ARYA

When Arya awoke after dawn, she did not leap up at once and head for her messages. She nestled in her bed of old straw, her knees curled up against her chest, her neck crooked, her back pressed against the hard stone of her niche under Kingspyre Tower. It was not much by the standards of the featherbeds at Winterfell, but compared to the work of daytime at Harrenhal and, beforehand, the hardship of the road, it felt almost like comfort, and Arya had learnt long ago not to discount the value of a good rest.

She stayed there, without opening her eyes, until Pinkeye came. "Up, up, you dirty lazy laggards," he cursed them all, shaking them, "we don't have all day."

Arya knew that. It was Pinkeye himself who didn't. He woke late and slept early, which was a welcome gift in a taskmaster.

She sprang up, light-footed, nimble, before Pinkeye's bad breath and strong hands could reach her. Bleary-eyed, he blinked at her, twice, before turning grumbling away towards another of the servants.

For breakfast, Arya took bread and a thin, blotchy soup of barley. Pinkeye had similar, but with ale too, even in the morning. Mebble was his true name, but he was called as he was for his runny eyes.

Arya delivered her messages quickly, but not so quickly as she had before. Pinkeye was not so harsh a taskmaster as Weese. Weese always knew where you were. Pinkeye always knew where his ale was, but that was as much as could be said of him. He would notice if you didn't do any work, but he did not pay such strict attention to time. Besides, though there were still hundreds of soldiers in the castle, there were far fewer than ever before. Lord Tywin Lannister's host was gone, and even a large garrison took much less looking after.

That gave Arya time to dawdle between her messages and fetchings and attendances, time she had never had with Weese. She gazed out at the courtyard and the great lands outside from the towers, she scurried about to eavesdrop on the chatter of the men-at-arms and servants, and sometimes she even had time to wander to the godswood and practise her needlework, though only seldom.

It was during one of these little intermissions, after drawing some water for baths and before heading back to Pinkeye to be given her next errand, that she overheard it. "…all sweaty, he was," one of the older serving maids was saying, "with his horse looked half dead, and the red was dried blood, I'd stake my life on 't."

Quiet as a mouse, Arya crept closer.

"What did he say?" another serving girl asked excitedly.

"Don't know," the first admitted, with some reluctance. "I wasn't close enough to him and Ser Amory. But it must have been important. Ser Amory went to get the maester, I'd say, to send ravens, soon as he heard it, then sent me to get Ser Gulian for a meeting." Ser Gulian was the leader of the Hornvale men-at-arms Ser Flement Brax had left to serve in Ser Amory Lorch's garrison. "And the blood wasn't very dark; I don't think it was an old cut. There's been a battle, there must have been, a big one."

The maids oohed and aahed. With some reluctance, Arya darted away. Carrying water was a hard task, as it was so heavy, so she couldn't hurry and do it more quickly than was expected of her as she oft could with others, and even Pinkeye would realise that something was amiss if she took too long.

Arya ran several more errands that day, fetching and carrying and sending messages. After sunset, she made her way back to her resting place beneath Kingspyre Tower, awaiting dinner and an end to the day. She could almost taste what she was about to do next. She did not want to learn about the battle in short, misunderstood snippets, as she had learnt about Stannis Baratheon's wife in the Eyrie, her hopes falsely raised and then dashed against the rocks. She wanted to hear it clearly, straight from the horse's mouth.

But Pinkeye came up to her as soon as he saw her coming. "Weasel! Tell Rob there was a dead rat was crept in the Brax men-at-arms' ale. Need another barrel. See to it it's done."

"But—" It isn't fair. Arya had not expected a task so late. If she waited too long after dinner, Ser Amory's meeting would be ending.

"But?" Pinkeye snarled. "I'm in no habit of being answered back to, girl. Now get on with it or I'll beat you bloody!"

She had no choice. Arya sprinted to the brewhouse. Tuffleberry, the old brewer, had gone away to serve Lord Tywin's army, as many of the servants had. The new master of the brewhouse, Rob, she scarcely knew.

By the time she had seen the ruined barrel replaced, the sky had turned a blackish blue. Arya returned to her niche, moving quietly, and took a look at the sleeping quarters. Pinkeye was deep in slumber, snoring, with wine-coloured spit running down his chin. It was as she had expected—it happened every evening once Pinkeye had dined—but she had wanted to be sure.

