You wanna talk sh*t?
You wanna run your mouth?
You want some gangstas front your muthaf*cking house?
Jon Connington paced as he waited. Patience had never been a virtue he'd claimed to possess. He regretted not reading the letter first, but when he'd cracked the wolf seal to see the thing was addressed specifically to Aegon, he'd handed it over after only a moment of hesitation. But now the king stood by the table in his solar, edges of the parchment pinched between his long fingers, his eyes continuously roving over the lines written there. His face was set in an indecipherable look. The letter was not so long that it should have required even a quarter of the time he'd spent perusing it to finish, which meant he'd been reading it again and again. It was as though he were making a study of the thing or committing it to memory.
Why?
The Hand had to stop himself from asking aloud.
Instead, he wondered at who had the audacity to address a letter to the Iron Throne so informally. Had Winterfell lost its maester and replaced him with a half-witted stable boy? Connington's mouth drew down. Humor, even when dark and sarcastic, even when restricted to the confines of his own mind, was not natural to him. Besides, as vulgar and discourteous as it was to address the king in the same way one might address an unacknowledged bastard, the script was far too elegant to have been written by anyone other than a well-educated person. This was how the Hand knew that insult was intended.
He'd suspected the North would be difficult. Hadn't it always been so? The place was full of stubborn fathers, rash sons, and daughters allowed too much freedom. Troublesome ideas conceived behind great drifts of snow and thick sheets of ice were allowed to flourish unchecked. Jon had always believed it was the cold that made them so surly; so vexingly independent. And Northmen practically considered themselves a breed apart. How much more so now that they fancied their lands part of a sovereign kingdom with a bloody Stark as their puppet ruler?
Grudgingly, he amended his assessment of Arya Stark after a moment. Though he didn't believe the Frey girl's tale was without heavy embellishment, he had to admit, if the so-called Winter's Queen had indeed murdered Walder Frey for the sake of revenge, perhaps she was a bit more than a simple puppet ruler. If nothing else, she was dangerous, at least to very old men caught in their beds.
Well, he was not very old yet, and he did not sleep, at least, not much, so he could put his mind to the problem of Arya Stark with little fear of her sort of retribution.
When he could stand it no longer, the Hand cleared his throat. The prompt had the desired effect, causing Aegon to look up and lower the scroll. His purple eyes regarded Jon.
"Well, what does it say? Who replies to us from Winterfell?"
"Not to us," the king corrected. "To me."
Neither the silver king's tone nor his countenance gave any hint as to his reaction to the content of the letter. Jon bit back his frustration.
"And what does Winterfell have to say to the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms?"
One corner of the king's mouth tugged up slightly and the movement seemed almost involuntary to his Hand.
"Winterfell? Nothing, apparently. But it seems Arya Stark has a few things to say to Aegon."
"Arya Stark…"
"She writes herself. In her own hand."
This drew Connington up short. "The girl is at Winterfell now?"
"So it would seem."
"Well?" It was obvious what little patience the Hand had was at its end.
"Well, she takes me to task for rudeness, informs me that I have no influence in the Riverlands or the North, makes it clear that she is not frightened of me or any force I may visit upon her realm, and bids me run and deliver personal messages for her as though I am her maidservant." All this, the king delivered in a bored tone, but his eyes sparked in a way that told his Hand he was anything but bored.
Jon's eyes narrowed at the news and his lips pinched grimly. "Her advisors must be a collection of drunkards and addlepated savages if they allow her to write such things to you."
Aegon laughed a little, saying, "My impression is that no one allows her to do anything. Impressive, really, for a girl of… six and ten? Or is it seven and ten now?"
The king knew very well how old the little pretender was. Why he should feign ignorance was beyond Jon. More disturbing, though, was the idea that her lack of decorum and her obvious willfulness were somehow appealing to the young man.
"Impressive to be a headstrong brat who knows how to put quill to parchment and scratch out insults? Hardly."
"She does guarantee Lord Dayne safe passage, so that was nice."
"Nice?" the Hand nearly spat.
The king hummed, his eyes taking on a faraway look. "She went on a bit about him. Calls him Ned."
"Most of the people who knew him from childhood do," Jon pointed out.
"It seems overly familiar."
"So does addressing a scroll to Aegon."
"Oh, no, I'm quite sure that was meant to emphasize her lack of regard for me."
"Even worse."
The king shrugged. "I've given her no reason to respect me yet."
"Your name and the throne upon which you sit are the only reasons this impudent girl should require."
"I think not." The king glanced down at the scroll before meeting the Hand's gaze again. "More to the point, she thinks not."
Jon sighed. "Your grace, will you not reconsider Daenerys? She's much more suitable, both in age and rank, and…"
Aegon tensed, hissing, "She tried to kill me so she could take what is mine by rights!"
The Hand reined in his irritation before replying. "Do not allow your pride to blind you to what is important."
"I am not," the king assured him, "but are you certain you're not allowing old enmities to blind you?"
"I don't know what you mean," Connington sniffed. Aegon approached him, sliding the scroll behind his back as he reached out with his other hand and placed it on his foster father's shoulder. Being several inches taller, the king had to dip his head to catch the man's eyes. In that purple gaze, the Hand could read the boy's sympathy.
"Arya Stark is not her aunt, Jon."
"I know that."
"And I am not my father," he added quietly.
Jon shook his head. "You're not. No. You are not Rhaegar. You have a real chance to set this kingdom to rights. Unlike your father, you are not yet doomed by your choices." He sighed deeply, his brow drawing down as he reached out and placed his calloused palm against Aegon's cheek. "Do not allow yourself to make his mistakes. You must be better than Rhaegar. You must succeed where he failed. Both for your sake, and for the kingdom's."
"I will. I will succeed where he failed. Don't you see? My desire to do so is the thing, the only thing, which drives me."
"How can you hope to avoid your father's failures when you are walking down the exact path that led him to calamity?"
Aegon laughed. "Our paths could not be more different!"
Connington dropped his hand from the king's face with a disgusted sound and resumed his pacing.
"All you see is a Stark girl and a silver prince. Or, king, rather," Aegon amended. "But you must look deeper, Jon."
"Deeper. Bah!"
"My father's mad pursuit of Lady Lyanna was the spark that set the tinder alight. The whole kingdom caught fire, and it has burned ever since. His plan was ill-timed and unnecessary. He was too focused on prophecy, poorly understood prophecy at that, and did not heed reality. His error tore the kingdom apart. This is not an error I will make."
"You are making it as we speak!"
"No, I'm not," he insisted, "because my pursuit is not mad, and it is not a spark, but the rain which douses the flames and quenches the parched ground. It will not destroy, but mend what has been broken. A wolf and a dragon plunged this kingdom into chaos. It is only right that a wolf and a dragon should finally restore order."
The Hand ceased his pacing and stared at his toes, his expression one of sadness. "A sweet dream, my boy, but only that. A dream."
The corners of Aegon's mouth pulled up a little as he murmured, "It's not a dream, Jon. It's a sound plan. And what's more, it's destiny."
Destiny.
That word struck at Jon's heart like a dagger carved from ice.
