They used to shout my name.
Now, they whisper it.
The River lords, outlaws, and Northmen made their way into the great hall of the Twins, walking after the Lord Paramount of the Trident and his great-niece, the Lady of Winterfell. They made quite a pair, the Blackfish and Arya; the brusque old knight, still tall and strong and menacing despite his age, undeniably a leader of men, and on his arm, the slender lady, dressed in the blood of her enemies, with something of a shadowcat in her carriage, graceful and lethal, all at once.
They tilted their heads together, leaning in close, Tully and Stark, as naturally as kin who had abided under the same roof for years though they had known each other less than a moon's turn. Their shared blood, and their shared losses, created a bond beyond any that could be forged by mere time of acquaintance.
Their murmured conversation was too low for anyone else to discern. The girl could be seen gesturing, pointing in this direction and that, seemingly in response to her uncle's questions. Her sworn man, Ser Willem, along with his squire, trailed just behind in silence, eyes ever roving, each with a hand resting on his sword pommel. Other members of the band followed in clusters, having their own conversations.
"We'll need a company of men to move these bodies," Ser Brynden remarked to his father as they made their way past the fallen guards just inside the western barbican gate. Lord Blackwood nodded.
"Yes. They should be burned, and soon. Tonight, no later. We cannot risk disease taking hold among the forces and I would not spare the effort for burial."
"Not for Freys. And not with such tales as those from the beyond the Wall," the younger Blackwood agreed. A look of concern marred his handsome face. "Though we cannot be certain those accounts are true, it hardly seems worth testing."
Lord Blackwood nodded, his own countenance somber. "With the Dragons to the south and the strategy of the Riverlands as yet undecided, we can ill afford the consequences if even a fraction of those reports proves to be true."
Four paces behind the Blackwoods, Ser Jaime had drawn even with Lady Brienne. Both were clad in full armor, their helms cradled in one folded arm. Jaime's expression was humorless as he looked over at the knightly woman.
"How do you suppose she did it?" He muttered the question. Brienne looked around, taking in the blood on the walls, on the flagstones.
"With her swords, how else?"
"Don't be thick, Brienne. I mean, how in the seven hells did she leave the camp undetected? Her maid was with her. She had guards at her door. She was surrounded by an entire army!"
The knightly woman shrugged. "I rather wonder how it is you thought a lady's maid, a few night guards, and some drunken soldiers could contain Arya Stark when she did not wish to be contained."
"You might've offered this insight when I was drawing up the watch schedule," the Kingslayer groused.
"I would've, if you'd bothered to ask me."
Jaime set his jaw, growling in disgust.
Patrek Mallister and Marq Piper, both former prisoners of the castle they now entered as free men, found Jon Umber in the small crowd and slapped him on the back.
"I knew you were too mean to die!" the heir to Pinkmaiden laughed.
"You mean too pretty," the Greatjon retorted. "Look at me, boy!" He threw his arms wide and Ser Patrek had to duck to avoid being struck in the temple by Lord Umber's large hand. It caused the young knights and the other Northmen to howl and snort with laughter. The Greatjon looked ghastly, of course, with his beard and hair matted and his thinned face and tattered clothes coated with the drying blood of those he'd slain before the dawn.
The men traded a few friendly barbs, but as their japing subsided, Ser Marq told Lord Umber, "We had always planned to free you."
"Took your sweet time about it, you southron bastard," the Greatjon chortled. "A man could die of age waiting on your plans!"
"It would've taken longer, with the doings in the Crownlands," Marq confided, "but the unexpected arrival of Lady Arya on our shores necessarily spurred things on."
"Arrival on our shores?" Royan Wull repeated. "Did ye not have her safely squired away in one of your fancy Riverland castles all this time?"
"No, indeed, Lord Wull," Ser Patrek replied, looking at the man in surprise. "Have you not heard? Arya Stark has been in Braavos these many years. She returned to Westeros on a ship, of her own accord, just three moons ago."
"Braavos?" Donnor Umber wondered. "How did Ned Stark's little girl get herself to Braavos?"
The knight shrugged. "We haven't yet been told that part of the story."
On the heels of the Northmen and young knights, Theomar Smallwood conferred with Karyl Vance.
"All our careful plans for the siege would appear to be useless," Lord Smallwood remarked wryly.
Lord Vance responded with a slight shake of his head, his hands clasped behind his back. "I cannot say I am sorry for it. Winter descends upon us and such an easy victory has certainly saved the lives of countless men."
"But was it?" Theomar asked in a low voice.
"Was it what?"
"An easy victory?"
Karyl's tone was neutral when he spoke. "What mean you, Lord Smallwood?"
"Only that we don't yet know the true cost."
The Lord of Wayfarer's Rest eyed the girl as she walked with the Blackfish, his sad eyes pensive. "Perhaps not, but can it be any greater than that paid for a long siege, or a bloody battle? Especially since we have a poor understanding of what brews in the Crownlands even now…"
"Sieges and battles and advancing armies are things I comprehend, at least," was Theomar's grim answer. "This…" He looked around them, stepping over the corpse of a Frey household guard and then staring ahead toward the Lady of Winterfell, covered in blood and wearing her large sword strapped to her back with its slender sister at her hip. "This is something I do not."
"You've seen her with her swords."
"In a training yard," Lord Smallwood gritted out.
"And at Riverrun, with Hoster Blackwood's life in the balance," Lord Vance reminded him.
"With more than half the room there to rush to her defense! This is something entirely different, do you not see that?" Theomar implored. "How did she even gain entrance to the castle?"
Karyl shrugged, then turned his gaze upon Theomar, his voice almost soothing as he said, "She may be headstrong and bold, but still, she's just a girl."
"No," Theomar disagreed. "I think not."
At the rear of the company, Ser Gendry walked alone, gazing past the men, past Brienne, his eyes settling on the back of Arya's head as she and Brynden Blackfish passed through the courtyard and entered the doors of the great keep, making for the feast hall of the Twins. His brow was furrowed all the while.
The dark knight was the last to enter the great hall, and as he did, he found the place already bustling. The maester of the castle was there, along with several confused servants and a mass of Lord Frey's younger daughters, good-daughters, and grandchildren, looking stunned and afraid. Some wept quietly but most were silent and wary.
The Blackfish, now named Warden of the Riverlands, began directing men in order to control the chaos. He sent out Marq Piper and Patrek Mallister to comb the west bank castle towers. The aim was for them to usher any straggling Frey relations and servants into the hall. He tasked Ser Jaime and Lady Brienne with keeping the peace within the hall itself. Brynden Blackwood and Kyle Condon he commanded to cross the causeway and inspect the castle on the east bank so that they might bring him intelligence and subdue any who remained.
(None remained but corpses, but Arya did not belabor the point with her uncle, knowing he would still need to verify, regardless of her assurances.)
"You there," the Blackfish called, gesturing toward the blacksmith-knight. "It's Ser Gendry, isn't it?"
Gendry straightened. "Yes, m'lord."