Arya did not go to bed that night. Instead, she left the other servants to their sleep and walked away. She could go where she would. The garrison numbered no more than three-hundred men, so small a troop that they were lost in Harrenhal, and many of them were often far away, foraging. The Hall of a Hundred Hearths was closed off, along with many of the lesser buildings, even the Wailing Tower. Ser Amory Lorch resided in the castellan's chambers in Kingspyre, themselves as spacious as a lord's, and Arya and the other servants had moved to the cellars beneath him so they would be close at hand. While Lord Tywin had been in residence, there was always a man-at-arms wanting to know your business. But now there were only a hundred men left to guard a thousand doors, and no-one seemed to know who should be where, or care much. The freedom made her feel daring. Barefoot surefoot lightfoot, she sang under her breath. I am the ghost in Harrenhal.

It was easy to come near to Ser Amory's chambers on the floor below, though she dared not climb further. Hearing voices, Arya hastened her steps, seeking to listen to them.

Then suddenly they became much louder, and she almost bumped into Ser Gulian himself, descending a spiral stair. She stumbled backward.

Behind Ser Gulian, Ser Amory Lorch's piggy little eyes fixed themselves upon her. She was too late; it was plain to see that the meeting had ended. "Girl!" he said, and she dreaded the sentence he might pass for wandering so late. "Take more care." There was a sudden pain, and she fell backward, her cheek burning. He had hit her. She had almost forgotten what it was like. Pinkeye was no Weese. He was forever threatening to whip the bloody hide off this one or that one, but Arya never actually knew him to hit.

"Run along to the kitchens and fetch a maid with another tray of those tarts from this morning. I am quite fond of them."

The pain persisted, but she was overcome with relief. "Yes, my lord," she said, and ran away. She had expected worse. She dared not grant him the opportunity to see her face, lest he realise that she was not often to be found residing in this part of the tower, or, worse, recognise her from her time in company with Yoren. And she knew the way to the kitchens well.

The kitchens were asleep with the rest of the castle, but not fully. Even in the black of night, the kitchens were never still; there was always someone rolling dough for the morning bread, stirring a kettle with a long wooden spoon, or butchering a hog for Ser Amory's breakfast bacon. Tonight it was an older man she did not know.

Arya crept unseen to Hot Pie's snug warm sleeping place in the cavernous lofts above the ovens and shook him awake. "Arry—" he began to say, until she pressed a hand to his mouth.

"Shh," she hissed.

"What is it?"

"Ser Amory wants a tray of tarts, like some he was given this morning. He likes them."

Hot Pie hesitated, then turned to someone sleeping near him, a girl who had had mayhaps one or two more namedays than Sansa. "Liane!" he called quietly, shaking her.

The girl woke. Once he had explained it to her, she said, "A whole tray? Just for Ser Amory?"

"Yes," said Hot Pie, either missing the point or purposefully ignoring it, "so we'd better be quick."

They descended to the kitchens. Arya watched them cook with cheese and nuts and fruit and pastry. When they came out, still hot from the oven, their smell was so delicious that her mouth watered.

"Can I have one?"

"No, stupid!" the girl hissed at her. "Ser Amory will notice if there are crumbs due to one missing and he'll have us whipped."

"I'll carry them up," Hot Pie said. "Thanks for helping."

"No," Arya said, "he said a maid."

Hot Pie eyed her sceptically. "Will he care?"

"He said a maid," Arya insisted, "and I don't think he likes people not doing as he tells them." She remembered Ser Amory well, with a hot hate. She would never forget the death of Yoren.

"I'll bring the tray to Ser Amory," the girl said. "Go back to sleep; I'll see you tomorrow."

When Hot Pie had thanked her and gone to sleep, the girl asked Arya to direct her to Ser Amory's chamber. They went up the stairs, high up Kingspyre Tower, where the castellan lived. Arya shrank back at his door, drawing a curious look from Liane. She did not want to let him see her face. It would be ill indeed if he recognised her from Yoren's company.

The door opened. Arya hid behind it. "Well, girl, come in," came the voice of Ser Amory. It was lower than usual.

Peeking in, Arya saw the maid set down the tray of tarts on Ser Amory's table. Then he grabbed for Liane.

