A/N: This chapter was written in a mad rush, and edited nearly as hastily, so please forgive any sloppiness you see. I have been dying to write this part of the story for years and now that we are finally here, I desperately wanted to get it posted! Hopefully the story as a whole does not suffer too much for it.
Oh, you fool, there are rules.
I am coming for you…
The Faceless maid did what kitchen maids do: she prepared a tray of food and covered it with a pewter dome then left to deliver it to her lord.
Her Faceless brothers did what assassins do: they made their way, careful and quiet, back toward the barbican where they had first entered, slaughtering all the fighting men and guards they found on their way. The captain they'd met initially was the only one who had enough awareness to even attempt a fight, but by the time he'd unsheathed his sword, the Rat's dagger was already buried in his neck below the base of his skull.
Arya had never been inside of the Twins before, but still, she knew where she was most like to find the Lord of the Crossing, for his chamber would surely be the highest, and boast the best view. She supposed a lovely view of both water and wilderness could be had either north-facing or south-facing, but from what she knew of Walder Frey, she guessed his room would face south. After all, from there, he would be best able to cast an envious eye toward Riverrun.
The Rat and the Bear swept through the west bank towers methodically, gliding silently through corridors, into and out of chambers, killing as they went. The young children they left, and the women they found sleeping as well. Anyone who threatened to alert the castle and all the men of fighting age they came across breathed their last that night.
There is a knock at the door. He is not asleep yet, old Walder. The candle by his bedside is still lit and he has not mustered the will to blow it out. Though he is often tired, he finds sleep elusive these days. Maybe his bones know he is not long for this world, he thinks, and they wish for him to drink in and savor whatever time he has left. There will be hours enough for rest once he is placed in his crypt but for now, there is still so much to do; so much to decide.
He looks over at the snoring form of the young woman next to him, his ninth wife. Or, is it his tenth? He can no longer recall, there have been so many. This one is a mousy thing, timid and plain. Her conversation is as drab as her countenance, but she's proven fertile, bearing him one son already, though the boy had not lasted six moons before succumbing to a fever. Still, she's come through her confinement (and the precarious time after) fine and strong, and the old man has no doubt she will bear him another son, and another. Perhaps even a fourth before he departs this land for one of the seven heavens, or whatever it is that awaits a man who has done his utmost to populate the land with his seed.
"Maybe just a well-deserved slumber in the wet ground next to the riverbank," he laughs to himself, thinking of how the smallfolk in this land bury their dead. He only has a moment to contemplate it before he is distracted by a repeated knock at the door.
"Enter!" he bellows, his tone raspy and annoyed. His young wife moans in her sleep and he glares at her back.
The door pushes open. A girl enters; an unfamiliar girl, buxom, with blonde curls.
"Who are you supposed to be, then?" he demands, the expression on his face skeptical.
The girl stops, looking affrighted. "I'm… the new kitchen maid, if it please milord," she finally stammers, dipping a clumsy curtsy. "I was brought here just this night by Ser Hosteen, your son." She is holding a covered tray. "He knew you were like to still be awake and sent me with some morsels for you." She dips her head, indicating the platter in her hands.
"Oh, so Hosteen has slunk home, has he?" The old man sits up in his bed, pulling his pillows behind him so that he may prop himself and get a better look at this newcomer. She is comely, he decides, with her shining curls and plump, pink cheeks. Decidedly less mousy than the thing snoring to his right. His mouth twists nastily and he thrusts a sharp elbow into his young wife's back, crying, "Eh, Roseinda! Wake up, you lump!"
The young woman snorts, then shoots straight up, snatching her covers close to her chest. "What is it? What?" The look of terror fades slightly from her eyes as she takes in her surroundings and sees the maid.
"Your snoring is disturbing me. Get to your own chamber, girl, or I'll never get any sleep," the old man wheezes. The girl looks at first perturbed, then resigned. She eyes the blonde maid warily but rises from the bed and pads quietly from the lord's chamber.
After the most recent Lady Frey closes the door behind her, the old man laughs drily and one crooked hand beckons to the maid.
"Well, come here, then, girl. Let's see what you've brought."
The kitchen maid smiles, and he notices that her teeth are uncommonly good for a servant. White, and straight, and mostly all there. He sits up a little higher and grins. When she is next to him, she sets the covered platter on a small table next to the bed. He can see now that an indecent amount of cleavage is exposed over the top of her snug neckline. The maid puts a hand on the pewter dome covering the food she has brought but before she raises it, she hesitates.