"Find the armory. Secure it until we can get a proper guard in here."
"I can show you," Arlen Snow offered. "It's on the other side of the river, just above the dungeons."
The large knight looked at Arya who was moving away, searching for something in the far corner of the chamber, then nodded to the Northman. "I thank you, ser."
"The old gods make no knights," Arlen laughed. "I'm no ser, but I won't hold that against you." He led Gendry out of the hall toward the crossing.
Arya located what it was she sought, a small bundle, and beckoned to the Bear, speaking to him quietly, away from the crowd. "Take this to Rosie," she murmured. "She's like to be missing it. Tell her…" She hesitated, fatigue settling over her features.
"Tell her she took ill suddenly and fainted," the Lyseni suggested.
"Yes, that will do. Tell her I left her in my bed so she would be comfortable."
"I'll not be gone long," he promised.
"Maybe you should stay gone long enough to change your clothes and wash your face. You look a mess!" the girl teased, her voice slightly hoarse.
"You're one to talk, sister. It may take all the maids in this castle working in shifts to scrub you clean. Honestly, you're frightening. Small children would have nightmares at seeing you."
Arya rolled her eyes and playfully punched her brother's arm. "Get on with you, you great lout," she laughed. "And take your squire with you so he doesn't get into any mischief here."
The Rat happened to be within ear shot and heard the remark. "I'm the only one of us not acting like a stupid child right now," he sniffed haughtily, but Arya could see a rare smile behind his eyes. One corner of her mouth lifted, and she cocked her head to the side.
"What has you in such high spirits?" she asked suspiciously.
"I'm always bolstered by a successful mission," was the assassin's reply. "The Many-Faced god must be pleased indeed."
"Just so," the Cat agreed, though she was not entirely certain that was the whole truth. "Away with you, then. And bring me a fresh blouse and some breeches!"
"Oh, no, my lady," the Faceless Ser Willem replied. "That's not proper attire for a princess. I believe your uncle and Lord Blackwood have made other arrangements…"
"Princess," she spat, her good humor gone. "What other arrangements? What are you blathering about?"
"Oh, you'll see," the Bear laughed, then turned to leave, beckoning to his brother. "Come, Baynard, we must make haste to obey her grace!"
The two laughed and walked out together, heading for the encampment, as their sister glared after them.
"Honestly," she groused, folding her sticky arms over her sticky chest.
"Niece!" the Blackfish called across the hall. She turned to see him standing with three affrighted maids and Lady Frey. Roseinda, the girl recalled. "These women will tend to you."
"Tend to me?" She frowned. "But I have my own maid, Uncle."
"She is not here, and you are in need of… attention."
It was then Arya noticed the younger Frey children staring at her with saucer eyes and her brother's words came back to her. Small children will have nightmares at seeing you. She supposed her uncle meant for the maids and Lady Frey to make her presentable. Old resentments began to bubble up at the idea (after all, no one was gathering a company of servants to bathe the Greatjon, she noticed, and he was nearly as sticky with blood as she), but then a young girl, possibly a great-granddaughter of old Walder, began to point at her and wail. Arya sighed, defeated.
The Blackfish motioned to the Northern clansmen, and before Arya knew it, she was being ushered out of the great hall and up the stone steps of the keep by Corwin Harclay, Lonn Liddle, and the gaggle of women her uncle had conscripted.
As they moved, Arya glared at the steps, the walls, the mounted torches which lit her way, her face set in a look of distaste. She despised the very stones of this place which had witnessed the murder of her mother, her brother, and countless Northmen. If she had her way, she'd pull the whole castle down with her bare hands, leaving it as nothing more than a pile of abandoned rubble. It wasn't a reasoned or strategic desire, she knew. Rather, it was thought born of pure emotion, driven by grief which had hardened into hatred. She wasn't sure that killing Walder Frey was enough to assuage her own burning need for retribution.
I might've ended the Frey line for good, she thought, recalling the faces of the sleeping children and women and servants she'd seen only hours before. I could have killed them all, and then burned this place to the ground. She'd considered it, weighing the cost of following the example of Tywin Lannister. She might've left a legacy so bloody and destructive that Castamere would fade from the collective memory in the wake of her deeds. In the end, though, she found she lacked both the vanity and the cruelty required to cut such a path, and so she left the weak and helpless to their sleep, unwilling to punish them for the sins of their lord and father.
Some lighthearted japing from behind her pulled Arya from her contemplations. As they reached the top of the spiral stairs, the girl turned and glared suspiciously at the clansmen behind her, interrupting their banter.
"Why are you two even here?" she grumbled.
"Your uncle has charged us to protect you," Lonn replied, causing her to bark with laughter.
"From what? Drowning in the bath? He has seen my handiwork for himself! Does he imagine I need protection from a few terrified servants?"
Lonn shrugged but it was Corwin who answered. "The castle has not yet been secured…"
"You're mistaken, my lord, for I secured it only recently, as you are well aware…"
"…and until he is satisfied that no one lurks who may present a threat, it is his intention that you have armed guards outside of your door." Then the clansman grinned and whispered to her conspiratorially. "And how can he be sure these so-called terrified servants don't mean to drown you after all?"
Arya pouted. "Uncle Brynden is worse than Ser Jaime."
But all her sour looks and protestations amounted to nothing, and before long, the servants were dunking her in a bath while the mountain clansmen stood just outside of the chamber where they'd taken her (Lady Frey's chamber, as it turned out). The widow of Walder Frey fretted as she sifted through her own trunks, trying to find a gown that would be acceptable to Arya, all while Arya called to her not to bother, because Ser Willem was bringing her a fresh pair of breeches and a jerkin, most likely.
"My lady, Lord Tully commanded me to dress you in my own finest raiment, but I fear nothing I have will be acceptable…" The young woman's voice was trembling. Arya thought she couldn't be more than a scant few years older than Arya herself and likely had left her own home only when she was married off to old Walder. She was struck with sympathy for the new widow whose entire life had been remade in the space of one night.
"Lady Frey," the girl began softly, "do not make yourself anxious on my account. Whatever you have that is comfortable will do."
In the end, the widow selected her own wedding gown, a garment rendered in the colors of her house. The brocade was the same shade as the churning waters of Shipbreaker Bay and the heavy lace accents were gold, for Roseinda had been a Wylde of the Stormlands before being married off to the old man. The sleeves were altogether too fanciful and fluttering for Arya's taste. It was something more suited to her sister, she thought, and then bit her lip. To distract herself from the unbearable disquiet of not knowing Sansa's fate, she told Roseinda that she could not possibly wear such a gown.
"But you must, my lady," the widow replied. "It's the finest one I own, and the only one that I haven't had altered since my confinement…" Roseinda tried to choke back a sob then, but her grief over her lost child refused to be contained. She clutched the gown to her chest and sank to her bed, bowing her head, her shoulders shaking as she quietly wept.
