ARYA

The vaults beneath Kingspyre Tower were silent. Arya held herself in the alcove, quite still. The man below her was muttering and cursing, wandering below her by the light of a solitary candle. He went back and forth until at last he plucked a bottle of wine from among the many of them here. His task done, he took his prize and strode out, up and away. When his eyes had fallen upon her they had moved past without seeing. Too much light blinded one as to what lay in the darkness.

Arya allowed herself a small breath. That was all. With sure light feet she climbed down from the alcove, feeling for handholds and footholds without seeing them. After that she pressed her hands, not to the stores of grain and wine but to the stacks holding them and to the floor, for those were always the same. Once she had found out where she was, she made her way through the vault. The rough feel of the wood and stone and her memory were her only guides, for she had no candle—she dare not ask for one—and it was as black as a moonless midnight.

She knew much of the way, but there came a time when she knew no more, and she had to remember the grain and cut of the wood and stone as she passed. Wine gave way to grain and malt and flour and oats and eggs, and then to wood, and then to nothing. Arya trod barefoot and lightly over an equally bare floor.

The vault came to a close as its tower did, but Arya did not stop her search. She followed the edge of the chamber, touching and sniffing and grasping, pressing herself against it, till at last she found a handle. She turned it, flinching at the loudness of the creak, and slipped inside. She took great care to wedge a sack of flour in the door. She dare not let it close. If she did, it might not reopen.

The place in which she found herself was no less dark than the vaults of Kingspyre but far less cavernous. When she reached up and around and made a tiny noise, she realised that it was a corridor, and its ceiling lay not too many feet above her head height. She felt her way out, rubbing and grasping at the walls lest there be any choice that she might notice on her return journey. A single mistake and she could easily be lost forever, but Arya was unafraid. This was like how she had explored the Red Keep in King's Landing, only much darker and much bigger.

Arya heard noise and followed it, though not hastily. She had to know the feel of this place. There were a few turnings on the sides, but she ignored them, and in time she came to a door not wholly unlike the first one. She wedged it open with another stolen sack of flour and was stunned by the wail of sound. It was probably not very loud in truth, but she had become accustomed to the utmost silence.

She had found herself in another great chamber, high-ceilinged as the vaults of Kingspyre and fairly alike in nature, save that it was empty of men's possessions and full of animals. The chatter of rats was overwhelming, and she could feel the cobwebs with her toes.

Warily, Arya moved away, keeping to the walls. She had no liking for this place, but knew the use of its emptiness. Harrenhal was so much emptier now than it had been ere Lord Lefford and his bannermen took their leave of Ser Amory. They had brought life once more to the castle, albeit less than there had been when their liegelord, Lord Tywin Lannister, had dwelt here. Now Kingspyre Tower alone was lived in, it and some of the surrounding structures, such as the nearest sept. The rest of Harren's Folly was home only to spiders and bats and rats and mice. Arya thought that a pity. They the servants had gone to such great effort to drive out the vermin, only for them to come again as soon as a back was turned.

Most of the unused buildings were sealed and watched by Ser Amory's guards, in case any of the servant-folk stolen from the surrounding lands should think to hide from their duties therein. But Arya had been right to wonder whether Ser Amory had troubled to post guards beneath the castle, blocking off the corridors that connected the vaults beneath Kingspyre to those beneath the other towers. He only had a few hundred men-at-arms, after all. She knew Harrenhal now, or at least enough of it, to know that she must be walking under the Tower of Ghosts. She had not even known whether there were such corridors, but she had guessed well. There were, and they had not been locked in the course of Lord Tywin's hasty parting as the Lord of Casterly Rock marched to fight the northmen.