"Milord, your son, Ser Hosteen, said I should…"
The old man smirks. "Yes, girl? What does he say you should do?"
"He says you might like it if… I was to… feed you?"
She blushes prettily and drops her eyes, looking down toward her toes.
"Did he now?" the old man says, his smirk becoming a grin. He is staring at the flushed tops of her breasts and wondering what has inspired Hosteen to send him so pleasing a gift. Likely his son has ruined some plot or plan his father has set in motion and seeks to curry approval in order to diminish the disfavor he has surely earned for his incompetence. Walder thinks it is more likely this pretty little maid will transform herself into a dragon and set him aflame with a fiery breath than it is one of his sons could go more than three days without disappointing him somehow.
"May I, milord?" the girl asks, gesturing toward the bed.
"By all means," the lecher encourages, and the maid reaches toward her knees, grasping her skirts in her hands to lift them high enough so that she may climb onto the mattress.
The Bear and the Rat continued making their way through the castle towers on the west bank. There were not many in the household awake at such an hour, but the familiar visages worn by the assassins insured that those they did encounter were only surprised by the fact that Ser Hosteen had returned so soon to the Twins rather than being surprised to find two strangers roaming its corridors.
Those who chose to remark on the Frey son's presence merely wondered how he found himself behind his father's walls when he'd been expected to march south in support of the crown and under the command of his half-brother Emmon. Most were only able to utter part of their question before their throats were slit or their hearts were pierced. Others were lost to their dreams and so had no last words at all before bleeding out in their beds. The false faces and the late hour were a boon to the assassins and the work was almost too easy. They moved effortlessly through the castle, finally arriving at Lothar Frey's door. The Lyseni raised his hand to knock, and as he did, he couldn't help but wonder how his sister was faring.
The Cat lifts her skirts so that she may climb up to join Lord Frey in his bed but is careful not to lift them so high as to expose the dagger strapped to her thigh. She straddles the aged man over his sleeping furs. Once settled, she arranges her face into a shy smile which she directs at the Lord of the Crossing.
"Are you hungry, milord?" she asks, and her voice is hoarse in a way that enthralls Walder Frey. She can tell by the way his lips part and his eyes narrow.
"Indeed, I am… er… what is your name, girl?"
The false-maid nearly spouts her easy lie, that she is Rosie, but then thinks the better of it. She does not wish to impugn the real Rosie, no matter how briefly, and, she decides, she prefers for this odious old man to know who she really is.
No, not just 'prefers.' She craves for him to know. She needs it.
"My name is Arya, milord," the girl says. She studies his face for any sign of recognition.
"Arya," the old man grunts. "Such a pretty name!" He does not sound sincere in the least. The girl mentally adds this to his long list of offenses.
"Do you think so, milord?" the Faceless maid asks, smiling the malicious smile of another then. He does not seem to notice. "My mother chose it."
"Oh? Did she?" Walder rasps without any particular interest. He is staring at the young woman's bosom, licking his lips.
"It was left to my father to name the boys," the assassin reveals, recalling the story Catelyn had told her once. She gives no hint at the depth of her grief as she does. To anyone who does not know her, she sounds like every other prattling maid, simple-minded and superfluous. "My mother named us girls." Leaning over, she gingerly raises the pewter dome and sets it aside, unveiling the platter beneath.
"I gave up on naming my sons once there were more than I could count on my two hands," he reveals with a cackle. It's a strange sort of sound, Arya thinks, as though he feels he ought to be amused, but isn't. She takes a second, the briefest of moments, and dips into his thoughts, just a little. He is thinking about the son he just lost, Roseinda's first babe. He is thinking that he can't even remember now what his wife had called the boy, and for an instant, Arya feels a crumb of pity. Perhaps it is because she has just been remembering her own parents and how they'd named their children. But then the old lech thinks to himself, 'Not that it matters' and that crumb of pity dissolves under the immense weight of his callousness. Her lip curls and she tears off a bit of the bread loaf she's brought him.
Walder opens his mouth in anticipation and the girl dabs the small piece of bread into a bowl and then offers the bite to the man. His eyes never leave her bosom as he takes the proffered morsel and begins to chew. It only takes a moment for the taste to register and his face screws itself up into a look of disgust. He begins to spit and gag.