Rhaegar had talked of destiny, too, his amethyst eyes even more certain then than his son's were now. Rhaegar, with all his intelligence, all his compassion, all his fierceness and goodness and grace… Rhaegar, the king Westeros had needed, stolen away by a usurper's crude blow which splintered his bones and crushed his heart, even as it crushed any hope the kingdom had for stability and prosperity. Where had his precious destiny been then?
Such a romantic notion, destiny. He understood why the idea of it had appealed to Rhaegar. The man had been built for romance, for faith, for all the grand ideals one could summon from the air. Dreams and hopes and belief were in his very blood. Jon had tried, gods, how he'd tried, to bleed them out of his son. He'd thought himself successful, too, fool that he was. Yet here Aegon stood, grounded and strong, confident and resolute, but still somehow an adherent to this foolish idea of destiny.
The Hand closed his eyes and released a pained breath. If he thought the gods ever did more than just laugh at the pointless prayers of men, he'd rush to the sept and fall to his knees, begging them that just this once, a Targaryen's unfounded surety of his own destiny would not mean his death.
As it was, the best he could do now was accept defeat and regroup. He'd lost this battle, perhaps, but he understood very well that there were always setbacks in war.
After Lord Connington had left the king to meet with leaders of the various guilds of the capital, Aegon sank into a chair and stared at the scroll penned by the Winter's Queen.
Not that she'd named herself such in her message. But at least she'd allowed herself her surname. He'd been denied even that. The very idea of it was surprisingly amusing. Perhaps it should've angered him. It had certainly provoked Jon, but Aegon found himself more intrigued than upset.
The king's eyes traced the slant of the letters on the paper, the swirls and swoops made by Arya Stark's hand, noting that there was not a single errant drop of ink or even the smallest smear evident on the parchment. Her writing was precise without seeming studied, delicate without a hint of hesitancy, and meticulous without looking strained. It was a devious sort of thing, he mused, to give the impression of flawlessness with such a decided air of nonchalance.
And then there were the downstrokes.
For as graceful as the curls and curves of her letters were, each downstroke somehow resembled the blade of a dagger, sharp and straight.
It had to be purposeful, and yet he could see no evidence in the ink that it was anything other than her natural way of writing.
Staring at her hand, at the elegant curves and menacing daggers, Aegon found himself wondering at the sort of person this Winter's Queen must be. Was she, like her writing, graceful and lovely to behold but boiling with danger just below the surface? Was precision an innate part of her temperament or was it merely a veneer which masked a barely contained chaos within her?
And what of the content of her message?
Unconscious arrogance, he thought, but that wasn't quite right. It was more like… assuredness. Arya Stark was absolutely secure in her position, at least her own perception of what it was, and completely convinced of her authority. Aegon shook his head slightly, befuddled.
From where did this confidence come? She'd been queen all of an hour.
His own thoughts wrought from him a chuckle. Was he not much the same?
As for playing the role of messenger between the girl and Lord Dayne, Aegon did not see that it was necessary. Edric was set to depart the capital on the morrow—better not to distract him from his preparations.
Sad to leave such friendly tidings undelivered, but life was full of disappointments.
The king's gaze grew soft, unfocused. The words on the parchment blurred as he sorted through what else he'd gleaned from the message.
The girl had humor, but also the boldness to ignore his threats while hinting at her own. He could not tell if that was youthful inexperience or some inexplicable belief in her own strength. Had murdering a decrepit lord and being rewarded with a crown for her trouble convinced her she was a match for the Iron Throne?
News from the North had been sparse, but from what he'd been told, the girl's bastard brother commanded an army of sorts. A large one, however undisciplined it might be. Perhaps that was what emboldened her. And the support of the River lords couldn't have hurt. Who knew what sort of platitudes and promises they had whispered in her ear? They'd certainly been cagey about it. About her.
Would they be so cagey if they understood who backed him and what he'd been promised?
Would they dare defy him if they knew who had brokered his betrothal?
Little matter. Men always proudly wore the mantle of their supposed courage when threats were distant or indistinct. An assassin's guild across the sea might give them pause, but he'd wager the great lords would still bluster and brag and continue in their resistance until their throats were caught by the edge of the knife. The more immediate danger to them was that posed by his aunt. Or, her terrible children, rather.
Perhaps instead of trying to puzzle out who Arya Stark really was, his time would be better spent figuring out how to claim Daenerys' power as his own.
Without being forced to marry her.
Bastard of Bolton,
Now that I am settled back in my home, it is time to clarify certain matters with you.
I will not bear a grudge against you for claiming to make a bride of me so long as you cease your grotesque assertions now. I am much occupied with the business of the kingdom and do not have the luxury of wasting time being enraged or disgusted. I do insist, however, that you address my brother properly, or barring that, not at all. I've named him castellan of Winterfell and that position alone accords him your respect. Any further insult to him will incur my wrath.
Unfortunately, I cannot forgive you for sacking Winterfell, nor for the lives you took here. You will be made to answer for your actions, but if you stay quietly behind the walls of the Dreadfort and make no further trouble, I will allow you to live out what time you have left in peace. Additionally, I will guarantee that at the appointed hour, your death will be quick and clean.
Defy me in this, and you will die scared and screaming.
I am,
Arya Stark
Queen of the Winter Kingdom
Beloved Wife,
How delightful to hear from you after all these years. I had nearly given up hope I would ever see you again, but now I understand you simply love games as much as I do. We are a matched pair, you and me. What fun we'll have together when you finally return to my side where you belong.
I have been remiss in thanking you for your lovely gift. Some ill-mannered mountain clansmen delivered it to our gates. Tell me, were you there when the deed was done? Did you wield the blade? Or did you merely give the order? I should be disappointed to learn you took no part in it, considering the beautiful promises you made to me in your letter. Scared and screaming, was it? My darling bride, when next I see you, I can promise there will be screaming, though I suspect you are the one who will be scared.
As for your bastard brother, please give him my regards. I've yet to meet the man, but I hope to, very soon. Tell me, how shall I know him? I suspect his conception resulted from your father rutting with a wild sow, so I suppose if I see an ugly boar with Stark grey eyes, that will be him. You must deliver him my congratulations for his rise in rank. How fitting that you've named him castellan. I have already killed one of Winterfell's castellans. It shall be my pleasure to make it two.
I'll let you return to the business of the kingdom now. I know how heavily it weighs on your mind. Being wed to such an accomplished woman fills me with great pride. I hope that very soon, I can express my admiration for you face to face.
Your loving husband,
Ramsay Bolton
King of the Winter Kingdom
P.S. You should be receiving my gift soon. I hope you find it to your liking. Do let me know—I have several more here I can send you.
"Who is he?" Jon asked his sister grimly.
It would have been difficult to say with the way the flesh had been peeled from the man's cheeks and forehead, but Arya recognized him by the thick mop of shining black curls atop his severed head.
"Lonn Liddle," she seethed, her jaw clenched nearly as tightly as her fist.
"A mountain lord?" her brother confirmed.
Arya nodded. "A brave and loyal man." The anger in her expression was unmistakable. "He survived years as Walder Frey's prisoner, only to die at Ramsay's hand before he could return to his home." The admission was sour on her tongue.