Arya was stunned by the sudden show of emotion, and, not knowing what else to do, she stood, dripping in the tub as the maids scrambled to dry her and swath her in linen. The girl shooed them away and stepped out onto the plank floor, moving toward the bed in silence, leaving wet footprints behind her as she went. She stood over Roseinda Frey for a moment, then sank down in front of her, placing her hands over the distraught woman's knees. The girl had not meant to pick at the widow's thoughts, but her sorrow was so heavy, it rolled off her like a chill wind moving down a mountain and caught Arya quite off her guard.
A mother's lamentation.
Caitlyn must've felt something akin to this when her own first-born son was slain before her eyes.
"I am sorry," the girl murmured, "about the babe."
Roseinda nodded. "Criston," she whispered. "I named him Criston." The widow looked at Arya and, in a halting voice, asked, "Have you ever lost a child, my lady?"
The girl shook her head. "Nearly everyone I've ever loved has been lost to me, but never a child of my own."
"Then you can't understand," Lady Frey replied shakily. The words were not meant unkindly. She leaned forward and said, "It is the most unbearable pain imaginable. I will pray to the gods that you never understand."
Her sincerity struck Arya and she knew then that her clansmen protectors outside of the chamber door were unnecessary. Even mere hours after Walder Frey's death, it was her babe his widow mourned, not her husband. Maternal grief was a powerful thing, a roiling sea of fathomless depths and endless waves and writhing, hidden currents. Watching the woman's stricken face, Arya found it impossible not to think of her own mother, and the girl's heart clenched. Roseinda may have taken the Frey name, but there was nothing else of that odious family in her and she would pose no threat to the Lady of Winterfell. Arya was quite certain of it. In turn, the girl vowed to herself that Lady Frey would have no need to fear any threat either.
The maids worked quickly then, two of them tacking up the hem of the gown Lady Frey had provided so that Arya would not trip over her skirts. The third combed out her hair, rubbing at it with dry linen as she did and twisting the damp locks into a heavy knot, pinning it against the nape of Arya's neck. Somehow, they'd secured a pair of fine, buckled slippers which fit her foot as if they'd been made for her. Arya supposed with as many daughters, good-daughters, granddaughters, and great-granddaughters as had lived under old Walder's roof, there was bound to be a myriad of ladies footwear for the taking.
When the Cat finally left the chamber, she was stopped by Corwin Harclay's japing gasp, followed by a demand to know what had become of Arya Stark.
"I escorted a fearsome warrior to this door, and they have sent me back a Northern princess!" he declared, and though he grinned, his eyes held much admiration.
"Don't be deceived by the look of things, Lord Harclay," the girl warned in return, and it was a lesson she herself had learned very well in the House of Black and White. "You'll find no princess here."
"My lady, you can no sooner change the king's blood which runs through your veins than you can the color of your Stark grey eyes," Lonn Liddle replied mildly.
But I can change the color of my eyes, Arya thought, another lesson taught to her by the Faceless assassins, but one she did not say aloud.
"Aye, it's true," Corwin agreed, sobering some. "Robb Stark reclaimed the legacy of the Kings of Winter, and no Northman is like to forget it."
"That's nothing to do with me," she said quickly, but even to her own ear, the denial sounded weak.
Before either of the mountain lords could answer her, though, she heard her name called. It was her uncle's voice. He'd just ascended the staircase into the corridor and had seen her speaking with the men. The maester of the Twins, a stout man named Brenett, along with Karyl Vance and Tytos Blackwood, made up his small company.
"You look splendid, niece," the Lord Paramount told her as he approached. His tone was decidedly pleased. Upon reaching her, he bent to place a fond kiss upon her cheek. "I must say, you are quite beautiful, though I have discerned you set no store by such compliments. Still, your mother would be proud."
The girl shook her head, not knowing how else to respond, and changed the subject, asking why the party had suddenly appeared.
"We've come to ratify the death of Walder Frey," the Blackfish explained. "Will you accompany us, dear one? I believe you know the way." He smiled slightly as he said that last.
"Yes, indeed," Arya agreed, taking his arm.
"Bring Lady Frey," he called to the clansmen over his shoulder as they walked toward the lord's chamber. This drew the girl up short.
"Oh, no, uncle, I beg you. I do not think…"
"She is his wife, Arya, and he has no friends here. In addition to these lords, it is best to have both the maester and his widow agree that it is him," Lord Tully murmured, patting her hand.
"She's in no fit state of mind," the Cat told him.
"Fit enough to say 'yay' or 'nay', I think," was the Blackfish's answer, and that put an end to the argument.
Lord Vance entered the chamber first and strode to the windows, drawing back the heavy draperies to let in the sunlight. Maester Brenett approached the bed upon which old Walder's stiffening remains lay and he looked grimly down at the lord's dusky face and bulging, red eyes. Arya and her great-uncle walked through the door and closer to the bed. They could see Walder's mouth gaped wide, the mounded bread and salt pushing out over his teeth and drawn lips mostly hiding his swollen tongue. Lord Blackwood moved to stand at the maester's side. The room grew very quiet as they all surveyed Arya's handiwork. After a time, Lord Blackwood cleared his throat.
"What say you, Maester Brenett?" Tytos demanded. "Is this your lord?" Before the grey-robed man could reply, a distressed cry was heard, the sound emanating from Lady Frey's throat. Arya turned to see Roseinda being ushered ever closer by the mountain lords.
"Bring her forth," Lord Blackwood directed, beckoning to Lonn and Corwin. Lady Frey had gone pale and her knees became weak and gave way, forcing the clansmen to bear her up lest she fall to the floor.
"No," Arya said, pulling her arm free of her uncle's and standing between the drooping lady and her dead husband, blocking the view. Whether she loved him or not, seeing a corpse in this condition was not a thing any gentle woman should have to bear. She looked back toward the Blackfish. "I told you, it's too much for her." Karyl Vance crossed the room then, to stand at Arya's side.
"My lady," he addressed her quietly. "It must be done. I'm sorry. Her testimony will be imperative." Lord Vance's gaze was full of sympathy, and he took Lonn Liddle's place to Lady Frey's right. "I'll see her back to her chambers myself, and be sure she is well tended to, once this is done," the somber lord assured the Lady of Winterfell. With the greatest delicacy, he guided the young widow to the bedside as Arya watched. He prompted his charge in a soft voice. "Lady Frey, do you know this man?"
Roseinda lifted her limp head from Lord Vance's shoulder then and looked down at Walder's gruesome visage. Her eyes widened in terror and she turned, pressing her face against Karyl's chest, nodding and sobbing all at once.
"We must hear you say so, my lady," Lord Vance continued apologetically.
"Yes, yes," the woman choked out. "That's my lord husband."
"Thank you, Lady Frey," Lord Blackwood said, his voice steady. "You may go now."
Lord Vance began to escort the trembling widow from the bedside, but she'd taken no more than two steps when she faltered. Karyl grasped her firmly, stopping her fall, and then swept Roseinda into his arms, carrying her from the chamber. Arya gazed after him gratefully.