"Ugh!" he cries, pushing the dry bread from his mouth with his tongue, his look furious. The bite falls to the furs in his lap, sticky with his spittle. "What is this, wench?" He turns his head to look at the platter, taking in the loaf of stale bread and the over-large bowl of coarse salt there. "What do you mean by this?"
Arya grins, for she is Arya once again, having erased all traces of Rosie as old Walder hacks and spits out the offensive salt and bread while he berates her. When the Lord of the Crossing turns back to face the girl, he starts and jerks as he takes in her changed face, but for once, he is quiet, having lost the power of speech.
Arya Stark sits over him, smiling sweetly, all her long, dark hair spilling over her shoulders. The candle next to the platter illuminates her pale face and her fierce, silvered eyes.
"My mother that named me, my lord," she begins in a lecturing tone, reaching over to tear another piece of bread and dipping it carefully in the salt bowl, "I believe you knew her."
Walder is shaking his head in disbelief. Finally, he regains his voice, weak and stuttering though it is. "What i-i-is this? W-W-Who are you? How d-d-did you…"
"You gawk and ask who and how, my lord, when you ought to be asking why." The girl offers him the bite, but he makes no move to take it, so she pushes it against his lips forcefully. "Her name was Catelyn Stark," she continues softly, using her thumb to shove the bread into Walder Frey's mouth. "My mother, I mean. And I am her daughter, Arya Stark."
The old man reaches up, angrily attempting to slap her hands away from him, but the girl grasps his frail wrist hard, staying his movement. For emphasis, she twists it until he cries out. Arya reaches over with her free hand, tearing another piece of bread and dipping it in the salt.
"You little bitch," the lord sputters, trying to buck her off him. She clenches at his sides, digging into Walder's ribs with her knees as she laughs. The old man winces with pain. She can read the fear in his eyes. It is clear the lord is confused about how this is all happening. It is also clear that he understands very well that he is in danger.
"Might as well eat up," Arya says, and her laughter fades. Her lips pinch together, and she leans in close to the man whose eyes widen in terror when he perceives the look in her own. "You're not going anywhere. Not ever again."
She shoves the bread between his lips slick with salty drool and breadcrumbs and when he opens his mouth to scream at her, he is met with a fist full of salt which she crams mercilessly down his throat.
As it happened, at the same moment the Faceless Hosteen Frey gained admittance to Lame Lothar's chamber under the pretext of delivering some intelligence from the encamped army, Arya was pinning Walder Frey's thin, flailing arms to his mattress with her knees and shoving handful after handful of old bread and coarse salt into his mouth.
When Lothar turned his back to reach for the cup of wine he'd set on his windowsill, the doomed Walder was thrashing his head back and forth on his pillow and trying in vain to scream for help.
As Lothar turned to see the flash of a blade before his eyes, Walder's face was beginning to purple under the strain of breathing salt and crumbled bread into his lungs.
When Lothar's eyes widened in shock while he reached up in a fruitless effort to staunch the gaping wound in his neck, Walder's chest was wracked with spasms as he coughed and retched reflexively.
While the blood flowed down Lothar's neck and pooled in his collar, Walder was hacking and snorting hard enough that half-melted salt grains and blood and phlegm began pouring from his nose.
As Lothar stumbled backwards, knocking over a small table and sliding down the wall, Walder's eyes began to bulge grotesquely until the vessels in them burst, rendering the whites a ghastly red.
When Lothar's last breath wetly burbled in the back of his throat, the fight was draining from Walder's body, his bulging gaze becoming a still, fixed stare.
While the Bear wiped his blade against Lothar's breast to clean it, Arya continued shoving salt and bread into Walder's mouth, not caring that he was dead, or that his mouth and nose and throat and lungs were already full of the stuff, or that her own hands were slippery with the old man's blood and drool and tears, or that she was scraping her knuckles raw against his teeth as she forced the last bits in.
The Bear left Lothar's corpse and met his brother in the corridor as the Rat emerged from another chamber nearby, having performed a similar deed within. Their eyes met and they nodded to one another, then continued on with their bloody work, all while Arya sat back on her haunches, staring into the dead eyes of Walder Frey, absently wiping the salt and saliva and blood from her hands onto the lord's sleeping furs. Finally, the girl leaned forward and whispered into the old man's ear.
"Valar morghulis."
