A/N: Trying something a little different POV wise for this chapter, rather than making it multiple parts/postings. If y'all hate it, I won't do it again lol. I just couldn't settle on one pov for this part.
Tully and Frey banners hung behind him in equal splendor, celebrating the new Lady of Riverrun. A modest wedding feast by southron standards, Jon was certain, but it was as extravagant as war would allow. The cooks, at Lady Catelyn's direction, had made their usual fare more interesting. They seasoned trout and boar with spices brought by the Dornish, the vegetables drenched in butter and garlic, and the Freys had brought rich wine from the Arbor as a gift to Lord Edmure.
Few remained seated by this time of night. Up on the dais, Lady Catelyn sat on the far end to his left, deep in conversation with Ser Brynden. Robb and Alysanne had been among the first to partake in dancing, and even Arya had vacated her seat beside him to seek out Jeyne Poole. She still sat beside her, the two of them laughing and whispering with heads bent close. It was a sight more suited for Sansa than Arya, and had Jon not witnessed their budding friendship the past moons he would be utterly disbelieving of the scene before him.
Robb's uncle had not yet joined the dancing, and was amongst those who remained seated at the high table. For now, at least. With how enamored with Roslin Frey Edmure appeared, Jon had little doubt he would take her to the floor to dance before long. Jon and Robb had snickered together about Edmure's sudden change of heart regarding his new wife. It was just yesterday that he'd threatened yet again to call the whole thing off, Lord Walder be damned.
From down the table, Jon caught Edmure's eye and lifted his cup of ale in a salute. Edmure lifted his own with a smile. A kind man; Jon had half expected to be scorned by all of Lady Catelyn's family upon his arrival in Riverrun. While his welcome had been frosty indeed, Edmure had warmed to him markedly in the past weeks. Ser Brynden remained reticent, though that appeared to be his nature with most. He'd shown Jon respect in council meetings and on the march in the Westerlands, and so Jon did not otherwise mind.
Indeed, Edmure lifted Roslin Frey, Roslin Tully, now, from her seat and swept her down from the dais to dance. His hands brushing her waist bordered on indecent, and Jon would not have been shocked were Edmure to call for the bedding himself. Some revelers japed Edmure had taken his liberties early, after he and the new Lady Tully arrived at the wedding feast late. Jon knew the truth, though.
Lord Hoster Tully remained abed, asleep more hours than he was awake. Even then he was seldom lucid, often mistaken in who he was speaking to according to Robb. Arya'd shared with him that her mother briefly entertained a wish to have Lord Hoster helped down to see his only son and heir wed, but it was not to be. Instead, Edmure had brought Roslin to meet him following the ceremony.
Alysanne danced with Eddara Tallhart, their faces flushed from laughter and drink. Her cousin Joy soon joined them, and Jon chuckled at the sight of the three of them. Aegon danced with Lady Ashara, before relinquishing her to Prince Oberyn in exchange for Princess Arianne, and Robb stole Alysanne away from her companions.
Ale soured in Jon's mouth. He would soon be in Lord Edmure's place, if Robb agreed to Aegon's terms. And of course Robb would accept; the two of them had spoken late into the night about Aegon's offer. What business do I have marrying a Princess of Dorne? Though Robb had legitimized him, Jon was still a bastard. A lady wife and trueborn children, a keep of his own, those had all been the dreams of a bastard boy longing for what his siblings had. He'd given those dreams up when he resolved to join the Night's Watch. Now that they were within reach, he'd no notion of what to make of it.
Jon would not refuse, no matter his misgivings. Two marriages for Northern independence; he would give that and more. He would give his life, though he supposed he already had in a way. When Alysanne finally returned to her shared solar with Robb to find them sitting by the hearth, she'd let him know in no uncertain terms just how wroth she was with him, for pledging such a thing to Aegon.
It occurred to him that perhaps he should refuse, if accepting meant he would be subjected to the same arduous ceremony in a sept that Edmure and Roslin had. They'd sat there for hours, listening to that septon. Jon had never attended a wedding in a sept before, only the godswood. He didn't think he wished to ever again.
Lord Edmure stole Alysanne away from Robb, his forgiveness for her having come as quick as his change of heart towards Roslin. Robb danced with his new Lady Aunt, and Aegon stole Arya away from Jeyne Poole, who accepted a dance from a Dornish knight in Aegon's service. Arya, to Jon's complete lack of surprise, did not look overjoyed to be dancing with Aegon. He could not hear the words she hissed to Aegon, but Jon doubted they were declarations of love.