That thought came with a stab of regret. Arya had not yet forgiven herself or Ser Amory or Jaqen H'ghar or Lord Lefford for her failure to save the northmen. It weighed down upon her mind. It had occurred to her to use surprise to kill a guard, and to name and have Jaqen kill another, in the right place and time to free the northern captives and take back Harrenhal in the night, when Lord Lefford's own men-at-arms might slumber. That was not how the matter had turned out. Her own effort to find the prison guards' times and names had moved too slowly, and the men of the Golden Tooth too fast. Now they were gone, to King's Landing where Joffrey held power, he and his great-uncle, the Lord Regent, Lord Tywin's brother, with thousands of Lannister men. They could never escape thence. Arya had never known any of the northern prisoners, nor their names, nor even the name and House of their lord commander, but she mourned them nonetheless. They were father's people, Robb's now, she supposed, serving House Stark and of the north, and they too were held captive in the south where they should not be. The other six of the Seven Kingdoms were no place for northmen. Father should never have left Winterfell to be Hand of the King.

She mourned, also, for the loss of what she could have done by helping them. That had sustained her even when Gendry had refused to help her and Hot Pie had started hating her because of what had happened to his friend. If she freed her father's people and taken Harrenhal with them, she had believed, she would not have to hide any more. They could flee and take her to Robb and to her mother, and she would speak to them, and they would defeat the Lannisters and leave the south behind them and go home.

After an hour or so, she turned away and felt her way back to the entrance, picking up the flour as she left. Arya had not found the way back up to the ground, but she was tired, and she had done enough tonight.

She was still tired for all of the next day, though she dare not slack too long from the tasks that Pinkeye gave her, so she had to sleep for all of the following night. She slept the next night too, and the one after it, but the night after that she returned to the vaults, this time more surely and swiftly. Thus it went on, till at last, one night, she emerged not only from the vaults but from the Tower of Ghosts and thence she wandered, silent, lightfoot, through Harrenhal, and she found a way to her best attempt so far: an almost deserted postern gate, scarcely a gate at all in truth, a tough and narrow oaken door well-placed beneath a small defensive tower, with only one man standing guard. By the light of the moon, which made it far less perfectly dark than the vaults underneath, she caught a glimpse of his fair, stubbly young face. Doubtless there were sentries on the walls above, but this was better than anything else she had seen, and it was needed were she to win her freedom.

On the morrow Arya did naught but her duties, thwarted by exhaustion. The day after, she tried her hopes at finding Jaqen H'ghar's third name. She thought of requesting some ale from the brewhouse so that she could justify her presence, but she dare not. She did not plan to escape that very day, and when Pinkeye noticed the lie he would put her to the lash in punishment for stealing the ale to drink it. So after she was given a duty, to bring some clothes to their owners from the washerwomen, she ran swift as she could in order to accomplish it and then when it was done she did not return to Pinkeye in Kingspyre. She came to the vaults, moving quite openly—for they were used in daytime—and, taking care not to be seen, she hurried to where she believed to be the gate.

By that time it was dusk, so Arya hoped the men-at-arms who stood guard in the night would now have woken and be meeting to eat and drink before their duties. Though it took long, just as she hoped she found a small alehouse amidst the deserted buildings of the castle. Trying not to be seen—for she was not meant to be outside Kingspyre—she kept close to the shadows and tried to look in, with her eyes occasionally darting high enough to look into the window.

The young westerman who guarded her chosen postern gate at night-time was there, sure enough. She recognised him with a spurt of elation. But it was not him who was currently speaking.

"—ugly stuff," another man-at-arms was saying. "'Tis foul the Imp used it, even a dwarf, he's of Lord Tywin's blood, y'know. But it did its duty well enough."

"How well?" came another voice, still not coming from the man that she was listening to find a name for. "How many lived, how many died?"

"Fuck if I know, Gerold," said the first man with irritation. "You think I read Ser Kevan's letter to Lord Tywin meself? Just passin' on the gossip. But it was real bad, I'll tell you that. Lord Renly's reeling. Half his army's gone, some say, others a third or one in ten. Who knows? What the way, 'tis thousands, everyone knows that. Lord Renly's had to march away west, 'tis said, far so as 'e can cross the river with no royal fleet follows 'im as he does it."

Arya was glad no-one had chanced a look at the window, for she would have been seen for sure. It was as if there were a whirring noise in her ears but she could not move, could not stop listening. Lord Renly defeated? The Lannisters triumphant?