The girl did not bother changing her face when she left the lord's chamber, choosing the protection of her thin knives over the protection of false identity. She encountered only one guard on her way back to the great hall to retrieve Frost and Grey Daughter, and she left him draining his life's blood in the corridor where they'd met. The only other stop she made was to rifle through the clothes in the sleeping chambers of a few of the old man's many young sons and grandsons. She was hoping to procure some breeches and a blouse, reasoning that she did not wish to soil Rosie's dress if it could be helped.
She happened upon a few sleeping children as she searched, and she stared at them for a long while, wondering if any might grow up to be like the man she had just killed. She thought of a story she'd once heard, about Tywin Lannister; a story which had inspired a well-known song, The Rains of Castamere. Arya's fingers wrapped tighter around her blades as she considered it, wondering if she could do what Tywin had done and wipe out every trace of one family, making it as though they had never existed.
They might write a song about it, too. Tears in the Twins or Carnage at the Crossing, perhaps.
In the end, she left the children to their slumber. None of them were old enough to be a threat to her or her brothers currently. She would let the Riverlanders decide what would become of the youngest of the Frey offspring—hostages, wards, or left to the devices of their mothers, it made no difference to her.
Their fathers, though—they were another matter altogether.
With Rosie's dress left in place of her weapons and her swords in hand, Arya jogged through the gallery which joined the river side of the great hall, following it out to the bridge which spanned the Green Fork. There, her brothers awaited her. When the Bear saw his sister on the crossing, he strode to meet her, wrapping her in his arms tightly for a moment.
"Are you alright?" was all he asked, and a brisk nod was the Cat's only reply.
"Good," the Rat remarked. "Now, let's finish this."
"The water tower?" Arya asked, indicating the guard tower in the center of the bridge.
"Cleared already," was the Westerosi assassin's answer. "Two guards, no more. Seems the manning is sparse."
"The Brotherhood Without Banners has had a few years to thin the numbers," the girl observed, "and I imagine the morale in this place has led to some desertions…"
"The path is clear to the fortress on the east bank," the false-Hosteen told her. "The dungeons are there."
"I'll take the dungeons," the girl said. "If there's anyone left alive there, they'll be my father's men. They may know me."
"No, we stay together," the Bear insisted.
"We haven't the time. The castle needs to be cleared by sunrise and the bulk of the fighting men will be there."
"Which is precisely why we should stay together," the Rat argued. "The eastern towers pose more threat because the men there are better trained than the old men and defective sons and young children we found on the west side. They are also likely to be sharing chambers, unlike the family. If two or three wake while one dies, you'll have a fight on your hands."
The Cat scoffed. "The day I fear fighting Frey household guardsmen is the day I lay down my swords and pick up a sewing needle to embroider a dainty cushion."
"Sister!" the Lyseni hissed. "This risk is unnecessary. We stay together."
Arya looked at her brother and, seeing how serious was his expression, she chewed her lip thoughtfully and paced, considering; planning; calculating. Finally, she spoke.
"Alright. To the dungeons first. We free the Northmen. Those able to fight, we'll outfit in the armory. They can help take the castle."
The men looked at each other and nodded, agreeing to the plan. The three began to cross the bridge, passing through the open gates of the water tower and reaching the other side where the stronghold on the east bank was visible. The Bear glanced down at his sister, his look grim.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Always," was her reply.
They continued on, their steps silent and quick.
"Incidentally," he whispered when they had nearly reached the castle wall, "where did you get those clothes?"
The dungeons were only guarded by three men, and two of them were sleeping at their posts when the assassins found them. The lone man awake was the first to die, quick and clean, the sharp point of Grey Daughter thrust upward through his chest, piercing his heart before he'd had the chance to utter a word. The other two bled out simultaneously from the fat vessels in their necks after Arya's brothers slashed them from ear to ear. While the Rat and the Bear dragged the bodies away from the locked door which closed off the cells from the guardroom, Arya found a great iron ring of keys and began testing them against the lock. It did not take long for her to gain entry.
The heavy wooden door swung open with a creak, revealing three broken stone steps downward, leading into a long, dark corridor. Torches were mounted along the wall to her left, one across from each of the cells on the opposite wall. All were unlit.
