A/N: This is a short chapter that was originally meant to be the end of the last chapter but grew too long, so I split it off. I hope you enjoy!
We have to unify and watch our flag ascend
Hoster Blackwood's gaze held Arya's, and there was no mistaking his meaning, even without his thoughts radiating outward, heard by her as clearly as though he had shouted them across the room while pointing at her.
And here sits our queen, and our last hope.
From the corner of the chamber, the girl could see Ser Jaime rise. Her eyes flicked in his direction and registered his countenance in that moment. The Kingslayer looked… stricken.
Worried.
For… her?
The girl rose quickly then, though she wasn't entirely sure why. To protest? To support the idea but say they must choose someone else for this role? To declare it nonsense? To flee? It didn't matter why, or what would've come out of her mouth had she not been distracted, because she was distracted, and instead of speaking, she let the fingers of her left hand slip beneath her right sleeve, almost unconsciously, where they plucked out the slim dagger hidden there.
For in the exact moment Arya was tearing her eyes from Jaime's face and rising from her seat, several things happened simultaneously. The lords at the high table, most of them, at least, were training their gazes on Hoster Blackwood, who stood to their right, surrounded by Riverlanders. The Northmen in the crowd, however, were turning their shrewd eyes upon the Greatjon, who was standing to the girl's left, but at the end of the table. Men around the perimeter of the room turned to one another, discussing the merits of Hoster Blackwood's plan. The Bear, seeing his sister begin to stand, rose himself, readying to move to his sister's aid or stand at her side, as she might require. Straight ahead of her, the doors of the great hall were swinging forcefully open, admitting a young man who burned with anger and hatred as hot as a blazing forge. Arya's gaze snapped to him instantly, and then so did her mind. Without meaning to, without making the conscious decision to do so, she reached out for the man with her gift.
The man's thoughts weren't laid out in any coherent pattern. They were like more like molten iron, flowing through his mind, searing everything as they oozed and dripped. Arya felt them more than read them: scalding rage, a sense of having been cheated, and a need for vengeance.
That was a feeling she understood very well. It was carved into her very bones.
"Die, Blackfish!" the young man screeched, striding heavily down the center aisle while raising the small crossbow he carried and taking aim at the high table.
Even as his appearance and words stunned the hall, Arya's small knife was flying with purpose. Before the man's finger could pull back on the trigger that would release a deadly bolt, he was seized with disbelief and pain and a sudden difficulty with speech and breath. The blade had pierced the apple of his throat and buried itself deep. After a bewildered second, he fell to his knees, crossbow clattering uselessly against the stones of the floor.
There was silence, and then pandemonium.
The men on the aisle, including some Northmen, leapt toward the would-be assassin and grabbed him to restrain him, though the light was fading from his eyes even as they did. One knight kicked the crossbow out of reach while another demanded to know who the dying man was. Patrek Mallister stormed into the center aisle, studying the young man's ashen face as he slumped and gasped, blood burbling then dripping thickly over his lips. After a moment, the knight purported to recognize the him, stating that this was Robert Frey, one of old Walder's many great-grandsons.
Arya wondered how this Frey had escaped her sword, and not just hers, but also those of her brothers during their nighttime raid of the Twins. How had this Robert Frey managed to go undetected as knights and lords searched the castle? How had he been given so much time to plan this mad attack?
How had he been missed? Though a young man, he was too old to have been deemed non-threatening.
As Robert Frey breathed his last and his face slackened, the crowd was crying out, wanting to know how he'd gained admittance to the guarded hall. The men on the periphery had not seen exactly what had happened and demanded to know what had transpired. Others marveled that the man had been killed so quickly, before anyone in the chamber had a chance to react to his unexpected appearance.
Almost anyone.
Some of the men were shouting questions toward the corpse, not realizing he was dead. Donnor Umber and his cousin Arlen Snow opened the doors of the hall, revealing the two guards there lying dead on the stones, each shot through his heart with a bolt from a crossbow. Arya could see the stairs leading up into the keep tower beyond the vestibule outside of the hall and it became immediately apparent from where the bolts had been fired. The girl squinted, picturing it in her head. The angle was a difficult one, but not impossible. At least, not for someone practiced with his instrument.
Lord Blackwood's face was as dark as the girl had ever seen it, and he pounded a fist on the table before him as he stood. "Bring Lady Frey! She must be questioned."
