more raucous than usual, eating and drinking without knowing if the meal might be their last. Arya joined in, raising her cup with each toast, carefully keeping her thumb over the small hole on the bottom to stop the wine from leaking as she took dainty sips but allowing the foul liquid to slowly drain each time she set her cup on the ground. With each fill, she swayed a little more, her speech becoming louder and less clear.
Finally, when she threw her head back to laugh at some joke Ser Willem made and stumbled, Lady Brienne suggested the girl might wish to retire.
"I could sleep," Arya agreed, but it sounded more like, "Ika sheep… sheep… shuh-leep." She made to leave but veered sharply and fell into Ser Gendry's side.
"Whoah, m'lady," the dark knight laughed. "Let me help you." He steadied her but when he attempted to lead her away from the gathering, he was blocked by Ser Jaime.
"I don't think so, Ser Bastard," the Kingslayer spat. "I'll be escorting her."
Gendry stiffened and set his jaw, but not wishing to make a scene, he stepped aside, allowing the golden knight to take his place.
"I'm ffffffffine," the girl insisted, the word blowing like a wine-scented breeze into her protector's nostrils. She had enough wine on her breath to be convincing, and the small amount she had rubbed into the strands of her hair tucked behind her ears added to the effect. She slumped against Jaime heavily as he took her arm.
"Then why are you trying to walk with your eyes closed?" he snorted.
"Am I?" she sighed tiredly, her eyes still closed. She sagged even more, saying she would like to sit down, though it sounded more like, "I needa siiii."
"Oh no you don't," the Kingslayer said, sweeping her up in his arms to carry her. Her head lolled back, hanging over his arm, and her eyes opened lazily.
"Why's the world upside down?" she wondered aloud, barely articulate enough to be understood.
"Because you can't hold your drink," the knight replied gruffly.
"Can so," she argued ('kinsho'), then giggled uncontrollably before slurring what essentially translated to, "I held four of them… or, five…"
"Not for long, I'd wager. You'll be seeing those five cups of wine again soon."
"Huh?"
Jaime sighed, but then his tone became kinder. "I'll have Rosie fetch a bucket for you to keep by your bed. And you should try to drink some water later."
"You're a good friend," the girl tried to say, and though it came out like, "Mmm goo fwuh", the knight seemed to understand her well enough.
"Well, just mind you listen about the water," he replied, nodding to the guards outside of her pavilion. He nudged his way through the door and found Rosie within, preparing her mistress' nightdress.
"Oh!" the maid cried, startled to see Ser Jaime, and her lady in such a state. "What's wrong with her? Is she ill?"
"She will be," the knight replied. "Fetch a bucket and a pitcher of water, she's in for a long night. See that she sleeps in tomorrow, if you can."
"Of course, milord!" Rosie said, dipping a curtsy and running from the pavilion to find the items she'd been directed to secure. Jaime set the girl gingerly on her cot, pulling her boots off and setting them neatly at the foot of her bed.
"Leave it to you, Stark," he grumbled as he brushed her disheveled hair away from her face. "Only you would try to outdrink your captains the night before possible battle when I've never even seen you take a sip of wine before this night."
Arya grunted her wordless reply without opening her eyes. A quarter hour later, Rosie returned, and Jaime took his leave. The girl could hear him outside the pavilion, giving strict instructions to the guards to make sure the Lady of Winterfell did not wander. For a moment, the girl wondered if the Kingslayer might suspect her plan, but then she decided he was simply worried what sort of trouble a drunken Arya might get up to on her own. It made her laugh.
"My lady?" Rosie asked, hearing the sound. "Did you say something?"
The Cat mumbled incoherently and was little help as her maid undressed her, preparing to slip her nightdress over her head. Before she could, the girl bolted upright and jabbed the maid in the delicate area where the neck meets the shoulder, just behind her collarbone. Rosie barely had time to look startled before Arya murmured, "An'ha assab dami." The maid's eyes fluttered closed and she fell heavily to the bed.
Quickly, Arya undressed Rosie, donning the maid's clothes and pulling her own nightdress over the servant's head.
"Sorry, Rosie," the girl whispered, arranging the maid as comfortably as she could beneath the sleeping furs. "But at least you'll be well-rested when you wake." She slipped her own boots on, then closed her eyes, concentrating as she dragged her fingers over her face. When she opened her eyes again, she was no longer Arya, but the maid she saw sleeping before her. "See you soon," she murmured, then grabbed the pitcher of water Rosie had retrieved.
False-Rosie made a great retching sound, gagging horribly just before she lifted the pitcher and poured half of its contents into the bucket from high above, making a loud splashing sound. She retched again and poured out the last of the water.
"There, there, milady," the Faceless maid cooed. "I'll take this away. You just rest now." She blew out the candle burning on the table near the unconscious woman's head so that she was shrouded in shadow and then grasped the bucket handle. When she left the pavilion, she warned the guards not to disturb her lady under any circumstance, and then lugged the bucket away.