The girl descended carefully, murmuring, "Nar 'amala" and flicking her hand with intention toward each torch she passed. As they flared to life, she turned and looked through the grated windows in each cell door, using this new light to discover what, or who, was hidden within. Each cell contained two or more sleeping men, save the last. The occupant in that cell was alone and most definitely awake. When she peered in, she was met with a gruff voice.
"Raglin, you whore's son, is that you? What mean you by disturbing my beauty sleep?" the man called out. He snorted, apparently amused with his own jape. Arya could see him, hunched in the shadows of one corner of his cell, back pressed against the far wall. When she made him no answer, he stood, peering through the barred window at her. She could see that he was exceptionally tall, taller than Hoster Blackwood, taller than the Bear. Taller than the Hound, even. He seemed nearly as tall as the Mountain. He moved closer to the door, squinting to make out her face but the light shone bright behind her head, blacking out her features.
The large man shuffled ever closer until the light fell across his face. She could see that he boasted a heavy beard; long, dark as ebon but streaked with grey. His hair was long and matted and his brows thick, but his eyes were bright and lively; livelier than any prisoner ought to have, especially after being shut away for as long as this man had been.
"You're not Raglin," the man said slowly, "not fat enough, for one, and I can't smell your breath from here." The man chortled. "So, who are you, then, and why do you come to me at this hour?"
"I beg your forgiveness," the girl said as the man came to the door and peered through the small window at her. "I did not mean to disturb you. Only to free you."
The man furrowed his heavy brows, looking at her with suspicion. "Who are you, girl?" he asked, tilting his head.
"A friend," she said quietly.
"Move into the light where I can see your face."
She did as he bade her, backing away slowly until she met the wall opposite him, the torch mounted above her bathing her in light. The man gasped, shaking his head.
"Gods be good!" he cried. "Have I taken leave of my senses?"
The girl stared at him, confused. "What? Why should you think that?"
"Because Lady Lyanna was abducted and died more than twenty years past!" The man looked stricken. "Have I died, too? Have I gone to the twilight fields where spirits roam? Or, is this some witch's trick?" He pressed his face against the bars and Arya could see his fingers grasp at them so tightly that his knuckles turned white. His face softened and he raised his brow. "Lady Lyanna? How can this be?"
"I am not Lyanna, though I share her blood. I am Arya, of House Stark."
The large man's mouth dropped open as though he meant to speak but could not conjure his voice. After a long moment, he said, "Ned Stark's little girl? Arya?" He stared at her. "How is it you're here, child? How did you escape the Bolton bastard? I'd heard you were dead!"
"I was never with the Bolton bastard," she said. "If I were, I can assure you, it would be he who would've met his end, not me."
The bearded man chuckled. "To hear you speak so tells me you have the wolf's blood, child. But how is it you are here now?
"There will be time enough for tales later. Can you fight?"
"Aye, I can fight, girl, but not from behind these walls. Can you get me out of here?"
Arya held up the iron ring she clutched and jangled it slightly with a smile on her face. Seeing it, the man's mouth stretched into a grin to match her own.
"I guess this means Raglin is dead," the gruff man mused with an air of delight.
The girl began trying keys as she answered. "If Raglin had night duty in the dungeons, then yes. And if not, then he soon will be." The third key she tried slid into the lock. "There," she sighed with satisfaction as the great bolt turned with an echoing clunk. She pushed the door open and stepped back to allow the captive to come forth. He had to duck in order to avoid hitting his head on the top of the door jamb. When he stretched to his full height in the corridor, he put his fists on his hips and looked down at his liberator for a moment.
"I am Jon Umber, the Lord of the Last Hearth," he told her. "They call me the Greatjon."
Arya nodded. "Alright, then, Lord Umber, let's release the remaining prisoners and then find you some steel."
The Faceless assassins, once again in the guises of Ser Willem Ferris and Baynard the squire, joined their sister and the Greatjon. Together, they freed the men in the remaining cells. All who remained were Northmen, as the Riverlander hostages had been ransomed back to their families some years prior.
"The last to go was Marq Piper," the Greatjon told Arya, "and we japed with him that his father could not decide if he was worth trading for so many gold dragons, but he was a good lad."
"He rides with our army," the girl replied, "as does his father."
"Well, they're not Northmen, but they're fierce fighters nonetheless," Lord Umber conceded. "The Pipers are good company to keep."
As each cell was opened, the Greatjon introduced the men therein by name.
"My cousins, Donnor Umber, son to my uncle Mors, and Arlen Snow, who is unfortunate enough to claim my uncle Hother Whoresbane as his father."