Lady Frey had no sooner departed than Maester Brenett confirmed what they all knew: that these frightful remains were indeed those of the Lord of the Crossing. As the grisly business of identification concluded, the Lord Paramount of the Trident and the master of Raventree Hall discussed how best to dispose of Walder's corpse. The main argument seemed to be whether to consign the whole of him to the fires which would consume the rest of the dead that night, or to spare the head for mounting on a pike. Arya snorted and left them to it, finding her way to the stairs, the mountain lords shadowing her all the way. She ignored them until they reached the bottom and she noted Gendry skulking in the dim corner of the vestibule there.
He had obviously been waiting for her.
"You may return to the great hall, my lords," Arya told Corwin and Lonn. "I'll not be long."
Lord Liddle gave Gendry a hard look, skeptically appraising the dark knight. His mistrust declared itself in the downward curve of his mouth and the furrow of his brow. "Are you sure, my lady?" Hearing the question and noting the lord's demeanor, Gendry's fists tightened, and his face set itself in a black scowl.
"Quite sure."
The mountain lords looked at one another, and Lord Harclay resisted the directive. "But my lady, your uncle..."
"Wanted me escorted and protected, yes, I know," she interrupted. "And see? Here is Ser Gendry, my sworn knight. I assure you, he is equal to the task."
The clansmen frowned, then reluctantly left the girl in the custody of the looming and ill-humored Ser Gendry. Once they had moved on, the Lady of Winterfell walked over to the large man, suppressing the urge to sigh. She'd had one too many lectures on her disregard for her own safety and her lack of good sense to tolerate even one more without losing her temper.
"Well, out with it, ser. I know you're itching to berate me, so you may as well get on with it. Do try to be original, though, I implore you, for the sake of my nerves."
He glared down at her. "I know this is all a great jape to you, Arya, and I'm done pretending that you have any need of me, but I'd hoped…" He stopped, his expression suddenly less perturbed and more resigned.
"Hoped what?"
Gendry sighed. "I'd hoped you would trust me enough to want me by your side, even if you didn't need me." He looked away and muttered, "Fool that I am."
The girl was both moved and irritated by the blacksmith-knight's barely disguised heartache. Her irritation won out, but only because she found being the cause of his heartache singularly uncomfortable.
"Stop with this absurd self-pity!" she hissed. "I have made plain to you what you mean to me…"
"And I have made plain to you what you mean to me, for all the good it's done!" he blurted, then drew back, apparently regretting his candor. He ran his hand through this dark hair. They both stared at each other for a moment, not speaking, before Arya moved closer and slipped her hand over top of his. He let out a soft breath at her touch.
"Gendry," she murmured, looking up at him, "don't be angry with me." Arya wondered if she ought not say it; if she ought to let him be angry, for maybe then he wouldn't hurt. Maybe then, he wouldn't care so much. But she found she did not wish for that, convenient though it might be. She did not wish for her friend to separate himself from her, embittered, for she did not wish to lose her connection to her past. Apart from Harwin, no one here had known her longer, and perhaps no one had known the girl she was any better. It would've been easier to let go completely of the girl she was, she thought, but then, that would mean letting go of so many other things, too.
It would have meant letting go of all the things the Order had tried and failed to make her forget; all the things she clung to which the Kindly Man had exhorted her to abandon. Her father. Needle. Winterfell. Jon. Nymeria. Syrio Forel. Her childhood dreams of running away with Bran to be a wildling beyond the Wall. The snows of the wolfswood. Hiding in the crypts. Her enslavement at Harrenhal, and the way it had shaped her; shaped her life; changed her, and made her a ghost, and an assassin, and a man's reason. How could she let any of that go?
The girl she was had known great joy, and great sorrow, and great pain, and great love. They were all so intertwined, to cut one loose would mean to lose them all.
She chewed gently at her lip as she considered it.
Gendry was the bridge between the girl she was and the strange, new life in which she now found herself entrenched; this mummer's part; this Lady of Winterfell. She was afraid that if she allowed that bridge to wash away, she might never find her way back, and there were things she was unwilling to leave behind.
"You cannot think I mean to hurt you," she chastised. "You cannot think you lack my trust."
"Can't I?"
"I told you, in Riverrun, I won't sacrifice you for my own revenge. You… cannot be replaced."
"Why are you so convinced I'd be of no use in a fight?" He laughed bitterly. "Am I so weak in your eyes?"
"No, of course not! Gendry…" There was something of a plea in her voice. "Your time will come, but this… this was not your fight."
"Just like killing Hosteen Frey and jumping into the middle of a melee of your own making at Riverrun wasn't my fight?"
"Precisely."
The dark knight growled his frustration. "M'lady, you must make use of me! Elsewise, it's… it's too cruel!"
She slid her hand to his wrist and squeezed slightly. "What do you mean?"
He heaved a sigh, a frown shaping his face, brows pinched in and lips tight and curled into a look of distaste. He clenched his eyes shut for a moment, then looked at her once again, shaking his head. She could see that it pained him to have to answer and his voice was low and gravelly as he did.
"I'm in agony, Arya. All the time. It's as if… as if I'm allowed to stalk only the edges of your life, always held at arms' length, but held, nonetheless. I can't escape you. I can't get close to you. It's as if I'm suspended in ice, frozen in place, watching you risk your life without the power to intervene, watching others move with ease around you, while I am always to be prevented…"
"Who prevents you?" she interjected, her tone dubious. "No one tells me with whom I may align myself, or who may be my friend. No one prevents you…"
"You prevent me." The sadness in those Baratheon blue eyes as he said it was more than she could take.
"But, don't you see? It's only to protect you."
He scoffed, indicating his disgust for the sentiment, and she understood very well how he must feel. Had she not reacted in much the same way when others had said those words to her?
"I may be little more than a Flea Bottom bastard, but I am also a man grown, and an anointed knight, and I have killed my share of men. Why is it that you are free to insist you don't need my protection, but I am not allowed to do the same?"
Because I'm a trained assassin, stupid! Because I could carve the heart out of your breast and feed it to Nymeria before you would even think to raise a hand to defend yourself. Because your want to protect me comes from a misplaced sense of duty while my want to protect you comes from a place of understanding of our capabilities.
Because I will not lose one more person who means something to me. Not when it's within my power to prevent it.
"Because," she said, "I am the Lady of Winterfell, and you are the sworn man, and these decisions are my prerogative."
The girl had thought her friend might storm off at the pronouncement, ending the discussion, but he merely shook his head.
"Spoken like a true, highborn lady." He tipped his face lower, raising an eyebrow. He knew his remark would irk her. He hoped it would. She could read that much on his face. "And you certainly look the part." His eyes trailed from her face, down her body wrapped in Roseinda Frey's turquoise and gold wedding gown, until they reached the tips of her slippers poking out from beneath the hem.
The girl sniffed, "My clothes do not make me who I am, ser." She tried to sound imperious rather than annoyed.
"No, m'lady, they don't. So why even engage in this bit of mummery?" His eyes met hers then.