"A dastardly act, yer grace," Lord Wull growled, "carried out by a truculent fiend." The girl's eyes grew even harder at Royan's pronouncement.
Jon nodded to the guard who had brought the small chest into the castle and the man slammed the lid shut. As the latch fell and caught, Jon addressed him. "Find another rider to accompany you and return Lord Liddle's head to his people. I'll have Maester Matias pen a letter for you to take."
"No," the queen said. "I'll write it myself. He died carrying out a task for me. I'll write it."
The guard bowed and left the assembled council in the solar. When the door closed behind him, Arya slumped against the back of her chair. She fairly trembled with her anger. One Northman lost was one too many. Lonn Liddle had been her father's bannerman. Then Robb's. It had only been when he'd become hers that he'd lost his life.
Suddenly, her guilt battled with her rage.
"Your grace," the Greatjon rumbled, "the others may yet live."
"They do," Howland Reed stated with certainty.
"I'll gather a company," Lord Umber began, "and I'll send a raven to the Last Hearth. They can muster what men they have and…"
"No." The girl sounded tired as she spoke, and she stared at the edge of the table before her.
"No?" The Greatjon's brow furrowed deeply, and he frowned. "You can't mean for me to leave those men, my own kin, in the Dreadfort's dungeons! That sick whore's son is probably flaying the skin off their bodies as we sit here and debate."
"I don't mean to leave them in Ramsay's clutches," Arya said, suddenly straightening then leaning forward so she could pound her fist against the table, "but neither do I mean to lose you to an arrow sent over top of the Dreadfort's walls!"
Not one more of her men. Not if she could help it.
"What do you propose, your grace?" The question came from Brynden Blackwood.
What did she propose?
Arya considered for a moment, her anger filling her mind with sharp, red thoughts.
She proposed that her men leave her to her own devices and allow her to deal with this in her way. She proposed that she stand up from this table and leave this room, make for the stables, and ride forth on Bane to the Dreadfort where she would put an end to the nuisance of Ramsay Fucking Snow once and for all. She proposed that she enter the Dreadfort as she did the Twins, with both Facelessness and ruthlessness in equal measure. She proposed to repay Ramsay for Ser Rodrik, Lonn Liddle, and the burning of Winterfell all at once. She proposed to end his leech lord father for his betrayal of his king, her brother.
She proposed vengeance.
The queen understood very well that no one in the chamber would agree to such schemes. They'd name it madness or folly, even after the Twins. There was more at stake now. She was crowned, and queens did not abscond from their castles to carry out assassination plots, no matter how righteous. Instead, they listened to advisors. They engaged in strategy and directed armies (with the help of the men around them, of course). They planned sieges and made declarations of war.
They negotiated.
Arya's lips wound themselves into her malicious smile.
"I propose to meet with the Boltons."
Jaime scowled and the girl had no doubt he understood her intentions, at least in the vaguest sense. He'd suspected all along she meant to lure Ramsay to her or else visit him at the Dreadfort. He'd said as much when she'd tried to dissuade Jon from riding north of the Wall.
Well, the Kingslayer could scowl and frown all he liked, but he could not expect her to ignore this aggression.
"You'd invite that filth to our home after the mockery they made of it?" Jon asked, his grey eyes stormy.
"Never," she assured him. "I'll go to them."
The room burst into an uproar at the queen's words.
Your grace, you can't!
You mean to deliver yourself directly to the monsters?
Better to lose ten thousand men breaking against their walls than lose our queen!
The Boltons cannot be trusted, there is no way to guarantee your safety under their roof.
Those fucking cunts will lob the heads of your men over their walls at you as you stand at their gates begging entry.
(That last was Lord Umber's assessment of the situation.)
As usual, it was Lord Hoster's calm tone which cut through the din.
"Your grace, do you mean to negotiate for the release of the prisoners?"
"No, Lord Hand, I mean to kill Roose Bolton, and his bastard son then release my men myself."
"They may suspect as much, after Riverrun and the Twins," Hos pointed out.
"Perhaps," she acknowledged, "but even so, they won't be able to resist."
"No? And why is that, your grace?" the Kingslayer asked, giving her a dubious look.
"Because despite what tales have reached their ears, they are not scared of me. Ramsay's letters confirm it. They may have heard stories, but they do not accept them as truth. They do not understand who I am. They do not believe my reputation is earned."
Lord Hoster regarded her shrewdly. "They will want you behind their walls because they believe they can hold you and rule the kingdom in your name from the Dreadfort."
"They underestimate me, so will welcome me with open arms, probably hoping to force a real marriage," the girl added. "Ramsay already styles himself King of the Winter Kingdom."
"Are we seriously discussing this?" Jon blurted. He was beside himself. "There is no way I'm letting you do this. No bloody way!"
"I agree with Lord Snow," Ser Brynden said. "You'd make yourself a hostage and they'd use the Northern prisoners as leverage to insure your cooperation."
Arya scoffed at that. "I'll slay them long before they make me a hostage, ser."
"Too much risk," the Greatjon said, his face grave. "I know what you can do, your grace, but we don't know how many fighting men dwell behind Bolton's walls. At a certain point, numbers outweigh skill, even skill like yours."
"When Roose and Ramsay are dead, the numbers will cease to have meaning," the girl argued. "Will a household guard fight for a corpse? Will he die for one?"
"The numbers have meaning if they stand between you and your target," Ser Jaime warned. "How will you make corpses of men you can't reach?"
"I'll reach them, same as I reached old Walder."
"Roose and Ramsay are not frail old men to be caught unawares in their beds," Jaime said.
"Then I'll reach them the same way I did Hosteen Frey," the girl retorted. "He was no frail old man either." She looked toward Hos. "Remind us, Lord Hand, how was Hosteen Frey found? In what state was he?"
"Dead, your grace," the young lord replied, "with his head in his chamber pot and his body violently tangled in his sheets."
"There, you see?" the queen said with an air of satisfaction. "Two castles filled with men hostile toward me, yet Walder Frey and his son Hosteen met their end at my hand. What makes the Dreadfort any different?"
"Because they will know you're coming," Ser Brynden said.
"They will know the queen is coming," she corrected, "but they won't be expecting me at all."
"Arya," Jon groaned as he shook his head.
"This is expedient, and it will work," the girl told him plainly. "We don't know how much time we have until Ramsay decides to gift me another head."
"Sister," the brooding lord continued, his voice pleading.
"I'll hand pick the men of the delegation," she continued, ignoring him. "The Boltons won't know who my true advisors are, so it should be easy enough to pass them off as councilors."
"And just who do you propose to take with you inside the walls of the Dreadfort?" Ser Jaime demanded, rising from his seat and crossing his arms over his chest.
"Ser Willem Ferris, for one, and Baynard…"
"His squire?" the Kingslayer spat in disbelief.
"And Augen Heldere."
"Augen Hel… Do you mean that Skagosi savage?" Jaime nearly vibrated with his incredulity. "Have you taken leave of your senses, Stark?"
"Aye, she has," Jon bellowed, "if she thinks she's choosing men to accompany her on some doomed rescue mission!"