The girl leaned away from the Lord of Raventree Hall and whispered to her uncle. "You don't think Lady Frey had anything to do with…"
The Blackfish looked at his niece grimly, cutting her off. "It's not likely, but she may be able to shed some light on the mystery of how this man was able to hide in the castle for so long without detection."
Karyl Vance himself left the hall then, accompanying the knights who scrambled to do Lord Blackwood's bidding. Arya felt a sense of gratitude at that. She knew the quiet Riverlord would not allow anyone to abuse old Walder's widow, and he would do his best not to affright her. While they all awaited Roseinda, the disarray within the great hall continued, snippets of conversation and conjecture and clarifications echoing in the girl's ears.
A throwing knife to the throat…
Who killed him?
It was Lady Arya. I saw her release the blade just before he fell.
How did she react so quickly?
Where was he hidden? Are there more of them…
"Are you alright?" the Blackfish asked Arya. He placed a hand on her shoulder.
"Of course," she replied automatically, forcing herself to release the tension which had stiffened her neck.
"This should not have happened." Her uncle's words were laced with heavy regret. It puzzled her. "I'm sorry."
"Whatever for? He was trying to kill you."
"You were sitting right next to me. He might've hit you."
The girl thought again about the position of the fallen guards and the vantage point Robert Frey must've taken to ambush them. At that distance and angle, she believed him to be enough a master of the crossbow that she needn't have worried about an errant bolt, even if he'd been able to get one off before her knife found his throat. No, she needn't have worried, but the Blackfish…
If she'd been a touch slower with her blade, she might've lost him.
"He didn't, Uncle. I'm fine."
"Still, he shouldn't have been loose in the castle. Someone must've been hiding him…" The man's voice was somber as he made the observation, but then he straightened and looked down at the girl. "And, it seems I owe you my life."
"You owe me nothing. We're family."
The words felt strange on her tongue. We're family. She'd been without family for so long, save in her dreams, that this felt like a dream; this interaction with her mother's uncle. Warmth bloomed in her chest as she thought on it, but she tamped the feeling down, too afraid to dwell on it; too afraid to become attached.
How long can it possibly last?
The body of Robert Frey was lifted and laid out on a table, Ennis Flint pulling the blade from the man's throat. He wiped it clean on the dead man's breeches and then carried it to the high table, raising it to offer the wicked little thing to Arya.
"My lady, your steel."
The girl paused a beat, then reached out for her knife, taking it from the Northman's hands and quickly tucking it back beneath her sleeve. This set off a fresh round of chatter in the chamber which she ignored. Sighing, she fell back into her seat, rubbing her forehead for a moment before looking back out over the assemblage. Jaime was shoving his way through bodies, cutting a path aimed straight for her. When he reached the high table, Arya spoke to him before he could even open his mouth.
"Pray, don't lecture me, ser, I truly hadn't planned on killing anyone today, but sometimes these things just happen." She pronounced the words with a smirk, recalling their conversation at breakfast.
"Don't jape with me, Stark. Are you alright?"
She leaned forward, resting her forearms on the table. "Of course." The words were pronounced with a soft laugh and a shake of her head. "He didn't even get a bolt off, and he wasn't aiming for me anyway."
"How did you know…"
The Cat shrugged. "When a man you've never seen before starts moving toward you with a scowl and a weapon, his intentions aren't some difficult puzzle to solve."
"You reacted so quickly. Too quickly…"
"He screamed 'Die, Blackfish' and raised his crossbow. Should I have waited until he killed a Riverlord or two before acting?"
"Your blade was flying before he even finished speaking."
She snorted. "Your sight is worse than your swordplay, old man, and you were all the way across the hall. Trust me, he'd made it plenty obvious that he was here to murder my uncle before I released my blade."
Jaime's eyes narrowed slightly as though he didn't quite believe her explanation, but he let it pass. "From now on, you'll be flanked by guards at all times." It wasn't a question, and Arya bristled at the verdict.
"What good would they have done here, Ser Jaime? Do you mean for me to protect them?" She chuckled darkly at the thought.
Jaime's brows raised in a humorless response. "Did you not agree that I would be in charge of your safety?"
"Yes, but…"
"So, guards. At all times."
"Yes," Lord Blackwood agreed, joining their muttered conversation. "I think that's best, Ser Jaime."
Arya stared in disbelief. She'd just killed a would-be assassin, saving the life of the Lord Paramount of the Trident in the process, and all the men around her could think to do in response was increase her guard detail!