Arya was shocked by Gendry's insight, but she hid it well. "Why do you suppose I do it?"
"To hide the truth."
She laughed lightly. "And what truth is that?"
He folded his arms across his broad chest, looking down at her keenly. "That you're afraid."
Her light laughter gave way to a snort. "Well, that's hardly a revelation, Ser Gendry. I told you that I wouldn't sacrifice you in my quest to avenge my family. It's not a leap to assume I'd be afraid for your life if you became involved in these endeavors."
"No, that's not it. You're afraid of something else."
"Oh?" She quirked one eyebrow up, giving him an amused little smile, imagining she must look quite haughty to the large man. "So, what am I afraid of?"
"Of getting too close..."
"Too close?"
"To me."
"I'm afraid of getting to close to you?" Her look was as skeptical as her tone. "Why should I fear that?"
"Because, you might find out that all your plans and schemes, all that you'd thought was so important, amounts to nothing in the face of the happiness you could have for yourself, if only you'd allow it."
Arya's smile fell and her mouth opened slightly as she attempted to conjure the words to tell Gendry how ridiculous his assertion was. However, before she could, she heard footsteps on the stairs behind her. Seconds later, her great-uncle, Lord Vance, Maester Brenett, and Lord Blackwood descended into the vestibule.
"Ah, Lady Arya, there you are," Tytos Blackwood said, eyeing her and her companion shrewdly. "Come! We must address the captains from the camp. They should have assembled in the great hall by now. We will tell them of your victory." He drew up to her, proffering an arm she had no choice but to take.
As the company strolled toward the feast hall, Lord Vance informed the girl that Lady Frey was resting comfortably in her chamber, tended to by her maid. Arya smiled at him in gratitude, bowing her head once, but all the while, she turned Gendry's words over in her head, wondering how it was possible he could have gotten her so wrong.
How could he believe any fleeting happiness or comfort she might carve out for herself in this place could possibly make her forget her plans, and what it was she knew to be important? And how was any true happiness to be found, until she carried out those schemes and plans?
She must see Winterfell, and Jon, again, and she must settle a score with the Kindly Man.
And, she must find Jaqen.
For she believed that without her Lorathi master, there could be no happiness at all.
In the time it had taken the maids and Roseinda Frey to make Arya presentable, and for the River lords to come to a decision about how they should dispose of Walder Frey, captains, guardsmen, stewards, and Arya's Faceless brothers had arrived from the encampment. They were even now crowding into the great hall. As the Lady of Winterfell was led into the large chamber by Lord Blackwood, she could see it was nearly bursting at the seams with people, both those who called the castle home and those who now claimed a share of the victory won by the assassins and the Northmen. The Greatjon was at the center of it all, of course, standing at least a head taller than the surrounding throng, loudly recounting the tale of how he and the other prisoners had been saved by Ned Stark's daughter. He told how they'd stormed the east bank towers together, every bloody detail recalled between hearty gulps of the finest ale the stores of the Twins could offer. The girl did not begrudge the Northman his drink or his boasting. After years in a dank Riverlands dungeon, he'd more than earned the right to both.
"…and just when I was sure I was done for, she threw a dagger into the dog's eye!" the Lord of the Last Hearth was chortling. "From across the chamber!"
"No, really?" a man Arya did not recognize asked with skeptical amusement. He wore the sigil of House Mallister on his breast. The girl figured him for a fighting man or a steward who had followed under Ser Patrek's command when they'd left Seaguard. "Into his eye? Seems unlikely, a small girl like that…"
"I swear it by the old gods!" Lord Umber exclaimed. "And that's no ordinary girl. She's the child of a Northman, and a Stark to boot. Ned Stark sired no shrinking, weak-kneed stock, I'll tell you that!"
The girl smiled a little at the pronouncement. She found she liked the Greatjon very well. Very well, indeed.
"My Lady," Ser Willem greeted gallantly after approaching Arya and bowing. "I've done as you bid. Your maid seems recovered, though, and insisted on accompanying us to the castle. She's hereabouts somewhere." Inspecting his sister's appearance, his gaze traveling from her well-coiffed hair, then down her fine gown all the way to its hem, he added in a low voice, "And she's sure to be jealous you were so well-attended." Then he winked at her.
Before she could reply, Arya was spotted by the mountain lords.
"Make way for the Lady of Winterfell!" the booming voice of Royan Wull commanded, and the room fell silent as all eyes turned to find her. The crowd parted, clearing a path for Arya all the way to the other side of the chamber where the high table was sat. The girl looked up at her Lyseni brother who bowed his head respectfully.
"Come, my lady," Tytos prodded and as he escorted her toward the high table and Lord Frey's seat there, Arya could hear hushed whispers weaving through the assemblage. Bits and pieces made their way to the girl's ear, a mixture of fear and wonder, it seemed. Is that really the girl who… Can she be the same blood-soaked creature that… What is a Northern princess doing in… How can a lady so beautiful be as dangerous as…
Lord Umber's deep rasp cut through the whispers then.
"All hail my Lady of Stark!" he declared as she passed him, dropping to his knee and masking his wince passably well. Her father's bannermen immediately joined him, and then, in a wave, so did the Riverlanders. The timid surviving Freys on the edges of the room were the last to join in. As Arya moved through their midst then ascended to the high table and the lord's seat there, she tried to make sense of what she was seeing.
And how she was being seen.
Before she sat, the girl bid the room to rise. When she was settled, Lord Blackwood at her one side and her uncle at the other, a servant placed a mug of ale before her. She eyed it warily then lifted the tankard and took a dainty sip. It was cool against her tongue, and a little sweet. It was not unpleasant, she thought, and she could see how men could so easily overindulge. She would be careful, she decided, for she had not eaten much, and she wished to keep her wits about her. There was an air of something in the hall, though she couldn't quite name it. As she gazed over the crowd, she could see Harwin leaning toward Jon Umber, whispering hotly in the large man's ear. The Lord of the Last Hearth was nodding, obviously in agreement with whatever his companion was saying, but he was not looking at Harwin. Instead, the Greatjon's gaze settled on Arya herself, and his look was one of…
Hunger.
The girl narrowed her own eyes and glanced back at her ale. Yes, she would be careful to keep her wits about her. Even if she couldn't name the why of it, she felt it best to be ready, whatever might come.
As Arya considered the mood of the chamber, the Blackfish rose, his voice booming over the crowd.
"My lords, and good men of the Riverlands and the North, this day our lady has rid our lands of the taint of Walder Frey. This castle has fallen to us through her deeds, and she has spared us our own blood and toil!"
The hall was filled with the roars and cheers of the men, most jumping from their seats, raising fists, howling their approval and glee into the air. Many lifted their cups to her. The Lord Paramount of the Trident shushed them by raising his hand, then continued.
"It is my duty to inform you that Lord Frey is dead, his corpse identified by both his wife and the maester of this castle."