He was throwing her words back in her face. She supposed he had a right to do so, considering she hadn't entertained the idea of him ranging north to find Bran, not even for a second. But the situations were completely different. She would have to make him see that.
"Why those men, your grace? You have men here who know Roose Bolton and understand how his mind works. And surely, there are more capable warriors," Ser Brynden suggested, "and more capable commanders."
Perhaps, she thought, but there are no more capable assassins. At least, not that I have at my disposal.
And it wasn't Roose Bolton's mind that presented a challenge, but Ramsay's.
"Every man I named is an unrepentant killer," Arya told him. "When we are behind the locked gates of the Dreadfort, I need to know each man with me will do what needs doing without hesitation. I cannot afford any attacks of conscience when the time comes." She could not afford for one lord to see the value in the life of another. Roose Bolton would not be spared, and she would not allow political machinations to interfere with what needed doing.
Jaime's eyes narrowed to slits as he regarded the queen, but he said nothing except, "You're insane if you believe I would let you enter that place without your guard."
"Of course I must have my Winter Guard," she agreed, her tone the same she might use to reassure a young child. "After all, I have an image to uphold."
The delicate queen, in need of protection.
Both Jon and Jaime frowned at that. It was all too much for her brother. He leaned forward, forearms folded one atop the other as they rested on the table. "My lords," he implored hoarsely, "give us the room."
The members of Arya's council shuffled out, silent and grim. When they were gone and the door snapped shut behind them, Jon began to speak, his eyes still cast down on the table.
"Arya, this is madness. We both know it."
"It's not. It's the easiest way to get close to them." At least, it was the easiest way which she thought she could talk her advisors into accepting. It would have been much easier for her to ride out with the Bear in the night, slip into the Dreadfort using the face of a Bolton guard and start cutting throats, but her unexplained absence would create an uproar that would be tedious to soothe. Aside from that, not including Gaelon in the plan could result in consequences she was not willing to endure.
"How can you expect me to allow it?"
"Do you really think that bastard a danger to me?" She cocked an eyebrow as she asked it.
"Arya, you don't know what he did to the loyal men of Winterfell. To the servants. You don't know what he did to the iron born at Moat Cailin. And poor Jeyne Poole… He's more dangerous than you realize. He's like a rabid dog."
"Rabid dogs need to be put down, don't they brother?"
Jon's expression grew dark. "You're not the one to do it!"
"I'm the only one who can," she whispered.
"You cannot ask this of me," he insisted, and his eyes were pained.
The girl shook her head. "I'm not asking." She rose from her seat and glided around the table until she reached him, her step smooth and silent. Arya turned and leaned against the table so that she could look down at her brother. After a moment, she reached out and smoothed his hair back from his forehead.
"I only just got you back," he muttered bitterly, refusing to meet her gaze.
"You'll still have me."
This time he did look at her, but it was with a glare. "You can't know that!" he hissed. His sister sighed.
"You said you'd curb your needless worry."
"This doesn't feel needless, Arya."
"You must trust me when I say it is."
He laughed darkly. "Must I?"
"Enough!" she cried, snatching her hand back from his hair and using it to grip the table edge so firmly, her knuckles lost their color. "Good men, my men, sit in cells beneath the Dreadfort while we argue! He cannot have them. I will not allow it! I don't require your permission to do what needs to be done, Jon, but I'd like your cooperation. If couched as a royal visit to negotiate a truce, I may take the Winter Guard and a company of men with me. But if you and the council will not agree to it, then I will be forced to go with only two or three loyal men."
"Arya…"
"Believe me, I'd actually prefer it that way, but I'm trying to spare you and the rest of the advisors undue worry."
"Undue?" he scoffed.
"You're worse than Ramsay!"
Jon's expression marked him as affronted. "What?"
"He will welcome me happily because he does not know to fear me. But you… You made Hoster tell you those stories, and Gendry, too. You made me tell them! You know how I escaped the Red Keep, Harrenhal… You know what happened at Riverrun and the Twins. You know under whose tutelage I learned in Braavos. And still, you think me weak!"
"I don't think you weak, Arya," he replied, his voice cracking, "I just don't think you immortal."
Jon's tone drew his sister up short. She stared down at him in sympathy, then pushed away from the table and slid into his lap. Gripping his shoulders, she pressed her forehead to his. "Immortality is not required to best the Boltons," she murmured. "For what I have in mind, all I'll need is a bit of mummery, a stout heart, and sharp steel. And just one more thing…"
"What's that?"
"Your strong backing when the council reconvenes."
The brooding lord heaved a great sigh. "It's completely unfair, you know."
"What is?"
"That I could never deny you anything. Not since you were old enough to ask for it."
The girl smiled and pressed a soft kiss against her brother's cheek. "You're a good man, Jon Snow."
When he awoke, Aegon plucked the rolled parchment from Winterfell from its spot on his bedside table, unfurling Arya Stark's message and reading it again in the morning sun streaming through the window of his chamber. Later, he read it in the flickering candlelight in his solar after Lord Tyrion had departed following their meeting. He'd perused it as the servants cleared away the dishes from his solitary supper, though that time, he'd mostly been studying the way she'd formed the letters of his name rather than the contents of the message. The king brooded over the scroll for a full two days before penning his reply. When he could stand it no longer, he locked himself away with parchment and quill and made the girl an answer.
My Lady of Stark,
I hope you will accept my apology for any offense caused by the tone of the last letter sent by my maester. You must understand, that message was not directed at you or intended for your eyes. It was, as you pointed out, meant to guarantee the safety of a true friend and trusted bannerman as he travels through hostile lands. Edric Dayne is a man we both know to be a worthy lord and as such, he deserves all the protection I can afford him. I thank you for adding your voice to mine in an effort to keep him safe along his journey.
I regret that I was unable to deliver your message to him as he had already departed the capital before I received your scroll. I'll admit that curiosity led me to inquire as to the meaning of a milk brother. It was not a term familiar to me. My septa was able to shed light on the subject, though the price was rather steep. First, she looked at me as though I'd asked something deeply inappropriate, and then she laughed at me most heartily. And now, I simply must know who Lord Dayne's milk brother is. I think I've earned that right.
I am,
Aegon VI Targaryen, King of the Seven Kingdoms
"Valar morghulis," the Cat murmured as she passed Augen Heldere in the training yard. He was leaning back against a post watching Rickon and Young Brax cross blades as the Bear called out encouragement and instruction. As usual, Arya had her swords at her back and hip, but she did not stop to spar. Instead, she continued to the godswood, bidding her guardsmen to leave her in peace to pray. As was their custom, they posted on either side of the door leading into the wood rather than following her in. She meandered through the trees, taking her time, so she was not surprised to find the false-Skagosi waiting for her near the weirwood when she arrived.
"Valar dohaeris," he greeted.
"It's your service I've come to discuss," she told him plainly. He merely raised an eyebrow in return. The girl stalked toward him on silent feet and when she reached him, she stood before him a moment, regarding his expression. It gave away nothing, of course. Finally, she said, "I want you to come with me to the Dreadfort."
"And why would you be going to the Dreadfort, little wolf?" His tone indicated he knew exactly why she was going.