Far from taking offense, Arlen guffawed at that, along with his cousins. The rest of the men were named as Beren Tallhart of Torrhen's Square; Ser Kyle Condon, a knight sworn to House Manderly; Symeon Locke, whose loyalty lay with Oldcastle by blood as well as Deepwood Motte where his sister, Sybelle, was lady wife to Robett Glover; Ennis Flint of Widow's Watch; Royan Wull, Corwin Harclay, and Lonn Liddle, all of the mountain clans of the North whose names they bore. All had been with Robb Stark when he'd made his ill-fated journey to the Twins, and all had survived because they had taken part in Edmure Tully's bedding ceremony and not been caught in the thick of the fighting during the Red Wedding.
"There were more of us once," Lord Umber said. "Putrefaction of battle wounds took many in those first weeks. Then later, disease and starvation took more. We are all who remain."
Arya nodded, taking in the grim faces of the Northmen.
"And who is it that frees us?" Corwin Harclay asked, looking from the Greatjon to Ser Willem to Baynard, and finally resting his gaze upon Arya's face.
"Lads, this is Lady Arya Stark," Lord Umber announced, "trueborn daughter of Ned Stark."
A hush fell over the men until Royan Wull stepped forward. He was older than the others, of an age with the Greatjon, and when he spoke, the others listened.
"A Stark ye are," he said to the girl, his voice hoarse, "ye have their look." He dropped to one knee before her and the rest followed. He studied Arya's swords, noting the blood upon the steel and the way she held them. "I know not how ye live, young lady, for we had heard all of the Stark children were slaughtered, but I can see ye are not so easy to kill. As long as breath ye draw, I pledge my sword to ye."
To a man, they took up the pledge, each saying he would fight for her to the death. For a moment, it was difficult for her to speak, overcome as she was by their sincerity. The idea that her family name, her father's name, inspired such loyalty and bravery, stirred something deep within her. She cleared her throat.
"My lords, I do not require that you fight for me, but if you will, I would be honored to have you fight with me. Guard my back, and I shall guard yours, and together, we will take this castle. For the North."
All at once, then men rose with a roaring cheer, with no thought of being quiet or careful on their minds.
"To the armory!" the Greatjon commanded. "Tonight, we take this castle for House Stark!"
The Northmen and the assassins marauded the east bank towers of the Twins, all thoughts of stealth and strategy soon tossed aside amid the giddy thrill of freedom and the bloodlust. The former prisoners fought like men possessed, hacking and slashing their way through guardrooms and barracks, chambers and corridors. The drowsing Frey guards were no match for them, and the few who possessed enough of their faculties and skill to challenge the Northmen were handled easily by Arya and her Faceless brothers. The assassins skirted gracefully around the savage Northerners, cutting and slicing where they were required.
When they had reached the last chamber to clear, the guardroom of the east bank barbican, the Greatjon charged in, his sword held high above his head as he cried out in wordless rage. It seemed that he'd not yet spilled enough blood to exercise the demons which had tormented him in over five years of captivity and was determined to do so with one last stand. As he barreled into the guardroom, it was as though he'd kicked a hornet's nest. Frey fighting men surrounded him on all sides. There were far more guards here than Arya and her brothers had encountered when they'd entered the west bank barbican, nearly a score by her count.
Lord Umber wielded an immense and ugly great sword; his own, he'd told her when he'd seen it in the armory. It had been locked up these many years and left untouched (likely because no man besides himself was strong enough to wield such a monstrous length of steel). With it, he was able to slash three guards nearly at once and they fell, bleeding and crying out. But half a dozen others closed in on him. Arya saw the Frey guards encroach with rising alarm. She pushed past the other Northmen fighting their own foes and lunged toward the center of the chamber.
Guard my back, she had said, and I will guard yours. It was a promise the girl meant to keep.
She made herself into a small ball and tumbled between two guards, whirling past their knees then leaping up just in time to block two swords aimed at the Greatjon's back. It was their surprise as much as her counter maneuver that drove the two guards back. While the thwarted guardsmen tried to make sense of a girl suddenly appearing in their midst, the first felt Grey Daughter slice through his belly and only had a moment to wonder at it before his entrails spilled out onto the floor. The second looked aghast, then afraid, then found his courage and attacked, but he'd taken no more than a step toward the girl before she spun, low to the ground, and thrust Frost up, piercing the apple in his throat. He gagged, eyes wide, then opened his mouth as if to protest. Blood poured forth over his teeth and lips, and as Arya withdrew her thin water dancer's blade, he fell backwards, knocking one of his compatriots over. That unfortunate man did not even have time to lift himself from the ground before the Rat pushed into the chamber and finished him.