It was positively insulting.
"Westeros," she growled, more to herself than anyone around her. She surveyed their faces, though: the Blackfish's, and Ser Jaime's, and Lord Blackwood's. Even Ser Brynden had approached the high table with obvious concern for her. There was also a bit of self-recrimination and anger there—guilt over allowing their lady to be put at risk (however little the risk really was) and rage that anyone would dare threaten her (though the threat had actually been to her uncle). The worry she read in their eyes was hard to ignore, misplaced as it was. She might know there was no cause for it, but her confidence was her own, and it did not change the fact that these men felt what they felt. As she considered it, she discovered their worry felt very close to… love.
That drew her up short.
After so much time spent away from family, after so much time spent clawing and fighting to gather a pack around her only to have each of them ripped away one by one, after finding Jaqen only to lose him, she had doubted she would ever find a place to belong. She had her purpose, yes, and she had the Bear, but aside from that, she had no notion of being embraced and no hope of being cherished. And after all her railing about love being weakness (and gods, that was the truth), to discover that perhaps she was the weakness these men all shared left her stunned.
Arya's musing was interrupted when Lord Vance returned to the great hall, Roseinda Frey on his arm. The Riverlord was murmuring to the lady, seemingly in an effort to reassure her, but the widow's eyes were wide, and she was trembling. When she turned her head to see Robert Frey's corpse laid out on a table to her right, she gave a distressed squeak and pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. Lord Vance guided her quickly past the sight and brought her before the high table, continuing to hold her upright. The Cat watched the way the woman leaned against her escort and thought if the kind lord were to move away suddenly, Roseinda would collapse to the floor.
"Be gentle, my lord," Arya breathed quietly to the master of Raventree Hall. He bowed his head slightly in acknowledgment before speaking.
"Lady Frey," Tytos began, his voice more restrained than it might otherwise have been, "Do you know this man?" He extended his palm outward, indicating the body stretched out on the table. The woman did not turn around. She knew very well who he meant.
"Yes, my lord. That's Robert Frey, great-grandson to my husband."
"Did you know he was hiding in the castle?"
"I didn't, my lord, I swear it!"
"He attempted to kill your Lord Paramount," Lord Blackwood revealed. "What've you to say to that?"
"I… I didn't know, my lord!" The woman's eyes had grown even larger and her face lost all its color as she looked between Tytos and the Blackfish.
"Be easy, my lady, these are only questions," Karyl Vance reassured her, patting the hand she was resting on his forearm with his other hand. "We must uncover if there is an active plot."
"I know nothing about it, Lord Vance," Roseinda said hoarsely, on the verge of tears.
Lord Blackwood swallowed, reining in his impatience, then asked, "Who was he close to? Who are his immediate kin in the castle?" Lady Frey did not answer, instead panting as though she might dissolve into a panic at any moment. "My lady!" Tytos barked at her, drawing her attention. Arya's hand shot out then, slipping over Lord Blackwood's, a silent reminder of her wishes. The Riverlord paused, drawing in one great breath then releasing it. When he next spoke, his voice was steady and calm. "Lady Frey, no harm will befall you, so long as you are not part of any plot, but we have need of information. Who in this castle might've provided this man aid? Who are his close kin?"
The lady swallowed. "His… his parents died, more than five years back, I think, well before I came here. He has… had… a brother and a sister, though, younger than him. His brother is in the Vale, squiring. I know not for which house, my lord, I'm sorry."
Tytos waved his hand, dismissing her concern. "It matters not. What about this sister?"
"She is called White Walda, my lord."
"Do you know where she is?" Lord Vance asked quietly. "Have you seen her?"
Roseinda's brows pinched together. "Not… not since the funeral pyres burned. She was there. I've not seen her since."
Men were sent to search White Walda's chambers while other members of the family and servants were questioned. A picture began to emerge as bits and pieces of information were revealed. Robert Frey had gone out with a hunting party two days before the Riverlords had made camp outside of the castle walls. He had not returned before Arya, her brothers, and the Northmen took the Twins. When a pile of discarded clothes were reported found on the floor of White Walda's room and a servant confirmed that the plain green gown was the one Walda had been wearing as the pyres burned, Ser Brynden speculated that Robert Frey must've returned that night, skulking outside of the perimeter of light emitted by the pyres. He'd likely pulled his sister aside at some point and convinced her to trade clothes with him so that he might sneak into the castle. He was not a large man, and he was not bearded, so the idea wasn't implausible.