"To kill the Boltons."
"Tedious."
"Perhaps, but necessary."
"Is it?" Gaelon did not look convinced. "Tell me why."
She gave him the answer she thought he would find most compelling. "They're a threat to me."
The assassin laughed. "No, they're not."
The Cat huffed. "They killed a loyal man and hold several more under threat."
"A handful of half-trained savages. You'll hardly know they're gone."
"They're a distraction I cannot afford!"
"Have you already forgotten how to rule your face?" the handsome man scoffed. "Does one bastard boy's mischief really set your teeth so on edge?"
The girl gave a frustrated growl. "I'm going to the Dreadfort. I will take the heads of Roose and Ramsay. I'm asking you to come so that you cannot accuse me of failing to fulfill our bargain."
"Was it a bargain, my girl? I'd rather thought it an order."
She sighed, not allowing herself to show her annoyance. Instead, she slid her palm against the assassin's chest, looking into his gemstone eyes and pausing for a beat before murmuring, "Gaelon, please." She did not know if her use of his name would melt or madden him, so she held her breath.
The assassin flicked his eyes over top of her head a moment, staring into the distance and the Cat braced herself for his reaction. When it came, it surprised her, though she did her best to remain still and unmoved.
Gaelon covered her hand with his own, holding her fingers in place over his heart, and he pinned her eyes with his gaze. "Tell me your plan."
Ramsay,
Scared and screaming, then. I'll see you soon.
A.S.
My darling bride,
My father tells me your maester has sent details about your impending visit. I am glad of it since your last message to me was short on particulars. The maester assured him you are looking for a peaceable solution to welcome our family back into the fold while securing the release of your coarse mountain brutes. Those still alive, that is.
I am giddy with anticipation of your arrival. Father is having a chamber prepared though I told him it was unnecessary. After all, should not a wife join her husband in bed? I hope you are of the same mind as me in this. I do plan to be a good husband to you. Not at all like your whoremongering father was to your mother. There will only be true born children for me. I will suffer no others to live.
That reminds me, will your bastard brother be joining us for this parley? I do so long to make his acquaintance.
Travel well, sweetling. I shall dream of you until we are reunited. Perhaps I'll share some of those dreams with you after you arrive, and then we shall see which of us is scared and screaming.
Your devoted husband and king,
Ramsay Bolton
Lord Tytos Blackwood enjoyed a quiet midday meal with his wife, his daughter, and his youngest son, Baby Bobbin. When he'd eaten his fill, he kissed his lady on her cheek, squeezed his daughter's shoulder, and ruffled his son's hair before moving to his solar to see to his correspondence. The maester had brought him a few scrolls from the River lords. The Blackfish wrote, as did Lord Piper and Lord Vance, though the latter had more questions than news of import to relate. When those scrolls were read and the maester had taken his answers as dictation, he dismissed the grey robed man and jotted off a message to the queen.
Your grace,
Lord Dayne has arrived at our gates, and we host him currently. He is an affable young man and as he and Alyn are of an age, the two have gotten on well. Currently, they hunt boar together north of Raventree Hall, but we expect them back by supper tomorrow. Bethany, too, is taken by the lord and he has behaved most graciously toward her.
Despite his pretty manners and ease of conversation, Lord Dayne has revealed little of his king's intentions toward our kingdom and you, but my impression is the king sent him to broker a peace or an alliance. I wish to remind you that while peace is good, acquiescence is not. With that in mind, I should like to guarantee more time for Lord Piper and Ser Marq to complete their tasks, as well see the improvements to Moat Cailin finished before engaging in any sort of negotiation. Let them witness our strength and understand it fully before they make their demands.
To this end, I suggest we keep Lord Dayne entertained at Raventree Hall for as long as we are able to entice him to stay. His temperament is so accommodating, I do not think he would like to give offense if Lady Blackwood plans a feast in his honor or if Bethany asks him to accompany her hawking. Sadly, without you here, we have no one to distract him in the training yard as neither Alyn nor myself can boast anywhere near his talent with his sword.
Your most loyal servant,
Tytos Blackwood
Raventree Hall
Dear Father,
Our queen rides for the Dreadfort, intent on meting out justice for that ugly business with Lord Liddle and freeing the Northmen held there. The entirety of the council was unable to dissuade her and somehow, she bewitched Lord Snow into changing his absolute opposition to unwavering support. Initially, only Hoster saw sense in her plan. I love my brother, but I question his suitability for the role our queen has seen fit to bestow upon him.
I am left back at Winterfell, charged with assessing our fighting strength and organizing the soldiers' training while Lord Snow redoubles his efforts to shore up the defenses of the castle. We expect Lord Dayne's upcoming visit is merely a prelude to the arrival of Aegon himself and wish to present a strong face when the king finally shows.
Please pass my love to mother and my siblings, especially Bethany. I urge you to consider presenting her at court. Queen Arya has but two ladies currently and my sister is well suited for such a position. I can foresee no objection on the queen's part, and with the return of her younger brother, the number of lords present in the castle, and a likely royal visit, I can only assume Bethany's prospects for an advantageous marriage would be multiplied significantly.
Your faithful son,
Brynden
The pomp is paltry when the queen arrives at the Dreadfort, and it feels like a poor mummer's farce. There is more steel than veneration on display, more tension than tribute. Roose bends his knee, but he cannot hide his disdain as he does so. Ramsay, though… Ramsay's mouth is arranged in a delighted grin showing too many teeth and his full lips give Arya an unsettled feeling as they meet the back of her hand in a kiss which lingers.
Lord Bolton greets the Kingslayer coldly, and there is something which passes between them as he does. Judgment, Arya thinks, on the part of each man for the other. Roose glances at the knight's golden hand, the suggestion of a smile appearing on his cruel mouth, then disappearing almost as quickly as it came. For his part, Jaime merely flicks his eyes at Ramsay, then back at his father with an expression that reads as sympathy, though it is undeniably false.
There is a supper, and it feels wrong to call it either welcoming or celebratory. None of her queensguard eat. Instead, they stand nearby, all five, and Gendry too, his addition to the party secured by the shocking insistence of Ser Jaime. Arya stands and offers a toast to 'peaceful relations', turning quickly and clinking her goblet against her surprised host's with a smile. The gesture is not out of place in the circumstance, but it does not feel appreciated. Still, the lord drinks to her toast, Arya watching him over the rim of her own goblet as he does.
Conversation is stilted and halting, except when Ramsay speaks. It's as if he revels in the disquiet. He laughs at intervals, high pitched and odd, even when no one speaks. He tells Arya that she's grown so much more beautiful in her absence and when she blandly tells him to stop his pretense, that everyone present knows there was no marriage, he laughs again, telling her he has a septon stashed away that will swear to the authenticity of their union.
"Consummated many times over," he says with that same strange laugh, then adds, "but we can consummate it again tonight, if you so desire, my darling."
Despite herself, Arya's skin crawls. She hides her revulsion admirably well. Gendry, however, does not, and Jaime sends the dark knight to inspect the queen's chambers before she goes up to bed. His efforts prevent an inconvenient incident, she is sure, and the girl resolves to thank her Lord Commander for it later.