His little sister had held her temper in front of the council of lords, but a night of rest had done nothing to cool her temper. That morning when she broke her fast with Jon, he heard all manner of curses from her mouth that she'd no doubt learned on the march. It was that Aegon told her nothing of the proposal beforehand that bothers her. When Jon had questioned Arya on whether she'd have been happy to marry him otherwise, pleased even, Arya had flushed and sputtered in a way Jon suspected had nothing to do with her earlier anger.
As he had during the last feast, Bran sat with whichever of his friends hadn't taken to the floor. Olyvar Frey, his elder brother Perwyn, young Lewys Piper, even Ser Daemon Sand sat and drank with them and took turns tossing down table scraps to Summer, who lazed at their feet. Jon pushed his chair back to stand and join them, but his plan was waylaid.
"Jon." Arianne slipped into Arya's vacant seat with an amused curl of her lips, and Jon sat back down. She sat sideways to face him, and Ghost popped his head up from underneath the table and nosed at her leg, begging for table scraps. "And hello to you too," Arianne giggled, greeting Ghost with a scratch behind the ear.
"Princess Arianne. Don't bother her, Ghost," Jon said. Already, white fur littered the gauzy, blood-orange silk of her skirts.
"He's no bother. I don't suppose I'll find Frostfyre under there as well?" She leaned closer to him conspiratorially, a wry little look on her face, and Jon struggled to find his footing. The necklace she wore dangled forward, a golden sun pendant sparkling low on her chest, and she smelt of lemons and something warm. Her hair blanketed her bare shoulders in thick, dark curls, and Jon wondered if they would be as soft to touch as they looked.
"No, she's lurking in the godswood." Where Ghost should be, along with Grey Wind, Summer, Lady, and Nymeria. It would be crowded enough without them in the hall, Lady Catelyn said, but Bran and Arya were loath to part with their wolves after so long apart. Lady Catelyn had relented, on the condition they cleaned the muck and brambles from their coats.
Ghost, Lady, and Grey Wind had refused to stay in the godswood, not when two of their littermates were in the Great Hall. None of the stern commands from Robb or Jon had persuaded them to remain, even Lady had wormed her way in. Until then Lady had been content at Lady Catelyn's feet, but the great direwolf abruptly alighted from her spot and trotted out of the hall.
"A shame. She's beautiful. I've only met Aegon's Vēzos." Arianne absentmindedly kept a hand on Ghost's head and sensing her lack of attention, the beast nosed into her hand. With a coo, Arianne reached across the space between them and plucked a forgotten roll of Jon's plate and fed it to Ghost, resuming the scratching behind his ear.
Even now, in the stone walls of the keep, Jon could feel the fledgling bond with Frostfyre tugging at his periphery. Not as strong as his bond with Ghost, yet it grew every day. What free time Jon had during the day he spent with his dragon. A dragon. Each time he laid eyes on his dragon, he found himself in disbelief.
Jon cleared his throat. "I'll introduce you to her then, Princess." She rewarded his invitation with a bright smile, which may as well have turned her into the sun itself with the way it scorched him.
Ghost, having grown bored with his pestering, slumped back down to lie at Jon's feet with a huff. Arianne leaned forward and rested her head on her now free hand. "You might call me by my name. We might be wed, after all. Will you continue to call me princess forever?"
"Arianne, then." Jon turned in his own seat to face her. He leaned forward slightly and mirrored her, resting his weight on the elbow propped on the table. "Though my cousin has yet to agree. You might be spared of me yet."
"Spared?" Arianne raised an elegant brow. She scanned the length of him, and her lips flicked upwards. "I hardly think marrying you will be a hardship." She leaned back in her chair and appraised him further with a curious look. "I find myself bored, Jon Stark. A terrible malady at a wedding feast, especially one as lively as this, and I do so love to dance."
"I am not entertaining enough for you then?" Jon teased, finding his footing under her attention. He stood and offered Arianne a hand, remembering the lessons Sansa had subjected him and Robb to as children. Dark Sister was a comforting weight at his side, though it was nothing compared to the weight of Arianne's hand in his own, dwarfed in his and sparking with gold and ruby rings.
Arianne stood and curled around his arm, and Jon tried not to covet the feeling. Her head brushed against his shoulder and her body pressed warm against his. Before Jon could lead Arianne down off the dais, commotion broke out near the entrance to the hall. Two people shoved through the crowd, several of Robb's men-at-arms trailing after them with hands on the hilts of their swords. The sound of swords drawing from sheaths and orders to stop there had Jon stepping in front of Arianne.
"Who are those people, Jon?" Her fingers dug into his arm, and Jon held out a hand to keep her from stepping forward further.