Another cheer erupted then, and the doors of the great hall burst open, admitting Brynden Blackwood and Marq Piper, the men flanking Kyle Condon who grasped a pike in his hands. The pike was topped with Walder Frey's purpled head. The cries of the men reached a fever pitch at the sight of it, the sound of it so painfully loud that Arya was tempted to slap her palms over her ears. There were scattered screams, too, as the women and children on the edges of the throng recognized what it was they were seeing, but they were largely ignored, and the knights continued their march toward the center of the hall. With every firm step Ser Kyle took, small bits of salt and bread dislodged and fell from Walder's open mouth.
"Look well upon Lord Frey's head," the Blackfish advised, "for tonight, it burns in a pyre with all the other dead. Look well, and remember, for this is what happens to any man who affronts the gods and betrays his liege lord!" He turned to face his niece. "Raise your cups, men," he commanded, "and drink to my niece, the Lady of Winterfell!"
"To the Lady of Winterfell!" the assemblage cried, then drank. Arya, too, drank, a small, uncomfortable smile forming on her lips before she took her sip. She rose then herself, holding her own cup aloft.
"To the men of the North," she called out, nodding toward the Greatjon and the mountain clansmen who'd helped her subdue the eastern towers, "who earned more than a cup of ale for the suffering they endured for their loyalty to my father and my brother!"
"To the men of the North!" the crowd echoed, lifting their cups once again and drinking deeply. The throng was restless, and raucous, and scattered chants of 'Stark! Stark!' could be heard. The girl peered out over the edge of her tankard as she took another swallow of ale. As she did, she noted Ser Jaime, still in full armor, leaning against the wall in the far corner. He stared right back at her and his unhappiness with her was clearly trumpeted by his expression.
Arya did not have long to consider the Kingslayer's ire before the Greatjon called out his own toast. He'd climbed first onto his seat, and then onto the long plank table at which the Northmen were gathered. The wood bowed slightly under his weight. Already almost impossibly tall, he loomed like the Titan of Braavos over the chamber from his new perch.
"To you River lords, and all your men!" he called out, lips twitching as he fought a grin. "You may not have been the ones to liberate all of us unruly Northmen from our accursed prison, and you may not have tried to rescue us in any sort of timely manner, and you weren't the ones who slew that bloody cunt who plotted the murder of King Robb and his mother and many more good men besides. Hells, you weren't even the ones who sheltered Ned Stark's little girl for all these years!" The surrounding Northmen bellowed their laughter and Lord Umber continued. "But you're generous with a dead man's ale," (here, he lifted his tankard so vigorously, a bit of his drink slopped over the sides, raining down on the heads of the men below), "and your speech is almost as pretty and refined as your soft, white hands! And, as my friend Marq Piper has pointed out, you most likely would have freed us eventually. At least, those of us who hadn't already died of rat bites, or dysentery, or age." The laughter spread to the surrounding tables, the Riverlanders chuckling along. "So, I salute each and every one of you useless fucks and hope that someday, you get the chance to actually prove your mettle!" Lord Umber gazed over at the grotesque, discolored head of the dead Walder Frey, for he was now at eye level with the trophy hoisted high above the crowd. "I even salute this ugly wretch," the Greatjon continued, "for in death, he finally looks every bit as awful as he truly was in life."
At this point, the whole of the chamber, save the Frey women and children, were in good humor and chortling over the Greatjon's performance. They cheered and shouted encouragement as the large man emptied his cup in several long swallows, never pausing to breathe. Lord Umber then climbed down off the table amid the sound of the Northmen pounding their pewter tankards against their wooden table. And despite herself, Arya pushed aside the image of Harwin whispering with the Lord of the Last Hearth and instead, laughed at the large man's vulgar irreverence.
Yes, she liked the Greatjon very well indeed.
Though her uncle had advised against it, Arya insisted the remaining Freys and their servants be allowed to attend the lighting of the pyres that evening. She did not require that they do so but would not forbid their presence. The Blackfish had worried it might stir sentiment against them and he had no wish to deal with dissidence in the castle.
"Trust me, my lady, these things can become messy very quickly. Sabotage of supplies, small attacks by the servants in the night, thievery…"
For her part, the Lady of Winterfell had felt it unnecessarily cruel prevent their attendance, should they desire it for themselves.
"There are some who will wish to say goodbye. They should be given that chance."
"No doubt, many will be glad of the gesture, and may love you better for it," her uncle admitted, "but there are those who will be resentful, and they may try to harm you. Even with armed guards, it would only take one angry servant with a small blade to make you bleed."
"I don't need their love," Arya replied, "but neither do I fear their anger. Or their blades, small or otherwise."
"It's a risk."
"It's a risk I'm willing to take, uncle."
It was another mercy, she thought; a third mercy, granted amid walls that had known little enough of benevolence over the years. The first mercy was not slaying babes and groomsmen and kitchen maids in their beds, though many might have named that mere decency. The second was refraining from ordering the complete destruction of the castle, though some might've simply called that good sense. Still, it was no easy task to grant these mercies when her very bones cried out for her to wring every last drop of vengeance she could from this place; from these people.
But then she thought of Roseinda Frey, crying over an infant son she'd named Criston.
And she thought of the little girl who had wailed when she'd seen Arya covered in blood.
And she thought of the maids who'd bathed her and fussed over her, as though they owed her anything at all.
And so, she insisted these people be allowed to attend the only funeral the dead would have, should they desire to do so. Three pyres were built on the west bank, a hundred yards from the barbican gate, and a company of men worked tirelessly throughout the day to relocate all the corpses there. That night, once again over the protestations of her uncle and Lord Blackwood, Arya stood among those of the Frey household who remained and chose to watch their friends, and loved ones, and masters burn. To appease the Blackfish and the River lords, she was flanked by the Bear and Ser Jaime, and she herself wore her steel, strapped to her back and at her hip. It made for a jarring picture: the Lady of Winterfell, bedecked in a fine gown, her only ornaments Grey Daughter and Frost.
By the time the girl arrived among the crowd, there was not a person among them who was not acquainted with her deeds. Thanks to the Greatjon, and the Northmen, and the whisperings of servants, the tale of her exploits in the night had reached every ear, and when she made her way through the crowd, a heavy silence descended as all conversation and japing ceased. The throng parted for her without a word of instruction telling them to do so, and when she reached the front, Baynard handed her a torch.
The girl spoke out, her voice clear and steady.
Indicating the piles of corpses arranged over beds of kindling, the Lady of Winterfell said, "Some of these men may have been dear to you." Thinking of Lame Lothar and Walder Frey, she continued, "And some may have been hated by you for their cruelty, or their indifference." She walked toward the pyres. "Some may have been your friends. Some may have been good men, and you might think their deaths undeserved. Others may have been unkind, and their deaths might feel more like justice."
Arya lowered her torch to set the first pyre aflame. The low kindling caught and then the flames began to spread. She continued her speech. "But know that the violence visited upon this place was bought and paid for by Walder Frey."