Lord Bolton insists they save all talk of prisoner release and truces for the morning when they are all better rested and in good humor. The girl does not balk. She sees no sense in wasting time on discussions that will amount to nothing in the end. It is her intention that neither Roose nor his son will be in any sort of humor, good or otherwise, when the next day dawns.
After she arrives in the chamber the Boltons have prepared for her, first she pens a letter, one written in answer to the dragon king, then hands it to Ser Podrick outside her door, asking him to deliver it to Maester Samwell. She does not trust the maester of the Dreadfort to tend to it and is thankful Jon insisted she bring Sam along. Of course, he'd simply meant for her to have someone trustworthy to counteract any poisons or tend any wounds the party might suffer. Still, the girl does not relish the idea of her correspondence being intercepted. She is sure Maester Samwell will safeguard her letter as though it contains battle plans or state secrets. It contains neither, of course.
After the task is done, she changes her clothes. She dons a thin nightdress that isn't well suited for the Northern climate but one she hopes will convince Ramsay to allow her into his bedchamber. As it turns out, she needn't have bothered. Before she can step one toe beyond her own threshold, the bastard greets her in an amused tone from the corner of her room as he steps through a door concealed behind a tapestry.
"Hello, sweetling," he says, a slow grin stretching his mouth.
"I don't understand why you agreed to this," the Rat groused as he continued to saw at the neck of a very dead Roose Bolton with his serrated dagger. His master frowned.
"Your understanding is not required." The handsome man had finished stacking the corpses of the household guards they'd encountered in the corridor outside of the lord's bedchamber and was now watching his apprentice work. Roose was nearly expired by the time they'd made it to his bedside, his agony written plain on his face and in his rattling breaths. The little wolf's poison had done its work.
She was good. He'd thought the girl's toast a little out of character, so he'd been immediately suspicious, but the Boltons did not know the girl at all, and so had suspected nothing.
The Rat buried his discontent, unwilling to pique his master, but he frowned while he worked. "Why does she want the head?"
"Perhaps you should ask her. She's your sister."
"Hmph."
The younger man's ire seemed to amuse his master. "What's that?"
"She's not," the Rat said. "She was, but now she's not."
"Is it so easy to disregard your history together? All those years of training?"
The Rat shrugged. "She didn't take her oath. I owe my loyalty to the order."
The handsome man nodded, his look thoughtful. He could see his apprentice took it as approval, and it should have been. Maybe it even was. What the boy said was correct. And yet…
Gaelon surprised himself by questioning the coldness of the sentiment. It brought to mind his own brother. Jaqen. Only, that had not been his name when they were boys. Still, it was undeniably his name now.
He undeniably had a name now.
Even so, that betrayal, that transgression was not enough to inspire Gaelon to abandon him.
It should have been.
His brother remained in his heart, though, despite everything. Gaelon might be angry, he might feel betrayed, he might resent the choices Jaqen had made, but he could not forsake his friend. His first friend.
How was this rat-faced boy more Faceless than he in this instance? How had his apprentice evaded attachment so thoroughly?
The Myrish man's face was blank. He watched as the false squire finished his task, yanking Roose's had away from his body by his sparse hair, blood dripping from the open vessels in his neck.
"Where do you think she wants it?" the Rat asked, turning to face the master assassin and interrupting his contemplations.
"The great hall."
Ramsay does not scare her. She has her blades. Frost and Grey Daughter lay across the writing desk two steps away. She wears a small dagger at her thigh and her cat comb with its hidden finger knife in her hair besides. She has blood magic. She has her anger and the backing of the whole of the North. All he has is a certain look in his eye.
But that look…
'Disturbing' seems too mild a term for it. The longer she watches him, the more assured she is that he's quite mad.
"Finally, a moment alone with my beautiful wife." He steps toward her as he speaks.
Her expression marks her as unperturbed and she asks, "Why keep up the pretense now? It's only we two here."
He laughs. It is that same strangely pitched laugh she'd heard throughout the supper. He actually claps his hands together as though she's said something quite wonderful. "I married Arya Stark," Ramsay says, his voice like a song. It should irritate her, but the effect is eerie, and her neck prickles a bit. "Are you not Arya Stark?" He moves close enough to reach out for her, and he does. He uses one finger to trace her cheekbone toward her ear, his touch gentle and light.
The effect of that is eerie as well.
"You married Jeyne Poole," she tells him, "who, by the way, I never liked."
"I never liked her much, either," he replies softly, "but one does what one must." Ramsay laughs again, staring intently into her eyes, but then the laughter dies. He begins to frown instead. "No one cared that her eyes were brown. No one even noticed."
"You noticed."
He inclines his chin, tilting his head to regard her as though she perplexes him. "It vexed me." He moves his thumb beneath her right eye, stroking lightly at the skin under her lashes. She expects violence and her anticipation causes her heartbeat to quicken. When violence does not come, she is left with an odd sensation, as though she is suspended in ice, able to see what is around her but unable to act. "Every night, I debated if I should pry those brown eyes out of her skull with my fingers as she slept."
"What conclusion did you reach?" She asks as though she is asking him what he'd like to eat to break his fast in the morning.
Ramsay shrugs. "I decided it wasn't worth the earful I would get from my father over it."
The girl smirks. "Does Jeyne know she has your father to thank for her sight?"
"Jeyne doesn't know anything anymore. She's long dead."
"Oh?" Arya is saddened by the revelation. She hadn't liked Jeyne, but the girl didn't deserve the fate she was dealt. To have her life end so young after such a tortured existence feels indescribably tragic. "I hadn't heard."
"Why would you have? You're the queen. She was nobody."
"She was your wife."
"You are my wife," he hisses in the first fit of temper he's shown since she arrived. It settles her somehow, because it fits the picture of him she's assembled in her head. It makes sense.
She moves into him a little, sliding one palm up his arm and past his shoulder. Her fingers reach the spot Jaqen had showed her so long ago and she calls up the right words in her mind, just in case she has need of them.
"Why have you come, Ramsay?"
He glances at her hand where it rests near the spot his neck and shoulder meet, then he smiles, his eyes catching hers. "Why have you come, Arya?"
She walks him backwards, and he lets her, her one hand still on his shoulder, the other held between their bodies, fingertips pressing against his chest and pushing. The backs of his knees meet the edge of a chair, and she guides him to sit. He looks up at her, his eyes fascinated, and watches as she lowers herself to straddle his lap.
"I've come for my men," she whispers.
"You can't have them," he whispers back, brows drawing together as he watches her pull her bottom lip between her teeth. After a moment, she releases it and leans forward, moving her mouth so close to his, their lips nearly touch.
"What's to stop me just taking them?"
"Are you trying to seduce me, wife?" His hot breath clings to her chin and his hands slide down her sides until they rest on her hips.
"Do you want to be seduced?" The girl pulls the cat comb from her hair as she asks her question, letting her locks fall all around them like a silken curtain hiding them from the world. Ramsay surprises her by giving a slight gasp, as though she has shocked and thrilled him.
"I want what I was promised."
"And what is that?"