"Fool of a traitor," a third voice laughed. Arya realised this was the fair-haired young man at her chosen gate. She had expected to be pleased. Instead, she had almost failed to notice. "He ought knew that's what you get when you murders your own brother. Cursed by the gods, like any kinslayer. Course Lady Selyse sought revenge on Lord Renly, what with how he killed Lord Stannis. Someone kills my wife, I'm killin' him."

Lady Selyse? But she was the one trying to get my aunt to fight the Lannisters, she's on our side, she was our friend, it's all a lie, or a jape it may be…

"You don't 'ave a wife, Jon," said a fourth voice, and the others laughed. Jon, Arya thought, I must remember that name, and it was a wonder that she had to remind herself of that. Does it matter now?

"You knows what I sayin'," said Jon, over the chuckles. "So you sayin', the war is won?"

"Aye, or close enough," the first voice said, and Arya thought, unwillingly, He doesn't sound like he is japing. "Lord Renly'll batter hisself to pieces 'gainst King's Landing's walls. He couldn't take 'em before with all the power of the south, ere the victory on the Blackwater. How's 'e supposed to do it now, his army's mauled? That just leaves Lord Stark to finish off, then it's back to Hornvale for you and me."

"To Hornvale, hearth and home," Jon cried, and the others echoed him with sincere delight. She heard the clink of cups.

It broke the spell. Arya fled. Lord Renly's reeling… his army's mauled… Lord Stark to finish off… Lady Selyse sought revenge… the war is won… the war is won…

"No," she said aloud, "no, you're wrong, you're wrong, you stupid, they can't win, they can't," and yet the voices kept repeating in spite of her. She put her fingers in her ears to block them out but could not stop the memory of the guardsmen's voices from echoing inside her head in silent mockery. The war is won…

She fled through the chambers under Harrenhal, forcing her to judge by feel and not by sight and thus to move more slowly. The sun had fully set when she reappeared in Kingspyre Tower and made her way to the niche with old straw where she slept.

A sudden pain took her, sharp as a nail. Arya staggered backward, clutching her face.

"You lazy slut!" Pinkeye was roaring at her, awake long beyond his usual time, his round face ruddy and his runny eyes alight with fury. "Fucking whore think you'll make mock of me, do you, girl? No-one makes mock of me, you hear me? No-one!"

He pulled up her shift, bared her bottom and struck it hard with the flat of his hand. Arya nearly wept with the pain. She had known that she would be punished for deserting her work, expected it, even, and judged it necessary, but with the horror of the news she had forgotten utterly.

"Not—mocking—" she gasped. "Tired—"

"I don't give no shit about you tired! You does your work like everyone else you get punished! You understand? Never do 't again!"

Pinkeye struck her again, and again, and again. She burst into tears. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.

When Pinkeye left her, her bottom was not red but black and blue with bruises and blood was streaming down her thighs. She tried to curl up in her niche, but having her bottom touch anything hurt horribly. In the end she had no choice but to sleep upside-down on cold stone, and her slumber was short and fitful.

There was no maester for a lazy serving maid. It hurt to sit down, but Arya had no choice but to keep going and to do all her duties, faster than ever, as Pinkeye kept an eagle eye upon her now.

It was near a fortnight later when she finally found time to go to the godswood. She liked the sharp smell of the pines and sentinels, the feel of grass and dirt between her toes, and the sound the wind made in the leaves. A slow little stream meandered through the wood, and there was one spot where it had eaten the ground away beneath a deadfall. There, beneath rotting wood and twisted splintered branches, she had hidden a broom whose bristles she had broken off, to make it something like a sword. Though it was much too light and had no proper grip, she liked to hold it and work at the drills Syrio had taught her, slashing at branches as if they were Ser Ilyn, or Ser Meryn, or the Hound, or the queen, or Joffrey. But none of those were why she was here.

"Girl."

"Jaqen," Arya said before turning around. She was not surprised to find the Lorathi here, because the first time they had met in the godswood he had found her. He had wanted to hear a name, the third name. Arya had refused him.