The girl walked to the second pyre, lighting it as well. "His currency was the blood of my brother, and my mother, and the innocent Riverlanders and Northmen who believed him to be a friend and ally, lured in and deceived by his offer of bread and salt."
She approached the third and final pyre. It sat behind the other two, and was centered between them, built slightly higher. In its center was perched a discolored head, red eyes open wide, mouth gaping with a dusky tongue protruding. "If you have venom to spew over what transpired in this castle last night, consign it here, to your lord's pyre, and let it burn away with him. He forfeited all your lives when he chose his course, but I have elected to spare you his fate."
The girl's voice was cold as she spoke, but it was not nearly as cold as she felt. As she recalled Walder Frey's crimes, her heart felt as though it had been seized by an icy hand which squeezed mercilessly.
"I have no quarrel with women and children, nor servants," she continued. "I am sensible to the losses some of you have suffered. I don't begrudge you your grief, but neither will I tolerate insurrection." Her eyes glittered in the firelight and she surveyed those who called the Twins their home. "This castle is now under the authority of my Uncle, Brynden Tully. He is your Lord Paramount. Obey his direction, and we shall have peace at the Crossing."
With that, the girl lit the last pyre and tossed her torch onto it, watching as it landed near Walder Frey's head. Flames licked up around his dark cheeks and then his sparse hair caught fire. There was no cheering, and no tears; no laughter and no wails of mourning. The only sounds to be heard were the crackling of the flames and the popping of embers. As fire consumed the Lord of the Crossing, Arya turned and walked back toward the castle, the silent crowd parting before her once again.
"Bless you, milady," a kitchen maid said as she passed. Arya's step faltered as she turned to look at the woman who had knelt as she passed.
"Thank you, milady," several others chimed in, following the maid's example and kneeling as the girl walked on. The small crowd then knelt nearly at once, with murmurs of thanks and blessings offered up as she passed. She kept her eyes straight ahead, not wanting to read their faces and know if it was gratitude or fear that fueled their words. She succeeded in her mission until a small child stepped in her path, a boy who looked to be eight or nine. In his fist, he clutched a wilting bouquet of coneflowers and goldenrods. He thrust his hand out toward her as he knelt. She felt Ser Jaime tense at her back and her uncle's words played themselves over in her head.
It would only take one angry servant with a small blade to make you bleed.
"For you, Lady Arya," the boy said. She wondered if perhaps he'd picked the anemic blooms, the last the land had to offer before being overtaken by winter, to lay upon the pyre of his kinsmen.
"What is your name, young man?" the girl asked, accepting the blossoms.
"Jon Brax, my lady," he replied.
"Brax?" the girl mused, looking at the flowers.
"My mother was a Frey. I came here to live with my grandfather after she died."
"What about your father?"
"He was a knight," young Jon revealed. "He was killed so long ago, I don't remember him."
"I see." Arya lifted the bouquet to her nose. The blossoms did not seem to have a scent. All she detected was the sharp tang of the greenery. She knelt before the boy so that they were looking into each other's eyes. "My mother died, too."
"I know," the boy whispered. "They say my grandfather is the reason she was killed, and that you'll murder us all for it."
The girl breathed quietly for a few moments, gazing into the boy's copper eyes, thinking if they were a shade lighter, they would be just like Jaqen's. She said, "I'm not going to murder you."
"But you're the Butcher of the Crossing."
The Butcher of the Crossing?
She had to admit, she liked the sound of it.
"I only butcher those who deserve it," she assured him. "Do you deserve it, Jon?"
"No!" the boy answered quickly, then added, "Leastways, I don't think I do. I never killed anybody's mother."
Arya stood, looking down at the boy with an appraising eye. "What do you know of swordplay, Jon Brax?"
"Oh, I practice with my cousins most every day. We use wooden swords! I'm ready for dull steel."
"Dull steel, really? And how old are you?"
"I'm nine on my last name day, my lady." The boy seemed rather proud of the fact.
"Nine? I was just starting with wooden swords at your age," the girl revealed. "How is it that a boy of nine with so much talent is not squiring already?"
"My grandfather didn't want us to leave the castle, my lady," Jon Brax revealed. "He said if we ever stepped beyond the walls of the Twins, our bones would end up decorating the trees. Like earbobs on a whore."
That language from one so young startled Arya. Her father would've never spoken in such vulgarities, but she supposed being trapped behind these walls with Walder Frey for years probably exponentially increased the chance of overhearing something profane.
"Well, Jon Brax, you are the son of a knight, and you're ready for dull steel. Do you know what that means?"
"I don't guess I rightly do, my lady."
"It means it's high time you become a squire." The girl's eyes narrowed to slits. "Do you think you're fit to be my squire?"
The boy's eyes lit up, but then he frowned. "I thought squires only trained under knights."
"Well, I have need of a squire. If it's not to be you, I'll find someone else." The young boy looked panicked at her words, afraid to miss his chance but still unsure, so she added, "Besides, I'm something better than a knight."
Jon Brax's eyes grew large. "Really? What's better than a knight?"
Arya leaned in close and whispered in his ears. "An assassin."
The boy's eyes widened further, and he squeaked excitedly, "Do assassins have squires?"
"Well, they have apprentices, and it's very nearly the same thing," she murmured. "So, Jon Brax, do you think you're up for it?"
Young Jon's sandy blonde hair swayed with his vigorous nodding and it took all the Cat's willpower not to break into a smile at the boy's sincerity.
"Very good," she said, straightening and smoothing her skirts with her palms. "Tomorrow, find Ser Willem Ferris and ask him to assign you some training drills."
The boy bobbed his head, excited, saying, "Thank you, my lady, thank you!" over and over again. Arya continued on, clutching her drooping bouquet of wildflowers. She wondered why she'd just agreed to take a Frey under her wing, but then reminded herself that he was really a Brax, and that he was too young to grasp his grandsire's treachery.
Ser Jaime relaxed. The Bear and the Rat fell in with him, filing behind their lady, trailing her to the castle. All the while, the River lords and the Northmen watched with shrewd eyes.
In the firelight, if anyone had cared to study Lord Blackwood's face at that moment, they would have seen a small smile appear there.
When Arya entered Old Walder's bedchamber, now her bedchamber, she found Rosie waiting for her. Before she could greet her maid, however, Jaime Lannister pushed into the room behind her and spoke to Rosie.
"Out," he commanded.
Rosie's eyebrows lifted and she looked at Arya for direction. This seemed to annoy the Kingslayer.
"Out!" he barked. "And close the door behind you when you go!"
The Cat gave a slight nod to the maid, her lips pursed, and Rosie bowed, then scampered through the door, pulling it to behind her as she left. Arya noted that she was alone with Ser Jaime then, and realized he'd probably left her brothers outside the door, posted as guards.
"Well?" she asked sweetly. Her brows lifted with the inquiry.
The golden knight was seething, and her tone did nothing to dampen his anger. "You little fool," he hissed between clenched teeth. "What were you thinking?"
"It depends. To what are you referring, specifically?"