Jon looked closer at the men. His hair was longer and his beard shaggier, but Jon would recognize Theon anywhere. "The dark-haired man is Theon Greyjoy. And the other…" Who is that other man? Golden-haired and filthy, Jon recognized him with a jolt of shock. He's mad to return here. Jon shook his head in disbelief. "Jaime fucking Lannister."
Ghost raised his hackles as he slinked from his perch under the table, and Jon absently placed a hand on the hilt of Dark Sister. There was movement in the hall, aside from those slinking forward to better see the disgraced Kingslayer. Jon liked it not. He sidestepped closer to Arianne and wrapped his free hand around her upper arm, carefully maneuvering her further behind him. With a gentle shove, Jon shifted them a step closer to the exit.
Something is not right. Jaime Lannister held a filthy sack in his hands that Theon eyed in disgust. Theon himself held a firm hand on Jaime's shoulder as he shoved him forward towards Robb, but it was not the Lannister that Theon paid mind to. Theon's eyes skittered across the hall, landing on nothing and no one. Theon was meant to fetch Sansa. Yet Sansa Stark was not in the hall, and like Jon, Theon had a steady hand on the hilt of his sword. Dread thundered through him.
The musicians in the far right corner of the hall stopped playing and stood to better see the spectacle. The revelers fell silent in favor to muttering to one another, and in the silence Jon could hear every word Robb exchanged with Theon below.
"Give Lord Edmure his present! I worked very hard to secure it," Jaime Lannister said. Edmure joined Robb at the center of the hall, and Robin Flint stepped forward from his place beside Robb to grab the cloth sack Jaime Lannister held.
One of Prince Oberyn's daughters, Obara, slithered closer to the dais and Jon caught her eye. Jon inclined his head towards the exit sharply and motioned to Ashara. Obara nodded. His hand flexed on Dark Sister.
"Robb, listen to me. You've been betrayed. Call your guards," Theon said. He shifted restlessly. Grey Wind stalked forward from wherever it was he'd been lurking and sniffed at the sack which Robin Flint now held before growling.
"By who? How do you know this?" Robb stepped forward, and swords glinted in the candlelight. Jon spotted Merret Frey attempting to drag Lady Roslin from the hall with a hand over her mouth. She did not make it easy. The new Lady Tully thrashed and kicked before she finally broke free.
Lady Roslin made it to Edmure, and was whispering furiously to him as Jaime Lannister said, "The Frey's and the Bolton's, I'm afraid. On behalf of my father. Black Walder told me, before I took his head. Open that sack and see for yourself."
Robin Flint untied the top of the makeshift sack, and a half rotted head tumbled out onto the ground with a grotesque thunk. For a brief, grim moment, the hall existed in suspended silence; a sustained horror that was shattered when Ser Ryman Frey launched himself at Robb with a guttural howl.
Young Ethan Forrester pushed Robb back and drove his sword through Ryman Frey, but not before Ser Ryman's sword found a home in the boys side. Ethan Forrester crumpled to the ground, and the hall erupted into disarray.
Dark Sister sang as Jon drew the sword from its sheath. None too gently, he pushed Arianne the rest of the way towards the exit to the hall where Obara had already reached. "Snow!" She shouted, and the moment he had Arianne down the steps of the dais he shoved her toward Obara. Arianne stumbled and Obara caught her, and Jon waited only long enough to see that Obara had her safely out of the hall before turning back to the dais.
With a hideous snarl, Ghost launched himself into the crowd and onto a Frey man who had been attempting to climb up onto the dais, ripping his throat out and leaving a mangled mass of sinew and gore. Lady Stark stumbled back with a choked gasp, but before Jon could reach her Arya darted past him and grabbed her mother's hand. The tall woman who had returned with Lady Stark after she treated with Renly, Brienne, shouldered past Jon to reach Lady Stark and Arya. Together, they led Lady Catelyn from the hall.
"Get to Robb!" Arya yelled over her shoulder to him. Nymeria ran ahead of her, taking down an overly confident Bolton man who stood in Arya's way.
Shouting and cries of agony from outside the great hall mingled with those within. Small clusters of Frey and Bolton men-at-arms shoved into the hall and the keep, though Jon suspected there would've been far more had Theon not given Robb warning. Theon must have also warned the guards outside, if the sounds of battle was anything to go by.
In the middle of the hall, Robb fought off Northmen-turned-traitors. Men who had marched south alongside them, men who Jon had fought beside. Rage and betrayal spread outwards from his chest; a snaking, icy heat that yearned for blood with a lust none but Dark Sister could sate.