He presses his lips to hers then, and it is not a kiss but just a bare touch. He drags his mouth along her cheek until he reaches her ear. When he does, his fingers suddenly clutch at her hips, digging painfully in a way that promises bruises will soon appear there, and he hisses, "Fear. And screams." He clamps his teeth on the shell of her ear then, biting hard enough that she has to stifle a cry, then he throws her off him. She flies backwards, cracking her head painfully when she meets the floor. He's over top of her in an instant, forcing his knee between hers and his laughter now is a throaty rasp, low and hateful.
Your Grace,
I sojourn now with Lord Blackwood and his family. I should've continued straight on to Darry, but there was a Blackwood contingent awaiting us on the road and they were most insistent that I change my course to Raventree Hall. The Blackwoods have been free with their hospitality since my arrival. Perhaps too free. I suspect they mean to delay my ride north with all the entertainments they have planned for me. Thus far, I have been hunting, hawking, and feasted twice. You may rely on me to tear myself away soon, however. I will not be deterred from my task.
Lord Blackwood has asked a favor of me. He wishes his daughter to join the court at Winterfell as a companion to the queen and he begs me to allow her along with her escort to join my party. I do not feel I can reasonably deny him and as the girl is a particular friend of Arya Stark, to deliver her safely would certainly curry favor. Aside from that, Lady Bethany is a pleasant sort of girl, and witty, so a journey with her will be no hardship, though it will certainly mean a slower pace. She dances divinely but is not much of a rider.
I have learned of the Winter's Queen since my arrival. Though Lord Blackwood is guarded in what he will say of his queen, Lady Bethany has been more forthcoming, and the servants, when plied with wine or coin, have much to relate. Arya Stark is said to be more than capable with her sword. They say she is compassionate and very brave. That combined with her name makes it easy to see why the River lords and the Northmen crowned her.
There is a chamber maid here called Lyra who has said the older Blackwood sons were falling over themselves to marry Lady Arya. No betrothal was secured but those same sons have followed her north. Knowing that makes my mission more urgent and I will make what haste I can to reach Winterfell.
I remain your humble servant,
Edric Dayne
"Will you scream for me, my beauty?" Ramsay pins Arya's hips with his own. He has been watching her intently, looking for any hint of fear in her face. Until he speaks, she has been careful to keep her countenance blank.
The back of her head throbs as hard knot forms there, but at his words, she ignores her pain and drops her mask of indifference, allowing her hate to color her expression. She snarls at him.
"There you are," the bastard murmurs with appreciation, and he has her arms trapped against the floor with his harsh grip, but she is still clutching her cat comb in her left hand. He lowers his face to hers, brushing over the tip of her nose with his own, saying, "You don't look scared, but I think I like this even better."
Her answer is to throw her forehead against the bridge of his nose with as much force as she can muster. The crunch she hears is more satisfying than she could've imagined. The bastard gives a guttural cry and pulls back enough that she can't repeat the motion. Blood runs over his lips and drops from there to her face but she just grins up at him.
"I heard you liked a fight," he grunts, "but I wasn't sure if it was true."
"It's true," she tells him, slipping a finger through the curled ring of the cat's tail on her comb and sliding the finger knife from its hiding place. With one swift motion, she bends her elbow and thrusts upward with the blade, stabbing the back of Ramsay's arm.
Shock colors the man's face and then he howls with his pain, releasing his grip on her to grab at his wound. She yanks the knife out so that he cannot take it with him as he flails back. His balance is compromised, so she is able to push him off of her and leap to her feet. She cannot help but taunt him.
"Do you find my promises beautiful now?"
Ramsay is breathing hard, glaring at her as he pushes to his feet. When he answers her, it is through gritted teeth, bloody spittle flying from his lips with every word.
"I'll flay every last inch of skin from your body, you bitch."
"If that's your plan, you'd better hurry, bastard. You'll be dead in a moment."
Ramsay's scream had alerted her guard to the disturbance, and they knock insistently on her chamber door now, calling out to her. The door is barred which prevents them bursting in. The girl is too focused on her foe to answer their increasingly alarmed cries and soon, the knocking changes to violent pounding.
"I don't think your guard can break down that door fast enough save you, your grace," Ramsay mocks.
"Good," she growls, "I don't want them interfering. This is my work."
Frost and Grey Daughter are at her back. She makes no move to retrieve the swords, though. Neither does she reach for the dagger at her thigh. The little finger knife feels right in her hand. It could not make quick work of the bastard, not unless she drags it across one of the fat vessels in his neck. It is wickedly sharp, and it would do that job admirably, rendering him dead in less than a minute. But she does not mean to end him so quickly.
He spies the small blade in her hand and raises his eyebrows. "You think you can kill me with that little thing?" He snorts. "You?"
She shrugs. "I don't need this little thing to kill you, but it will be terribly helpful in rendering you scared and screaming." She swipes the narrow flat of the blade across her chest, cleaning Ramsay's blood from the steel and marking her white nightdress with a thin red smear. That feels right, too.
The commotion outside of her chamber grows louder. The pounding has become more insistent and rhythmic, indicating that her guards have employed a battering ram of some sort in an attempt to reach her. To her, each strike of the thing counts down the time she has left to finish her task, and it spurs her on.
She makes a move toward Ramsay, fluid and quick, knife gripped lightly and held low at her side. He is clearly used to being the aggressor and seems unnerved by her boldness. He hesitates, seemingly torn between meeting her and stepping back. It has the effect of making him totter and just as he decides to grab for her, she drops down to her knees and swings her little knife upward, slicing easily through his breeches and impaling his groin. The man screeches in pain and disbelief and Arya jerks the blade by its finger loop, slicing quickly toward his center. In a blink, she has made half a eunuch of him, and he falls.
Ramsay's screams are incessant then, growing hoarse with their violence, and his breeches become soaked with his blood. He is grabbing at his nethers, and the girl cannot tell if the move is instinct or if he is trying to assure himself that he is intact. She uses his preoccupation to fling herself over top of him as he had done to her earlier, only when she forces her knee between his, she rams it upward, crushing what remains between his legs before raining down several quick, stabbing blows in his gut with her little knife.
He is a bloody, writhing mess now, but that does not satisfy her. She jams the blade between his ribs and twists, creating a sucking hole that fills one side of his chest with air, making his breathing a chore he barely seems able to perform. She repeats the motion on the other side then withdraws from him, sitting back on her haunches and watching as his color changes from pale white to a sickly blue. Blood bubbles up from his throat and his screams become gurgles. Just as the bar at her door finally gives in and cracks in two, Ramsay Bolton breathes his last.
When the whole of the Winter Guard along with the Bear and Ser Gendry rush into the chamber, swords drawn, it takes them a moment to recognize that the bloody, crouching creature clutching a tiny knife with a look of grim satisfaction on her face is their queen.
When Roose's Frey wife along with several servants and household guards filed into the great hall to break their fast the next day, they were greeted by a freshly cleaned, neatly groomed, and practically dressed Winter's Queen, booted feet kicked up on the table, her breech-clad legs crossed at the ankles. She sat in Lord Bolton's seat, but no objection left his stiff lips. Instead, his head looked out at the hall from where it sat on the table, to the left of Arya's feet. His son, Ramsay, glared sightlessly over the same tableau from the right.