The ground was slippery with blood and littered with corpses. The footing became precarious and Lord Umber's worn boot slid as he turned to meet the blow of a foe. The Northman went down on one knee then, hard enough that Arya heard the crack, and she whipped around to see a Frey man pull a dagger from his boot, meaning to stab the Greatjon before he could recover. Without thinking, she dropped Grey Daughter and plucked her slender throwing knife from her sleeve, letting it fly. Just as the guard made to stab Lord Umber in his throat, the small dagger found his eye and he dropped like a sack of grain to the floor before the hobbled Northman.
Instinctively, the girl dove for her steel, dropping down to grasp Grey Daughter once again, then instantly returning to her fighting stance. As she raised her swords and turned sideface, she looked from one end of the chamber to the other and saw that it was finished. All their foes were dead or dying. Quickly, she counted heads.
Thirteen, including herself.
They'd all survived.
Slowly, she lowered her steel and drew in a great breath. Blowing it out, she spoke to the men.
"My lords, we are victorious."
The Greatjon rose, wincing with his knee, but then stared down at the girl.
"You saved me," he said. "Twice." He held up his maimed hand to show her. "That more than makes up for the two fingers your brother's demon-beast ate all those years ago."
"I did say I would fight by your side…" she began but could say no more before the band of Northmen began to cheer again, but this time, it was no wordless roar. It was a chant which caused the blood to rush through her veins, straight to her heart, which squeezed tightly as she bit her lip, stymied. The Greatjon grabbed her and lifted her to his shoulder, seating her there high above all their heads, and as he did, the men all cried out in unison, clanging daggers against swords to add to the din.
"Stark! Stark! Stark!"
As the bloodlust receded, the weary combatants made their way across the Green Fork on the span which joined the Twins together. They were bound for the kitchens, for they were overtaken with a powerful hunger after their exertions. They also meant to raid the maester's supplies to treat their wounds.
"The men are all dead," the girl told them. "The women and children who remain are no threat to us. Leave their fates to the River lords."
"And Walder Frey?" the Greatjon grunted.
"Done in by my lady's own hand," Ser Willem replied with a small smile.
"Then we owe you yet another debt, Lady Arya," Beren Tallhart declared, "for we all lost family in the slaughter orchestrated by Walder Frey. You have avenged the North this night."
"I lost family, too, my lords," the girl said as they passed through the open gates of the water tower, "and I mourn for the loyal men and women who shall never ride north again because of Frey treachery, but I admit that as Walder Frey died, it was my mother I thought of, more than anyone else. It was her death I most wanted to avenge."
"That's as it should be, my lady," Lord Wull said softly, "for what is a daughter but her mother's memory?"
Arya swallowed and nodded, quickening her pace and looking away to stop the stinging in her eyes that threatened to turn to tears.
"Her mother's memory, aye," Lord Umber said, his long stride bringing him easily to Arya's side. He clapped his hand on her shoulder and squeezed reassuringly. "Her mother's memory, but also her father's hope."
You are my grey daughter and the hope of the North.
The girl turned toward the Northman, giving him a grateful smile. They entered the gallery together then continued on to the great hall. Donnor Umber and Arlen Snow made for the kitchens, to scavenge what they could while Ser Kyle and Beren Tallhart went to wake the maester so that he might tend to the wounds of the company, most of which were minor. The Greatjon had developed a pronounced limp and Arya bade him to prop his leg up on a bench so that he might rest his injured knee. She settled in next to him, feeling suddenly tired to her very bones. The Faceless Ser Willem took a seat across from her.
"You look like some sort of blood wraith from spooky tales told to scare children," he laughed.
"What?" the girl said, befuddled. She raised her hand to her neck and felt that it was sticky with blood. She looked down and noticed for the first time that her borrowed blouse was wet through with the stuff. Her hands and arms were plastered in gore, and her face was smeared and splattered.
"I can rouse a maid if you like," the false-knight offered. "Surely there's a tub and clean water somewhere in this castle."