The kitchen girl shrieked, high and clear. "Shut up, wench," the knight said, and hit her across the face so hard that an angry red mark appeared there. Then he tore at her shift. Crying, she tried to run, but Ser Amory came after her in two great strides, far longer than her own, and caught her with an easy lunge. He tore more of her clothing and threw her on his bed. Then Arya had to leap away as he pulled the door shut with a loud crash and bolted it. When it was clear that he had gone, Arya did not go back to press her ear to the door. She did not need to. She just stood there, frozen in place. That was more than close enough to hear Liane's screaming and crying, Ser Amory's deep breathing and rasping grunts. I—I fetched her—I—I brought her here—for this…

Finally, when one instant they had been frozen, at the next it seemed that Arya's legs were free. She could not let herself hear any more. She fled.

Hot Pie's face was furious the next time she crept into the kitchens at night. "How dare you?" he hissed at her.

"I didn't know—"

"Liane was hurt, Arry. Badly hurt. I helped you, I woke her because she's my friend, she helped you and you got her hurt."

"It was Ser Amory, Amory Lorch, Hot Pie, he killed Yoren, he's a bad man, him, not me, I didn't know—"

"You say it now. You knew he killed Yoren. You knew he was a bad man," Hot Pie told her bitterly. "Go. Don't come back. I never want to see you again."

For the next week, more than a week really, Arya fulfilled her tasks with a sense of dull dejection. Hot Pie was wrong, it wasn't her fault, but he thought it was, she knew that, and he would never change his mind. She had liked visiting him in the kitchens. It was just her and Gendry now, of those who had left with Yoren, and Gendry never slipped her a piece of bread as Hot Pie sometimes did.

One day, trumpets sounded at the castle, and men hurried to the gates. Having heard the warhorn and the sound of the portcullis being lifted, Arya watched them from a window in Kingspyre Tower, high above. It was an army that was coming, a large army, with hundreds of knights and wagons and thousands of men afoot. It did not stretch as far in all directions as Lord Tywin's enormous host; she judged it to be nearer in size to the earlier one that had left Harrenhal for King's Landing with Lord Tywin's brother, which at the time had seemed inconceivably great. But the banners were not ones she recognised. There were no lions of Lannister, just a sun floating above a golden triangle in a bright blue sky.

Ser Amory rode out of the gates to greet the newcomers. When their leader took off his helm to reveal a head of thinning but still fine brown hair, Arya recognised him as Leo Lefford, Lord of the Golden Tooth, but no matter how much she strained, she was too far away to hear what he and Ser Amory said.

In disgust, Arya abandoned her window and went downstairs for a closer look. When she did, however, she almost wished she hadn't. She recognised the sigils of some of the men escorted into Harrenhal by Lord Lefford's host at spearpoint: Manderly, Flint, Mormont, Wull, Umber, Karstark. The prisoners are father's men, she thought. Robb's men, now. They're northmen, and friends. She didn't like to think what that might mean.

Arya watched and followed as hundreds and hundreds of Lord Lefford's men-at-arms escorted the captive northmen into the dungeons. Angry, helpless, she had little idea of what to do, till it occurred to her. At the armoury, a deep orange glow shone through the high windows. She climbed to the roof and peeked down. Gendry was beating out a breastplate. When he worked, nothing existed for him but metal, bellows, fire. The hammer was like part of his arm. She watched the play of muscles in his chest and listened to the steel music he made. He's strong, she thought. As he took up the long-handled tongs to dip the breastplate into the quenching trough, Arya slithered through the window and leapt down to the floor beside him.

He did not seem surprised to see her. "I don't think you should be here, girl." The breastplate hissed like a cat as he dipped it in cold water. "What was all that noise?"

"Lord Lefford's come back with prisoners, I saw them. They're northmen, my father's men. When Lord Lefford goes, you have to help me get them out."

Gendry laughed. "And how do we do that?"

"They're down in the dungeon. I watched, it's the one under the Widow's Tower, that's just one big cell. You could smash the door open with your hammer—"

"While the guards watch and make bets on how many swings it will take me, maybe?"

Arya chewed her lips. "We'd need to kill the guards."

"How are we supposed to do that?"

"Maybe there won't be a lot of them."

"If there's two that's enough to catch the likes of us. You never learnt nothing in that village, did you? You try this and Ser Amory will kill you." Gendry took up the tongs again.

"You're afraid."

"Leave me alone, girl."

"Gendry, there are hundreds of northmen, hundreds. I couldn't even count them all. That's at least as many as Ser Amory has, and maybe more. Well, not counting Lord Lefford. We just have to get them out and we can take over the castle and escape."

"Well, you can't get them out, no more'n you could save Lommy." Gendry turned the breastplate with the tongs to look at it closely. "And if we did escape, where would we go?"