"But, why?" the Blackfish pondered. "Was his love of old Walder so great that he felt he had to avenge him?"
"Greed," the Cat suggested, recalling the emotions rolling off the man as he burst into the great hall, "and rage. He felt he was owed the Twins, as the oldest surviving Frey male." She turned to look at her uncle. "The Twins belong to you, though, to do with as you choose, and so you were an obstacle to him, and therefore the object of his hate."
"That makes sense," Lord Smallwood nodded.
After further probing and discussion, the lords concluded that there was no wider conspiracy at play and that Robert Frey had acted alone. Arya wondered at White Walda, wandering somewhere outside the castle walls in her brother's clothes, but did not spare much pity for her. A woman grown living with the consequences of her choices was infinitely more just than the things the girl had seen befall children and babes in the streets of King's Landing and on the road to Harrenhal. Walda could choose to return to the Twins and beg forgiveness, or hope for some kindness among the smallfolk of the land, or starve to death in the woods. Arya would concern herself with it no longer.
Due to the unexpected appearance of Robert Frey in the great hall and all that followed, the proceedings had taken longer than planned. The dead man's body and those of the slain guards were removed, taken outside of the castle walls to be burned. By the time the investigation concluded and determinations were made, the sun had sunk low in the sky, bringing the dusk. Supper time had arrived. Servants began filtering in, bearing trays of food and pitchers of ale, water, and wine. No one had mentioned ravens or dragons in more than two hours and the discussion of Hoster Blackwood's plan and the strategy for dealing with Aegon Targaryen had been completely derailed.
Whatever relief Arya felt at that fact was short-lived, however.
"Raise your cups, you dogs, to my Lady of Stark," the Greatjon called out once tankards and cups had been filled with ale or wine, "the Butcher of the Crossing and the worst thing to happen to the Freys since her mother!"
"To Lady Stark!" the men cheered, laughing at Lord Umber's jape.
The mention of her mother caused the girl's eyes to go soft. She was momentarily lost to her own thoughts as she considered the vow she'd made to Lady Stoneheart. She'd fulfilled it, here, in this castle. Walder Frey had paid for his wrongs with his life, exactly as her mother had wished. And not just Walder, but his grown sons, grandsons, and great grandsons, those that lived beneath his roof, anyway, and his fighting men, too.
Valar morghulis.
Surely the Many-Faced god knew and was pleased with the work of his acolyte. Arya hoped Catelyn knew, too, somehow aware and nodding her approval from the shadowed Winterfell. The girl wondered how she could be both buoyed and so very sorrowful, all at once, over the same thought, but her attention was drawn away from such contemplations by yet another of the Greatjon's toasts.
"Raise 'em again, lads," he boomed, "and drink to the Lady of Winterfell, the pride of the North, as fearsome as any direwolf and more beautiful than a winter rose climbing an ice wall at sunrise!"
The girl scoffed at that, at the Greatjon waxing poetic, about her. Her lips twisted into a bemused smile as she looked down the length of the table at the Northman and shook her head as one would at an errant but amusing child.
"To the Lady of Winterfell!" the assemblage shouted in response, and then they all drank.
Lord Blackwood clapped his hands together with delight and turned to the girl, chuckling with gratification. "To Lady Stark," he said, his eyes piercing hers, his affection evident in the gaze, "daughter of my friend, Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, and of his wife, the Lady Catelyn Tully of Riverrun! Lady Stark, beloved daughter of two kingdoms, both the North, and the Riverlands!"
The men cheered and drank again, to her name and to the lands which had claim on her blood.
The Blackfish stood and raised his cup. "To my niece," he said, looking down at her, his voice tender yet somehow still grave, "the Lady Arya, who saved my life this day and spared countless others with her determination to take the Twins in the night, without an army."
"To Lady Arya!" all the men cried, and the girl began to feel ill at ease, but she smiled up at her uncle nonetheless.
Hoster Blackwood rose from his seat amid the Riverlanders in the hall, moving into the center aisle, tankard in hand. Arya's smile died. Hoster was not ashamed to declare that he was no warrior, but the girl wondered if there was perhaps more to fear in a clever, educated man than in a man who had mastered all the skills needed for combat.
Lord Hoster was a thinking man, armed with wits and all the knowledge several libraries and an observant mind could afford him. She wondered if perhaps that made him very dangerous indeed.