Arya strode to the perimeter of the camp, discarding her bucket along the way, and met her brothers there.
"Did you have any trouble?" the Bear asked, causing his sister to smirk.
"All the trouble that's to be had is behind the walls of the castle," she replied. "Let's go."
"So, you really can do it," the Rat marveled, reaching out to touch her false face. The girl slapped her brother's hand away.
"We don't have time for this. Let's go!"
They found two horses where the Rat had hidden them earlier, behind a copse of soldier pines two hundred yards from the northern edge of the camp. Arya rode with her Westerosi brother on his palfrey, reasoning that a servant girl wasn't like to be afforded her own mount. They had an easy approach to the portion of the Frey stronghold that sat on the west bank of the Green Fork. As they galloped on, the Bear and the Rat changed their faces to those of the Hosteen Frey and his squire, assuming news of Hosteen's fate had not reached the Twins (and if it had, they could merely claim it to be scurrilous lies. Who could say otherwise, with Hosteen Frey glaring directly at them?) They already bore the proper sigils upon their breasts, as Arya had thought to pilfer them from some of Emmon Frey's things while in Riverrun.
Upon reaching the barbican on the western bank, they were greeted with a challenge called through an arrow slit.
"Open the gate, you dogs," the false Ser Hosteen barked menacingly, "or I'll cut your cocks off and feed them to the trout in the river." He urged his horse forward into the circle of light cast from the torches mounted on either side of the gate, near the arrow slits.
"It's Ser Hosteen Frey!" a guard inside called. "Open the gate!"
Once inside the walls of the barbican, the trio was greeted by a group of four guards. "We weren't expecting you back yet, Ser Hosteen," the captain said apologetically. "We've had no word for days from Lord Emmon. All the ravens go unanswered. How fares Riverrun?"
"If I wanted to make small talk with idiots, I'd have stayed there," the false-Frey growled. "Where is my father?"
"At this hour? Likely abed, my lord," the captain replied. "Who's the girl?" He nodded toward the false-Rosie.
"A wench I've brought from Riverrun to work in the kitchens. If you're done interrogating me, I'd like to get something to eat and find a bed. It was a hard ride."
"Yes, my lord, only…"
"Only what?" Hosteen seethed, a vein in his temple nearly throbbing with his anger.
"We've watched the army make camp in the distance."
"So?"
"Pardon me, my lord, but weren't they to be making for the south, to defend King's Landing?"
"Plans have changed, captain, and now they're here, defending the Twins. I suppose if you'd been at Riverrun with the war council instead of cowering behind these walls with an old man and a bunch of women, you might've known that."
"I… y-yes, my lord," the captain stammered, stepping aside and watching as Ser Hosteen, his squire, and his newly acquired kitchen wench plodded on, another guard running ahead, through the barbican and across the small yard to the gate of the western castle, calling for the portcullis to be raised to admit Ser Hosteen. Once through, the assassins dismounted, allowing a stable boy to lead their horses away. As he did, the steward bustled in, his blouse and jerkin in disarray as though he'd been preparing for bed himself. From the discussions of their war council, the trio knew him to be Lothar Frey, or Lame Lothar, as he was called, one of Walder Frey's many sons.
"Well, brother," the dark-haired man greeted sourly, glaring at the false-Frey with his beady eyes, "I wasn't expecting you home so soon. Did you not think to send word?"
"Why would I?" Ser Hosteen asked, unconcerned.
"Perhaps so as not to alarm our father as you march the army of the Riverlands up to his door?"
"Was father alarmed?" A cruel smile shaped the man's thin lips. "I will be sure to apologize."
Lothar's mouth curled in disgust. "And who's this?" he asked, jerking his head toward the false-maid.
"Kitchen wench from Riverrun. I thought Emmon could spare her, and gods know we need better cooking around here."
"Another mouth for us to feed?"
"There's a good deal fewer mouths than before, I'd say. You can find a spot for her, I'm sure."
Lame Lothar sighed. "Fine. Come on, then, girl. Kitchen's this way." He turned to lead the girl away.
"And when you get there, wench, find me some bread and mead. Bring it to the great hall. I've a thirst to slake before bed," Hosteen called after her retreating form. After Lothar and the maid were gone, the false-knight and the false-squire looked at one another, then found their way to the great hall, working quickly to hide Arya's weapons in a dusty corner before they were seen. When she delivered the bread and mead to her brothers, they all conferred quickly, the Bear indicating where she would find her swords when she had need of them. She nodded, giving both a long look.
"Quiet and careful," she reminded them, feeling for the slender dagger beneath her sleeve. "If all goes well, I'll meet you on the crossing in an hour's time."
"Valar morghulis," the Lyseni murmured.
"Valar dohaeris," was her reply before she returned to the kitchen, where her work would begin.
No Excuses—NF