"Winterfell," she said at once. "I'd tell mother how you helped me, and you could stay—"

"Would m'lady permit? Could I shoe your horses for you, and make swords for your lordly brothers?"

Sometimes he made her so angry. "You stop that!"

"Why should I wager my life for the chance to sweat in Winterfell in place of Harrenhal? You know old Ben Blackthumb? He came here as a boy. Smithed for Lady Whent and her father before her and his father before him, and even for Lord Lothston who held Harrenhal before the Whents. Now he smiths for Lord Tywin, and you know what he says? A sword's a sword, a helm's a helm, and if you reach in the fire you get burnt, no matter who you're serving. Lucan's a fair enough master. I'll stay here."

"The queen will catch you, then. She didn't send gold cloaks after Ben Blackthumb!"

"Likely it wasn't even me they wanted."

"It was too, you know it. You're somebody."

"I'm a 'prentice smith, and one day might be I'll make a master armourer… if I don't run off and get myself killed." He turned away from her, picked up his hammer once more, and began to bang.

Arya's hands curled into helpless fists. "The next helm you make, put mule's ears on it in place of bull's horns!" She had to flee, or else she would have started hitting him. He probably wouldn't even feel it if I did. When they find who he is and cut off his stupid mulehead, he'll be sorry he didn't help. She was better off without him anyhow. He was the one who got her caught at the village.

But thinking of the village made her remember the march, and the storeroom, and the Tickler. She thought of the little boy who'd been hit in the face with the mace, of stupid old All-for-Joffrey, of Lommy Greenhands. I was a sheep, and then I was a mouse, I couldn't do anything but hide. Arya chewed her lip and tried to think when her courage had come back. Jaqen made me brave again. He made me a ghost instead of a mouse.

She had been avoiding the Lorathi since Weese's death. Chiswyck had been easy, anyone could push a man off the wallwalk, but Weese had raised that ugly spotted dog from a pup, and only some dark magic could have turned the animal against him. Yoren found Jaqen in a black cell, the same as Rorge and Biter, she remembered. Jaqen did something horrible and Yoren knew, that's why he kept him in chains. If the Lorathi was a wizard, Rorge and Biter could be demons he called up from some hell, not men at all.

Jaqen still owed her one death. In Old Nan's stories about men who were given magic wishes by a grumkin, you had to be especially careful with the third wish, because it was the last. Chiswyck and Weese hadn't been very important. The last death has to count, Arya told herself every night when she whispered her names. But now she wondered if that was truly the reason she had hesitated. So long as she could kill with a whisper, Arya need not be afraid of anyone… but once she used up the last death, she would only be a mouse again.

And then she knew. Of course.

With Lord Lefford's army here, oxcarts always trundling in and out of the gates, there was twice as much work that needed doing, more than twice really, but Pinkeye wasn't good at knowing where everybody was at each time and what needed to be done. Weese would have had her breathless, but with Pinkeye she alternated between similar breathlessness and long, idle inactivity. In that time, she searched tirelessly for Jaqen H'ghar. But he was not to be found in the bathhouse, nor any of the usual places he had lingered in with other men who were no longer in Harrenhal to be found.

It was noon two nights after Lord Lefford's army had arrived when there was a sudden tumult. Arya froze and backed into an alcove while what must have been hundreds of men-at-arms headed to the dungeon under the Widow's Tower. She had been loitering near the prisoners, trying to get a look at the number of guards and hear their names to tell Jaqen, and feared discovery, but they did not heed her. The tall grown men with their spears and their swords paid a young serving girl no more attention than they would a small grey mouse.

One of them exchanged some words with the guards, and they opened the gates. Calmly, without hurry, the prisoners stood up. Has there been a betrayal? Are they escaping? Arya wondered. There was no fighting. The men-at-arms escorted the prisoners out of the Widow's Tower and into the courtyard.

Only then did Arya understand. No! No! But they weren't supposed to go away with the army, they can't, I didn't find Jaqen yet, they can't, they can't! It's not fair! But she could do nothing. The men joined with others, hoisting up the banners of House Lefford, far outnumbering their prisoners, far too many for a stupid little girl. The Golden Tooth army with its captives, refreshed and restocked at Harrenhal, departed from the castle as hot tears burnt in her eyes.

Author's Note: There is something that I should note, for those who don't remember much of A Clash of Kings. In canon, Arya used her third wish from Jaqen H'ghar to help Roose Bolton to take Harrenhal and became his cupbearer. For obvious reasons, this has not happened in Knees Falling.