The din of the chamber quieted as he raised his cup.
"To Arya Stark," Hos began, "in whose veins flows the blood of the Kings of Winter."
The Northmen stood at the pronouncement, including the Greatjon, and the only noise they made was the sound of their chairs and benches being pushed back over the stone floor as they rose. Soon, others followed, and after a moment, the entire chamber was on its feet, save Arya herself. Hoster raised a hand to indicate he wasn't done speaking. No one said a word, and no one drank as they waited for him to continue.
"To Arya Stark, heir to Winterfell, to the North, and to the Winter Throne. To Arya Stark, our only hope."
He did not have to say where such hope should be applied. They all understood his meaning. There was no one among them with enough claim to tempt Aegon Targaryen to the negotiating table save Arya; no one who could hope to speak with enough authority, with enough backing and support, to be given consideration. Jon Connington had said the Iron Throne was Aegon's by right of blood. The dragons and those who supported them respected such claims. It certainly explained why they followed Aegon as their king rather than Daenerys as their queen despite her status as the mother of dragons. Amongst the people gathered at the Twins, amongst all the peoples of their two kingdoms, only a living Stark could boast such a right: the right of blood.
The men of the chamber roared their approval at the acknowledgment. Sentiment swelled, almost a living thing the girl could feel writhing around her, wrapping her up so tightly she found it difficult to breathe.
Suddenly, the great hall was no longer hosting a supper, but a council of lords once again. A great council. Theomar Smallwood rose from his chair, not for a toast, but to address the crowd which seemed to reluctantly settle back in their seats.
"If we're to agree to a plan to strengthen our lands, which we must if we are to have any chance of escaping bloody annihilation at the whim of this dragon king, it is essential that we unite behind one throne." Cries of aye were heard mixed with wordless shouts of agreement as the men banged their cups and tankards against the wooden tables.
Lord Blackwood rose, placing one hand upon the shoulder of his friend, indicating that he was claiming the right to speak. Theomar nodded and sat as the noise in the chamber abated, allowing Tytos to be heard. "The question we must answer today is will we bend the knee and unite behind the Iron Throne, regardless of who sits upon it…" He paused as the outcry of the assemblage burst forth. Once it had settled, he continued. "Or, will we instead choose a ruler for ourselves and unite behind a throne of our making?"
Arya felt a harsh thumping in her chest, but she couldn't tell if it was her own heart beating hard against the cage of her ribs, or if it was the roar of the men answering Lord Blackwood's proposition which reverberated through her. Perhaps it was both. Her eyes searched the chamber for a face to steady her. She found Harwin first, and his expression dripped with hard-won satisfaction as his stare seemed to move between her own face and Lord Blackwood's. She could not look to Jaime for reassurance unless she wished to twist completely around in her seat because he'd relocated to the spot behind her, along with Brynden Blackwood. They'd both taken the very first assignment in what would become her rotating schedule of constant personal guards according to the Kingslayer's plan. Finally, her eyes landed on the faces of her brothers. The Rat smirked while the Bear's look seemed to ask a question of his sister as they locked eyes.
What are you going to do?
What was she going to do? The girl barely had time to consider it before the Lord Umber stood and commanded the attention of the hall.
"I've lived long enough to see both dragons and stags say Westeros was theirs to rule, and I've seen each sat upon the Iron Throne," he said. "I fought and bled for King Robert because he was a friend to Winterfell, and because a lunatic dragon killed my liege lord and his son without just cause, and because another dragon stole Lady Lyanna from us. But fighting and bleeding to sit a stag on the Iron Throne didn't keep Ned Stark's head on his shoulders and it didn't stop every arsehole lord with a taste for power from rising up and saying his bum was the one that should sit on that ugly hunk of metal."
The Northmen in the hall pounded their fists on their table, half in support of the Greatjon's words, and half in remembrance of Ned Stark.
"When Robb Stark marched south, it was for his family's honor, and for love of his father, not for power. He didn't send out bloody ravens to tell the lords of the land he was now king, owed allegiance and treasure simply for saying so. We declared him our king because we did not mean to be ruled by those who looked upon our lands as battle grounds, robbing our wealth and spilling the blood of our people for their own schemes and petty squabbles."
"To King Robb!" several men in the chamber called out, and everyone drank, even Arya, who hoped a sip would soothe the aching lump in her throat that had formed at the mention of her father and brother.