Jaime looked as though he might like to strike her. With his golden hand, if Arya had to guess about it. "Don't toy with me, Stark. I'm in no mood for it."
"Alright, then, I'll save you the trouble of explaining yourself. Shall I tell you why you're angry, and then admonish myself for being reckless so you don't have to? Or would that be depriving you of the best part of your day?"
"Do you really think I enjoy this?"
"You do it so often, I have to assume you do."
"How did you even get through the gates?"
Arya shrugged. "We wore disguises."
"And how did you make it out of your tent, past your guards, and through the whole camp with no one noticing?"
"I'm very sneaky."
"Stark, do you understand how lucky you are that your eviscerated corpse wasn't tossed over the wall at us this morning when we came to parley?"
The girl laughed. "Luck had nothing to do with it."
"Were you even drunk?"
"When? Last night? On wine?" She shuddered, her mind drifting back to a night long ago when she'd imbibed too much at the inn by the Moon Pool. "No, I never touch the stuff."
"So, that whole performance, was that just for my benefit?" Jaime folded his arms across his chest. She had the sense to look abashed at his words, though only just a little. "How am I ever to trust you when all you do is lie to me?"
"I didn't lie," the girl protested. "You never asked me if I was drunk. You just assumed I was. And I do thank you, for taking such good care of me based off your assumption. That was really very kind of you."
The Kingslayer shook his head. "You don't have to lie to me, you know. You can tell me the truth."
"So, if I'd said, 'Ser Jaime, I'm going to sneak into the Twins and kill Walder Frey along with all his fighting men and grown sons tonight. You can just wait here for me and I'll send word when I'm finished,' you'd have just said, 'Alright. Good luck and we'll toast with ale once you're done'?"
"No, of course not!"
"You'd have tried to talk me out of it?"
"Yes, like any responsible advisor, I would've tried to talk you out of it."
"And when that didn't work?"
"I'd have tied you to a chair and surrounded you with guards!" he burst out.
"Well, then, it would seem I can't tell you the truth after all."
Jaime's shoulders sagged and he closed his eyes for a moment, gathering himself. After a sigh, he said, "I would've come with you, Stark. If you were determined to do something so stupid, at least I should have been there."
She was amused at how much like Gendry he sounded, and laughed to herself at the irony of that, considering the animosity between the two knights.
"And how would you have gotten through the gates? You, with the most recognizable face in the Seven Kingdoms, your shiny gold hand waving at the Frey guards in the torchlight?"
"I don't know!" The golden knight was clearly frustrated, and Arya took pity on him.
"I know it may not seem like it to you, Ser Jaime, but believe me when I tell you that I was never in danger. This wasn't some whim. It was a carefully plotted mission that was carried out methodically."
"This was a carefully plotted, methodical mission? Three swords against an entire castle?"
"A sleeping castle," she murmured soothingly, "filled with women and children."
"How many guards did you kill, Arya? At least three dozen, by my count. And how many men besides? Don't try to placate me with your talk of harmless babes. I saw what was piled atop the pyres."
"And not a scratch on me!" she cried, her patience worn thin. "It was the best way, can't you see? Or, would you rather have watched Walder Frey taunt us from atop his castle walls for three moons while our men grew sick and starved?"
"Don't pretend you did this out of concern for the army. This was only about your own revenge, plain and simple."
"So, what if it was?" the girl hissed.
"Your thirst for vengeance blinds you to danger. You think you're so careful, but one false step and we'd have been burning you on that pyre tonight."
It was clear to the Cat that she and the Kingslayer would come to no agreement this night.
"You've made your displeasure known, Ser Jaime, and you'll recall that the last time you did so, I told you that while I value your counsel, I will not be bound by it." She meant it as a dismissal. She was tired of arguing with the knight so fruitlessly. But rather than leaving, he made her an answer.
"And you'll recall after you said that to me, I told you I would always try to safeguard you from yourself. So, as far as I can see, nothing has changed."
"And we arrive at the same impasse which has impeded us before."
"It would seem so."
Arya sighed. She had no desire to further frustrate him, and, in turn, she had no desire to be continually frustrated by him. He simply didn't understand, and in order to make him understand, she would have to reveal secrets she had no desire to disclose. "I wish you would just trust me," she muttered, suddenly tired.
"And I wish the same," was his reply, "but I don't suppose either of us will get what we want."
And with that, Jaime made a small bow, then turned on his heel and left the Lady of Winterfell alone in Walder Frey's chamber.
The next morning, as Wyman Manderly broke his fast in the feast hall of New Castle, his maester rushed in through the doors, his gray robes swirling about his ankles as his chain rattled like the clanging of a warning bell.
"My lord," the man said a bit breathlessly, "a raven arrived this morning."
"A raven?" the portly lord echoed. The maester held out the small scroll.
"I cannot make heads nor tails of it," the maester admitted, "but perhaps it will mean something to you." The grey-robed man watched keenly as Lord Manderly unfurled the rolled parchment scrap.
Winter has come to Seaguard, it said in a tight scrawl, and soon will descend upon the Twins.
The maester bowed, taking his leave once it was obvious Wyman had no explanation or instructions for him, and the Lord of White Harbor mused silently to himself.
Winter had come to Seaguard… Yet, Winter had already come to New Castle.
He gazed across the chamber to a table where the wilding woman called Osha, a menacing Skagosi warrior he'd heard referred to as Augen Heldere, and young Rickon Stark sat together, laughing and eating their fill. As he watched, the boy reached down to feed the hulking, black wolf which sprawled on the floor near the young chieftain, blocking the entire aisle with his enormous bulk.
Was it possible that Ned Stark had two surviving children, Lord Manderly wondered, or was this another case of an imposter, like the one Bolton had married off to his bastard?
Over the years, Wyman had sought the truth of what had happened to the Starks and had heard many rumors and tales of Stark children: lost children, murdered children, bastard children, disguised children. He'd heard accounts he found hard to reconcile (a bastard-born son was killed at the Wall, yet somehow now occupied Winterfell). He'd witnessed the farcical wedding of a false Stark child, one of Roose Bolton's bolder schemes. He'd been given news of the birth of a new Stark child (though whether that news was true or false, he could never discern, no more than he could discern if the infant was supposed to be a Hardyng or a Baelish or had even survived in that high, cold castle). The only thing he knew for certain was the Robb Stark had been killed at the Red Wedding, and Rickon Stark was alive and well behind the walls of New Castle.
But then, never had he received such a missive as the one he'd just read.
Winter has come to Seaguard and soon will descend upon the Twins.
Those words, by solemn pledge, were only to be used with unquestionable certainty. He had not even put them to paper himself as he mulled his ambitions for Rickon Stark, though the truth of the boy's claim was writ plain in his Tully features, and in the howl of his direwolf.
Jason Mallister was no reactionary, though, and he understood the stakes of their plots and plans very well. If he had penned those words, then Wyman could not doubt the truth of them.
Winter had come.
But, whose form did it take?
Yellow Flicker Beat—Lorde