That had given her the seed of an idea.

"Come with me," she told him, "and I will give you your third name."

"A girl took three from a god," said Jaqen H'ghar, in such a voice that he could have been explaining the rise and fall of the sun, as soft as it was implacable. "A girl has given one, two. The gods are not mocked. A girl must give three. No less, no more."

"I know. I'll give you three, I promise."

He followed her to the gate that she had chosen, as she had known he would. Jaqen H'ghar's mind might be incomprehensible in other respects but this about him she could understand. He owed her a debt, in some strange way after the manner of his kind, and he wanted that matter to be done.

Arya remembered her lord father's men-at-arms and Syrio, but she had never seen anyone move half as silently as Jaqen H'ghar. Twice she looked back as she had decided that he must have left her, and twice there he was, walking quite calmly, never more or less than four paces behind.

Once she drew near to the gate, Arya sat, then winced and wished that she had not. Pinkeye's blows had scabbed over but there was still some discomfort.

"A girl is hurt," Jaqen observed. Arya did not for a moment believe that he had only just noticed. "Who?"

"Pinkeye, or Mebble really," said Arya, "but he's not who I mean to name."

She could see the fair-haired guard at his post now, his face appearing out of shadow. The moon was in the right place now. Its pale light showed her his face clearly, but to him, she knew, she was almost invisible. It was hard to see something very dark when you could see something very bright.

Then she saw why he had moved. There was another man with him, much older. "Glad all's well," the middle-aged man said. With relief, Arya realised that their conversation seemed to be ending. "Have a nice quiet shift, and keep your eyes sharp!"

"Will do, sarge," said the young fair-haired man, and his leader strode away with long purposeful steps. Arya thought, He's a servant.

The thought struck like a hammer-blow. It would be so easy. Name Jon of Hornvale and Jaqen would kill him, certain as an eastern sunrise; Arya had no doubt of that. He was a grown man with chainmail and a sword, she could do nothing, but the Lorathi would have no trouble. The fair-haired guard would be dead and she would flee to Riverrun and meet her lady mother. And yet… and yet…

Arya remembered the death of Weese. She had been so angry with him, for what seemed to be good cause, but on the very day of his death she had watched the army of Tywin of House Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport and Warden of the West, King Joffrey's Hand, lord of a line that had already been ancient when Brandon the Builder, ancestor of House Stark, built the Wall eight-thousand years ago, take their leave of Harrenhal, and on that day she had understood the depth of the error she had made. Weese mattered nothing, had always mattered nothing, no matter how great an impact he might have on individual lives like hers. He was only a servant. There were countless others like him. When he died he had been replaced immediately. Pinkeye might be nicer to her and others than Weese had been, but they were few. Just like Chiswyck, Weese had died and most of the world had scarcely noticed.

Arya had been perilously close to repeating that same mistake. Jon of Hornvale was a servant too. If he died she would escape, but even Ser Amory here at Harrenhal, let alone House Lannister in the fullness of its strength, had hundreds of men like him.

The Lannisters were winning the war. Lord Renly had lost a great battle on the Blackwater; Storm's End and Highgarden were humbled. Lady Selyse had betrayed them; Dragonstone had turned to Joffrey's side. Lord Tywin had torn apart a northern host and was laying siege in order to devour the scraps. What did her escape mean, next to all of that? She recalled something that father liked to say: When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives. What would it be but an act of supreme selfishness to place the lone wolf's escape above the pack's survival?

Just three words—Jon of Hornvale—and I'll be free. I'll meet my grandfather and uncle who live at Riverrun, and I'll see mother and Robb and Bran and Rickon again.

That was what her escape meant.

Tears pricked at her eyes.

Arya said, in a strangled voice: "No."

"No to what?" said Jaqen.

"No matter," said Arya, though it did, it did. "I need to ask you. The name… can I name anyone? And you'll kill him?"

Jaqen H'ghar inclined his head. "A man has said."

"Anyone?" she repeated. "A man, a woman, a little baby? No matter who they are? No matter how far away they are? Even the king himself?"