"Aye, to Robb Stark," the Greatjon agreed, then added, "our murdered king, betrayed in this very feast hall." He peered down the table at Arya and raised his cup again. "And to his sister, Arya Stark, who avenged that murder and now sits in the seat of the traitor who chose the Iron Throne over his own king and his own people."
At the mention of Walder Frey, the chamber booed and jeered. Several calls for the traitor to burn in each of the seven bloody hells could be heard.
The Greatjon's gaze traveled further down the table and then out over the faces of the men in the hall. "M'lords, I'll not fault you for bending the knee to save your sons or your lands after the Iron Throne sent its army up the River Road and rewarded turncoats for doing the crown's dirty work, but I took no part in that surrender. I didn't bend the knee to any southron king then, and I don't intend to now, no matter how many titles this King Aegon has his Hand scribble on raven scrolls!"
"Aye!" called Royan Wull from below. "No Northman bent the knee, no real Northman, anyway, only that shit stain Bolton, and we'll take care of him soon enough, if he hasn't been dealt with already."
The mountain lord's boldness made Arya smile, despite herself. Taking care of Roose Bolton and his bastard seed was a plan to which she could lend her full support, as well as her blades.
"So, what are you saying, Lord Umber?" the Blackfish pressed.
"I'm saying the North owes nothing to the Iron Throne. The king who sits on it now is brother to the bastard who killed Ned Stark, and the king who is soon to sit on it is kin to the man who killed Rickard and Brandon Stark, and is little better than a foreign invader besides! I don't know this dragon king or his Dothraki aunt, and I don't mean to follow them. House Umber owes its allegiance to House Stark." The Greatjon stared down the table at the girl again and after a moment, he pointed at her directly. "There sits the only person I mean to follow. Arya of House Stark! She rescued me from Walder Frey's dungeon, she fought at my side and saved me from the sword of one of his fighting men, and I'd wager she's clever enough to avoid being killed by whichever arse ends up claiming the Iron Throne!"
The girl's throat felt very dry, but she did not reach for her cup.
"Aye!" Royan Wull agreed. "The Starks are the North. I've already pledged mine own sword to Lady Arya, when she rescued me from the dungeon, but now I speak as the head of House Wull, and House Wull will only pledge our swords to a Stark!"
All the Northern lords proclaimed their agreement, fists alternately pounding the table and pumping into the air as they cheered each pledge of fealty.
Despite her reluctance to be the face of the North, Arya's heart swelled to hear the Northmen declare allegiance to her house. They'd done it before, to a man, when she'd freed them from the dungeon, but this was different. This wasn't individuals pledging to fight beside her with only each other as witnesses, but lords committing their houses, their own blood and the blood of their sons, to follow the direwolf banner, and doing so before a great council.
And doing so even though it was she and not one of her brothers who rode beneath the banner. If only her father could be there to see it.
You are my grey daughter, and the hope of the North.
"We cannot consider the North alone, my lords," the Blackfish reminded them. "My obligation is to the Riverlands, and to my family. Lady Arya is my niece, and it is my duty, and my honor, to protect her."
The Greatjon scoffed at that. "I've only known her a few days, but even I can see Arya Stark needs no more protection than a snarling direwolf, or the Wall itself!"
"Even the Wall has men charged with protecting it," the Blackfish protested.
"Have you ever seen the Wall, Lord Tully?" the large Northman asked. "Seven hundred towering feet, and they say it's made as much of magic as of stone and ice. Men stand behind the Wall, garrisoned in the cold castles built along its length, claiming to guard it, aye, but it's the Wall that guards the men. Men fall, but the Wall does not. Not in eight thousand years."
The girl appreciated Lord Umber's vote of confidence in her abilities and she appreciated his loyalty to her family. She was not so certain she appreciated his unspoken suggestion that she seat herself at the head of a renegade kingdom.
There is no Winter Throne. That mad dream died with Robb. And I am no pretty banner for men to follow. They must be made to understand.
The girl stood, leaning over the table and bracing herself upon her extended arms, her gaze sweeping out over the assemblage from left to right. Her eyes found the Bear's before she began to speak. The assassin nodded his encouragement.