The Northmen who had been kept in the Dreadfort's cells were seated at the table with their queen while her guard lined up at her back. If the reaction of the new arrivals in the hall was any indication, the spectacle of it made quite an impression.
Once the screams and cries subsided and the vomiting ceased, the girl dropped her feet to the ground and rose, addressing those assembled.
"Lord Bolton and his son committed treason. They have paid for that crime with their lives. I understand that there may be some among you who feel honor bound to avenge them. I urge you to recognize that this is not a blood feud, but justice, delivered with royal authority. If you make no trouble and swear allegiance to the Winter Throne, you will be allowed to live peaceably in my kingdom. But if you insist on a fight…" The girl cocked her head, placing her hand on Frost's hilt. "Well, I've never been one to shy away from a fight."
Silence reigned and after only a few seconds, everyone there, from servant to fighting man to Lady Bolton herself, dropped to their knees while bowing their heads.
Later that morning, the queen penned a quick message to her castellan, informing him briefly of her success and her intention to stay a few more days to see the castle settled before beginning her journey home. Lady Bolton, she related, seemed somewhat relieved at the turn of events. From what she could gather, the woman feared daily for the lives of her two young sons with Ramsay under her roof and was more than happy to agree to allow the Bolton boys to foster at Winterfell when they were of age.
To teach them to be good Northmen so that Bolton treachery will become a distant memory, the girl wrote.
The silver king had just returned from training with the Red Keep's master-at-arms when Haldon delivered a scroll into his hand. Aegon wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve, earning a disapproving look from Septa Lemore who had been waiting for the king in the antechamber to his solar.
"Did you forget our appointment?" the septa asked.
"I'm sorry, my lady," the king said, properly chastened. "I got carried away with Lorynzan and lost track of the time."
"And how is our illustrious master-at-arms?"
The man was Dornish, and apparently Lemore had known him fairly well in her youth. They did not cross paths often, but when they did, Aegon did not miss the look in the Dornishman's eyes when he gazed at the septa.
The king's eyes were alight with mischief. "Still pining for you, I'd say."
"Stop," the lady chided. There was a hint of a blush in her cheek. "No one pines for an old septa."
"I'll have to take your word for it. I don't know any old septas." He opened the door of his solar, indicating that Lemore should join him, then walked to the stand where a servant had left him a bowl of water and some cloths to clean up after his training. He dropped the new scroll he'd received on the large table in the center of the room along the way. The king began wiping at his face and neck. "Are you here to test my knowledge of The Seven-Pointed Star?"
"I'm here to ask if you've had word from my nephew." She moved to the large table and took a seat there.
"Ah." He smiled. "Actually, I had a scroll this morning. The Blackwoods host him, though he may have moved on by now."
"Is he well treated?"
"Too well, to hear him tell it. They've nearly exhausted him with fetes and amusements. He does not seem much built for diversion."
"He tolerates diversion fine," the septa disagreed, "but not at the price of his duty. You tasked him with representing your interests at Winterfell, not attending feasts with River lords."
"And your nephew is nothing if not dutiful."
"You speak truly, your grace."
"He mentions Lord Blackwood's daughter. Lady Bethany, I believe she is called."
"Oh?" The woman's look was keen.
"Lord Blackwood wishes her to travel with Edric to Winterfell."
"Whatever for?"
"To be the queen's companion."
Lemore looked surprised. "From what we've heard of Arya Stark, she does not seem the type to surround herself with court companions."
Aegon shrugged. "It may be the lords who wish to shape her court into something more traditional rather than the girl herself."
"You'll really have to stop calling her 'the girl,' you know."
"Would you prefer I call her 'the Northern pretender' or 'the false queen'?"
"What makes her a pretender, or false?"
This gave the king pause. "Only that she laid claim to two of my seven kingdoms with nothing but her flippant desire to have them."
"Come, Aegon, that seems unfair. You know there is more to it than that."
"I do not wish to quarrel with you, Lemore."
"Then don't and tell me more of Ned's letter."
The king dropped the damp linen near the water bowl and stalked across the room, finding a chest on his desk and opening it. He sifted through some papers there, then drew out a raven scroll. He carried it to the table and handed it to the septa.
"You can read it for yourself," he offered, moving to the seat across from her. He was acutely aware of the scroll between them, waiting at the center of the table, its grey wax seal unbroken.
Lemore unrolled Edric's scroll, reading her nephew's words, a smile forming as she did. When she finished, she looked up, meeting the king's eyes.
"What do you make of his account of Arya Stark?"
"You mean that she's the perfect queen with the perfect name and the perfect temperament to rule the North?"
"Yes, that."
"I suppose that makes her the perfect tool to unite the kingdom. I owe the Faceless Men my gratitude."
The woman's look was shrewd. "I don't think you're nearly as ambivalent as you pretend."
"How can I be other than ambivalent?" he asked, his tone bordering on rude disinterest. "I've never met the gir… the Northern pretender." Aegon's eyes flicked to the scroll between them, but he forced himself to look away.
Lemore laughed, the sound tinkling and sweet. "How, indeed?"
After she left him, the king made himself to attend other matters and ignore the scroll, but it was a fool's errand. He was distracted the entire time and finally gave up with a grimace, disgusted with himself. He sat down the reached for the thing, staring at the imprint in the wax. The familiar wolf's head filled him with anticipation and carefully, he broke with wax with his thumbnail, unrolling the parchment and beginning to read.
Aegon,
I've never thought titles important, but I must point out that you've made an error in your address of me. Perhaps you're unaware, but I've been awarded a crown. It's a little large for my head, and heavy, but it's mine nonetheless. I won't insist you call me Queen Arya or the Winter's Queen or your grace, but if you're going to bother with a title, at least be sure it's correct.
I realize you're essentially a foreigner in this land, but you should familiarize yourself with Westerosi customs if you plan to rule (I should also mention your own title contains an error. A careful accounting will show you rule four kingdoms, or five at best, if you've convinced the Eyrie to join your cause. We've received no word regarding your success there. Have you managed to bring the Vale under your aegis?)
I'm sorry for the delay in my response, but your raven arrived just as I was leaving Winterfell. The maester had to race through the gates to put your message in my hand as I rode out. I write to you from the Dreadfort now, where I've only just arrived. I don't plan to be here long. It's an awful castle located northeast of Winterfell, occupied by awful people who do awful things as a matter of course. I'm here solely to rectify that last bit. You may find this surprising, but my father taught all his children that the one who passes the sentence should swing the sword. Between us, it's no hardship. I do love to swing my swords. They are made of Valyrian steel.
I was surprised to learn you have a septa. My condolences. I once had one too. She did not care much for me, and the feeling was mutual. To satisfy your curiosity, it is Jon Snow, my eldest living brother, who is Lord Dayne's milk brother. I expect the two to get along well when Ned arrives, as they have more than a wet nurse in common.
I remain,
Arya Stark
Aegon blew out a breath as he finished reading the message, leaning back in his chair and staring down at the parchment. After a moment, he rose, moving to his desk and pulling out his quill.
Set It Off—Lil Boosie