"Speak the name, and death will come. On the morrow, at the turn of the moon, a year from this day, it will come. A man does not fly like a bird, but one foot moves and then another and one day a man is there, and a king dies."

Arya was thinking of the Battle of the Blackwater. Lord Renly had come with tens of thousands of men, she had heard, and he and Joffrey had contended over blood and water and green fire. He had failed. It seemed too good to be true, that such power could be held in her hands, that with naught but a name she could achieve what all the power of the south could not.

She said, "I don't believe you."

"A man will swear by any god a girl cares to name."

"Men swear things all the time. That doesn't mean they do them." Arya felt much like crying. She wondered whether she wanted Jaqen to be incapable of the deed she was demanding of him. I want to name Jon of Hornvale. I want to go home. "Joffrey was going to send father to my uncle Benjen at the Night's Watch, it was promised, then he cut off his head."

"There are wicked men," said Jaqen H'ghar. "A man is not wicked. A man swears."

"I still don't believe you."

"Evil child. A man has a girl's word, that a girl will give a name? Today? That the debt will be repaid?"

"I swear it. I'll give you your name."

"Then see."

Jaqen passed a hand down his face from forehead to chin, and where it went he changed. His cheeks grew fuller, his eyes closer; his nose hooked, a scar appeared on his right cheek where no scar had been before. And when he shook his head, his long straight hair, half red and half white, dissolved away to reveal a cap of tight black curls.

Arya's mouth hung open, torn between amazement and mistrust. "I… I think you aren't really a man from Lorath," she said. "Are you?"

Jaqen H'ghar inclined his head gravely. "This is so. I am a man of Braavos." Arya noted that he had said "I", not "a man".

She said, "I think your name isn't even Jaqen H'ghar."

"This is so."

"What is your name?"

"Some men have many names. Weasel. Arry. Arya."

It did not surprise her that he knew. "What's your true name, then?"

He said, "Jaqen H'ghar."

"But that's not your true name! You told me just now!"

"I did tell," he said. "It is a name as true as any other."

"No it isn't," Arya said. "You know I'm Arya. That's my name, the others are just… like cloaks. Everyone has a true name, a name their mother gave them. What's yours?"

He did not even look like he was upset or trying to deceive her. That was the worst of it. "No one."

A chill came into Arya's heart. What the Braavosi man could do was miraculous, and she had no doubt, now, that he could do all that he claimed. She had thought to ask him whether she could do it too. But she no longer thought she wanted to. It was a path to admire, perhaps, but only from afar.

"I understand," she said, although she did not. She meant to bring the matter to a close. The Braavosi probably knew it, but he kept his silence.

Who, then, was she to name? She thought first of the men who had defeated Lord Renly in the Battle of the Blackwater. The men-at-arms had mentioned two leaders of that effort: Kevan and Tyrion Lannister. If they were slain, perhaps Lord Renly could defeat the Lannisters in the next battle near King's Landing. But no. Kevan is Lord Tywin's brother, and commands a host of Lord Tywin's vassals given to him by Lord Tywin. Tyrion is Joffrey's uncle, and is Hand of the King where the king is Joffrey. They're servants, too.

Next she thought of Lady Selyse, who had betrayed her hopes and sided with the Lannisters. But it occurred to Arya that her act of treason was already done. If she were slain, the royal fleet would remain on the Lannister side. She had made her choice; her death would not reverse it.

Then she thought of the man she had watched leave Harrenhal about four moons ago. Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, head of the House that was House Stark's enemy. He had sent Gregor Clegane to despoil the riverlands. He had caused the marriage of Queen Cersei to King Robert that had given the Lannisters such power. He had sent both Kevan and Tyrion Lannister to King's Landing, to serve under his command. He had shattered the army of northmen that had served her brother. He was House Lannister's head, the enemy lord commander, the undefeated foe.

But ultimately… he's just a lord, isn't he? To kings, lords are servants. Joffrey was king… and it was Joffrey who had given the order to cut off her father's head.

There could be only one choice.