"My lords, I have been both a daughter of a great house and a slave to its enemies. I've been made to rely upon the kindness of strangers in a foreign land and I've been subjected to cruelty in my own. I have feasted in the great halls of Westeros and starved in the streets of its capital. I have bled, and I have shed the blood of others. I saw my father murdered for his honesty and liars rewarded for their deceit. I've had everything I ever prized pried from my fingers with force and I've been given gifts that are beyond price." Here, she thought of two iron coins tucked safely in the small satchel which rested under her pillow, gifts bestowed by two Faceless Men. And, she thought of the strange power that even now buzzed in the marrow of her bones, the gift with which she was imbued by the old gods. "You may see in me a temptation; something of value which you may use to bargain, but that is not me. If I ever had the ability to surrender, it's long gone now, so, if you are looking for a figurehead, you need to look elsewhere. I am for action, not words!"
It was a warning, a caution that she was not made for negotiations but battle. She was an assassin, and a thing of peculiar power that would frighten men if they could see it. And she would sooner slit a man's throat than sign an accord if it brought her closer to what she desired. Arya wished them to see she couldn't give them what they wanted. She wasn't a lady, at least not a good lady, not like Sansa would've been, for Arya could never be an ornament, lovely to behold, sparkling, and useless. She couldn't be the pretty thing which would draw Aegon's eye and lure him from a path of destruction so that he might be redirected toward diplomacy and predisposed to mercy. Her choices, her life, her fate, and her gods had built her for something different than that.
But the men did not hear the warning and took her words for bravery; a dauntless declaration that she would stand for them against the threat of the dragons; a promise that her knees were not made to bend and her head was not made to bow.
"Stark! Stark! Stark!" The chamber echoed with the cries of the men within it. The Greatjon did not hesitate.
"M'lords!" he bellowed, "Winter has come, and it has brought with it our queen! Arya Stark, Queen in the North!"
"Queen in the North!" all the Northmen echoed. "Queen in the North!"
"No!" Hoster Blackwood called out over the jubilant cheers of the men, and for a moment, relief washed over Arya and she thought, I may have failed to make them see, but he is a man of sense, and will soon set this right. Her faith was misplaced, however. "We cannot be two separate but allied kingdoms! Arya Stark cannot be Queen in the North and also Queen of the Trident!"
"King Robb claimed those exact titles," Theomar Smallwood objected.
"And less than a year after he was crowned, he was king no more," Hos replied, "even without the threat of dragons."
"Get your own queen then, boy," Corwin Harclay sneered. "This one belongs to the North!"
"There can be no North, and no Riverlands," Hos insisted. "We must be one kingdom, united behind one throne, our fortunes intertwined. It is the only way!"
"The boy is right," the Blackfish said. "Alone, neither the North nor the Riverlands can stand up an army large enough to give pause to the dragons, and neither is rich enough to fund our independence while waging war. But together, we have the resources and the men to give ourselves a fighting chance."
"Yes," Hoster agreed, "but to share our resources and our men, we must first agree to unite! There are too many weaknesses otherwise, history has shown us this. Even recent history. It must be one kingdom, my lords, under the rule of one sovereign."
"And that sovereign will be Arya Stark!" the Greatjon declared. "I will follow no other."
"Arya Stark it will be, yes, but not as Queen in the North."
"What then, boy?" Beren Tallhart demanded.
Hoster looked thoughtful a moment, then fastened his gaze on the Greatjon. "Lord Umber has said it. Winter has come and brought with it our queen. The Winter's Queen, for the Kingdom of Winter."
Slowly, the men rose. First, the lords at the high table, then those in the hall who were not already standing. They all stood, and stared at Arya who stared back, tingling from scalp to toes. She wanted to say this was wrong. She wanted to shout it, over and over, to be sure they all heard. She wanted to tell them that she was a ghost, or a Cat, or the Butcher of the Crossing, but not a queen (gods, the absurdity!), and that they had made a grave error in choosing her. She wanted to say all that, but she didn't, because the gentle vibrations in her bones had intensified to the point she was sure everyone could see her flesh tremble with them and hear the buzzing of them as loud as the sound of a war horn's blast. She felt as though she might shake apart with it, this power seeded through her by the old gods, and Him of Many Faces.
You are my grey daughter. The time is now.
She wanted to say they were wrong, but they weren't. To say so would be a lie. She could feel it, deep inside herself.
And then the men roared and cheered.
Arya Stark, the Winter's Queen!
The warrior queen!
The dancing wolf!
The Butcher of the Crossing!
Stark! Stark! Stark!
Uprising—Muse