Chapter XXIII: The Northern Justice

She should have looked frightened or scared or ashamed but she didn't. Even the dark cells of Winterfell could not hide her fire. Not surprisingly, the Priestess looked just the same as she had when Arya had met her a long time ago.

Arya waved the guards away as she kneeled infront of the cell, dropping her hood from her head. The Red Woman looked up at her and smiled weakly.

"I remember you," she whispered.

Arya smiled.

"Of course you do." She reached inside the bars and grabbed her face by the jaw. "Do you know why you are here?"

"I have done you no wrong," the woman replied. "I saved your brother. I brought him back to live."

"And he has given you enough reward by sparing your miserable life," Arya said, and stood up. "But it is not on his account that you're here. Ser Davos accuses you of killing Shireen Baratheon," Arya told the witch. "Do you confess to your crimes?"

"I did as my Lord told me to do. I did it for Stannis," Melisandre claimed.

Arya's jaw clenched.

"Do you accept that you killed Shireen Baratheon?" She asked again.

The Red Woman crawled further inside the cell and whispered in a broken voice,

"Yes."

"Good," Arya said. "And Brienne of Tarth accuses you of murdering Renly Baratheon with magic. Do you accept?"

Arya noticed the red necklace on her neck glow.

"Yes," Melisandre said. "I used King's blood to kill him. He was not the true King. Stannis was.

"Stannis is dead," Arya told her. "Your King was slain during battle and every single life you took was in vain."

"I saw him emerge as a Victor," Melisandre whispered. "But all of it was a lie."

Arya let out a short laugh. She wanted nothing more than to slit her throat open with her dagger, but it was not just her she had wronged. She would get her punishment the same way any criminal would get, in front of those who had been wronged by her.

"And at last, Gendry. You hurt him."

The witch looked up.

"Says he or you?"

"It doesn't matter," Arya replied. "Have you or have you not hurt him?"

After a while, she replied,

"Not as much as to be punished for it."

Arya nodded.

"No matter. Your other crimes are grave enough."

"No, matter what, you're going to convince him to kill me," Melisandre said.

"Yes," Arya replied. "Because you deserve it. And I know it was not only Renly you hoped to kill with your magic."

When no reply came, Arya couldn't stop her smile.

"Well then, Melisandre of Asshai, I accuse you of the murders of Renly and Shireen Baratheon. Tomorrow, justice shall be served. Pray to your Red God all you want, and may he help you."

Arya turned around, and called the guards.

"Arya Stark." She looked over her shoulder at the woman. She was clutching the bars of the cage and pressing her face against them. Her red hair was flowing down her torso.

"You will need me in the wars to come. Do not make a mistake you will regret.""

Arya raised an eyebrow then turned around.

"You are no better than me!" She shouted. "You are as much a murderer as I am, Princess Stark!"

Arya ignored her.

I am not like her, she thought.

But her words left Arya as uneasy as ever.

"You have no reason to be mad," Arya said.

"I'm not mad."

"You are."

"I'm not."

"You definitely-"

"Arya!" Gendry dropped his hammer with a sigh, and looked at her tiredly. "I'm not mad at you."

Arya bit her lip and walked to him, kneeling beside him on the ground.

"Get up, you'll get dirty," Gendry told her.

"I've been dirty my entire life, stupid bull," she said, rolling her eyes. "Now tell me, what have I done?"

"Did you send everyone away from the forge?" Gendry asked, avoiding her question and looking around. Arya had told everyone to stay away from the forge in order for her to talk to Gendry alone.

"Stop it!" She said and placed her palm on his cheek, willing him to look at her. "Is it because of the Red Woman?"

Gendry tensed and pushed her hand away. Arya waited patiently for an answer.

"Why did you have to bring her here?" He asked.

Because she is in my list.

"I wanted her dead since the day she took you," Arya said.

"You are saying that you did it for me?"

"Yes," she said. "I know you wouldn't tell me what happened, and I wouldn't ask, but-"

"She took my blood," Gendry interrupted her.

Arya frowned.

"She needed-" he paused. "She needed a King's blood to do her magic."

"You are not a King," she said.

"No," Gendry said. "But I have King's blood in my veins. I am Robert's bastard. Robert Baratheon."

Arya shrank back, but Gendry held her hand.

"I am sorry I didn't tell you. No one knows but a few. And I didn't want- I don't want anyone to know me as his son. I am just a blacksmith as I'll always be."

Arya stood still before reaching up to move his hair away from his face.

"Your eyes," she whispered. "They're Baratheon blue."

"I guess," he mumbled. "You shouldn't have brought her here, Arya."

"I did it for you," she said.

"Even when I would have left you?" He asked.

"Yes," she confessed.

"Why?"

"Because, you are my only friend, Gendry Waters," she said, tracing patterns upon his hand. "And you would always be special no matter what you did."

"I do not deserve you," he said, and leaned closer.

"No you don't," she said. "But I'm here, aren't I?"

He didn't say anything, but instead stared at her for a few seconds before leaning in and pressing his lips on hers, gently. Arya stood stuck to her place, shocked and surprised and clueless as to what do to. Gendry pulled away, and the look of panic on his face said it all.

"Gods, Arry." He fisted his hair. "Shit, I'm so sorry."

Arya licked her lips. They were colder than before.

"No, stop!"

And she grabbed his face and pulled it back to hers, kissing him for real.

Her father had never taken her to watch a execution. He believed it wasn't meant for ladies, even though she had claimed a thousand times that she wasn't one. Arya had always considered her brothers lucky for that- that they had the right to do certain things only because they were born men and not women. It made her angry too, and jealous.

But she was there this time. Her and Sansa both, waiting patiently as Jon unmounted his horse.

"I heard he refused?" Sansa asked.

Arya nodded.

"I told him if he wouldn't do it then I'd have to do it in my own way, which is less messier but undoubtedly more scandalous."

"Women are not executed this way."

"Death knows no gender or age," Arya replied. "He comes when he comes. And today is her time."

The accused was brought forward, and pushed down by a strong hand. Jon looked at Arya, and she knew he still hesitated. But as she had hoped, Davos and Brienne had also supported her words. Jon didn't want it because she had saved his life. Arya couldn't blame him for that even if she wanted to.

Podrick moved forward and Jon unsheathed Longclaw. Their eyes met for a while, and he was still asking her silently to take her words back. Jon knew the witch deserved this, but he owed his life to her, and honour forbid him from doing it.

"Tell him to go on," Sansa whispered in Arya's ear.

Arya held up her head and nodded in Jon's direction. She swore she could hear his sigh.

The King closed his eyes and steadied his sword.

"Melisandre of Asshai," he began. "You have been accused of murder and using your magic for greater harm. In the sight of the Old Gods, I, Jon Snow, First of His Name, King in the North, sentence you to die."

"Do you have any last words?" He further added.

"No," the woman replied. She touched the ruby at her neck, and in an instant, violently grabbed and pulled the necklace away from her neck.

Before their very eyes, like the mask of a Faceless Man, the Red Priestess turned from an object of beauty to a withered, old woman, her skin sagging and full of wrinkles.

"I have lived my life," the woman said turning to Jon, who stood stuck in shock. "But remember my Lord of Light never forgets. I brought you back from the unknown and you reward me by my death. Remember what you did, Jon Snow."

As if freezing, Jon's hands wouldn't move. But not before long, the blade sharply separated her head from her torso, the blood spilling like rubies on the grass- brighter than hers ever were.

"Valar Morghulis," Arya whispered, as another name went off of her list. A name she had forgotten, but a name nonetheless.