The Cat waved him off. The last thing she cared about in that moment was her appearance.
"It's nearly dawn," Baynard remarked as the Umber cousins returned with three bread loaves and a meager cured ham that must've been meant for the family's breakfast. Everyone began gnawing hungrily at the bits they could tear off.
"I can believe it," the girl said, "I feel as though I haven't slept in a year." It took her a moment longer and a meaningful look from the Bear for her to understand her brother's meaning. It was nearly dawn.
Dawn, the time the Riverlanders had set to depart the camp and ride out to Lord Frey's gates in order to present their demand that he meet them for negotiations.
Arya chewed thoughtfully on a bit of ham that Symeon Locke handed her, then said, "I suppose we'd better prepare to open the gate, so we may properly greet our friends."
The Riverlanders rose before the sun and broke their fasts in grim quiet, each wondering how this day would end: in a castle, staring across the table at their enemy, arguing a truce, point by point; or digging trenches and preparing fortifications for the long siege to come; or on the battlefield, spilling blood in the name of their cause.
Less than an hour after rising and dressing, the men chosen for the small negotiation party mounted their horses to make for the castle. Jaime Lannister would ride but not enter the castle if they were so invited. It was felt his presence would only inflame passions by reminding the Freys of the deeds carried out by the Brotherhood Without Banners against their family. The party was otherwise made up of Tytos and Brynden Blackwood, the Blackfish, Marq Piper, Patrek Mallister, Theomar Smallwood, and Karyl Vance. Brienne of Tarth and Ser Gendry had offered to ride along as well, providing more swords in case of an ambush. It would violate custom for the Freys to attack as the River lords they rode under the banner of truce, but no one could deny that the Twins weren't exactly known for their adherence to custom any longer.
Standard bearers rode with them as a matter of courtesy, so that Lord Frey would know with whom he was expected to parley. Though the Lady of Winterfell was not among their number, the Stark banner flew above the party, higher and larger than all others.
When the River lords and their company arrived at the barbican gate on the west bank, they expected to be hailed or challenged. Instead, they were met with silence. Their horses nickered nervously as they stopped and waited there, looking at one another in confusion. Finally, Ser Patrek called out.
"Ho! Who mans the gate?"
His only answer was Brienne's horse snorting and pawing at the ground.
"Ho!" he tried again, louder this time, but before he could say more, they heard a great cranking noise, the unmistakable sound of chains coiling over themselves. Slowly, the gate before them began to lift. The whole party tensed, the men and Lady Brienne reaching for their swords, steadying themselves for a possible attack. The gate continued to raise and once it was halfway up, they could see a crowd of men standing in the gloom of the inner vestibule.
A crowd of men and one girl.
Once the gate was fully raised, the group from the barbican moved toward the mounted River lords and their party. The sunlight hit them as they emerged beyond the gate causing the River lords and their companions to gasp. All those who emerged from the castle appeared to have bathed in blood, covered as they were with the stuff. The bloody men stopped, staring up at the mounted contingent while the mounted contingent stared in confusion and horror.
From the midst of those standing on the ground, a girl emerged.
"My lords," she called, then, nodding at Brienne, added, "my lady…" She saw Gendry there and cocked her head. "Ser Gendry."
"Arya?" the dark knight whispered, sliding from his horse and taking a step toward her. As he did, the men behind her tensed, raising their weapons.
"No need for that," the girl assured them. "We are all friends here."
"Stark?" Jaime hissed in disbelief.
"My Lady Arya?" Ser Brynden called, equally confused.
Arya spied the Blackfish among the mounted party.
"Uncle," she called, "you are the Warden of the Riverlands now. Lord Frey is dead. The castle has fallen. I suppose that means it is yours, to do with as you wish."
The Blackfish dismounted and strode toward Arya and her bloody Northmen.
"Are you well, niece?" he asked when he reached her.
"I am unharmed, Uncle, and well as can be."
The Lord of Riverrun turned back to the mounted men, instructing the standard bearers to ride for the camp and alert the lords and knights that the castle had fallen. He then looked at the remaining River lords and members of the Brotherhood, indicating that they should dismount and follow him into the Twins.
Ignoring the gore which coated the girl, the Blackfish put his arm around his niece, saying, "Walder Frey is dead, eh? I think I'd best go see for myself." Together, they walked back into the castle.
The Yawning Grave—Lord Huron