Jon vaulted over the high table and off the dais. Dark Sister whispered through the air, cutting clean through the limbs of traitors with an ease that could solely belong to a sword of Valyrian steel.
xxx
Screams permeated the hall mixed with the snarling of wolves, and Jaime found himself at the center of it all. Men wearing gray and blue, pink and red, met swords with Starks, Martells, and Tullys alike. Jarringly, the Targaryen banner hung alongside the rest, as it had outside the walls of Riverrun. It was a sight Jaime had not seen in years and never thought to see again. And one which he did not have time to dwell on, as yet.
To the left, a man in Bolton livery crossed swords with Maege Mormont, who Jaime recognized for his time imprisoned by his daughter. The she-bear fought as fierce as any man, roaring like the beast of her House and hacking her sword into the neck of her opponent. A younger woman, Jorelle Mormont, Jaime remembered, swung a morning star into the man's back.
Mother and daughter fought valiantly side by side until an ill-timed swing left Jorelle Mormont vulnerable. She ducked as a blade cut upwards, but not far enough. The tip of the blade caught her eye, and she cried in anguish and folded to the ground. Maege Mormont hesitated at her daughter's cry, and it proved to be her end. The same man who struck Jorelle slit her mother's throat, before a giant of a man descended on him with a vengeance.
A shriek of Jorelle's name spiked a fear unlike anything he'd felt before. He sJaime around wildly and spotted Alysanne at the furthest end of the hall from him. Jaime looked around. She's alone. He looked back to Robb, who was exchanging blows with a Bolton man.
The giant man killed the Frey who'd slain Maege Mormont and maimed Jorelle, before gathering Jorelle Mormont into his arms and ferrying her from the hall. Alysanne screamed Jorelle's name once more and Jaime's heart seized.
The Bolton man Robb fought had his back to Jaime, and he kicked his foot into the back of the man's leg and sent him stumbling enough for Robb to gain the upper hand and drive his sword into his throat. He gurgled on his lifeblood, and as Robb's guards surrounded him Jaime seized his chance.
"Untie me. Let me get Alysanne to safety," Jaime said, frenzied and harried, an image of blood spilling from Alysanne's neck overwhelming his every thought.
"Untie you?" The Stark boy gaped at him, and Jaime fought the urge to grip his neck and shake him.
"They'll never let you get to her. I've a better chance, I'm too valuable for any of them to kill." Each moment Robb spent contemplating what he'd said felt like a death sentence for Alysanne. Jaime feared turning around to find her amongst the crowd; headless, stabbed through the heart, gutted like a fish, each image flashed in front of him, more macabre than the last.
Finally, with a bitter scowl, Robb yanked Theon close to him and sliced the rope binding Jaime's hands. "Both of you. Get Alysanne. Stay with her until I come for you." Without another word, Robb ducked back in the fray, shouting at the surrounding men to find the other members of his family. Grey Wind weaved through the crowd after the Stark boy, ripping the legs out from traitors in his way.
Jaime scanned the crowd frantically for any sign of his daughter. A flash of a bronze and black crown and golden hair, and Jaime shouted. "There!" He and Theon began cutting their way to her. The relief was hacked away at the sight of her, and his legs grew weak beneath him in a way they hadn't since he was a green boy, charging into his first battle. Clumsily, Alysanne drove a sword through a man's belly and blood spilled across her. In that moment, Jaime was more thankful than anything that Ser Addam had continued to teach her swordplay.
Alysanne struggled to pull her sword free from where it'd lodged in the man, and another took advantage of her distraction to lunge at her. Alysanne sidestepped the man's sword, and Jaime could hardly bear to watch. The momentum of her lunge to the side freed her sword from the man, and with a clash of steel she met blades with her new attacker.
Her arms shuddered under the force of the blows of her attacker's sword, and Jaime sprinted what distance remained between him and his daughter. All too eagerly he drove his blade through the back of the man attacking Alysanne, and it was with a relish he wrenched the blade upwards and out of the man's shoulder, sending a shower of blood and viscera above them.
She gaped at him, wide eyed and bewildered before muttering, "Father?" Blood stained the front of her Stark gray gown and her hands trembled, and while his daughter was frozen in place Jaime caught her wrist and tugged her into his chest.
"Alysanne." The sobering reality of who had put her there, who had orchestrated this massacre tempered any relief he felt. The sounds and smells of death and betrayal resounded around them. At an urgent prompting from Theon, Jaime stepped back and tried to lead Alysanne from the hall. "Come. You have to get out of here."
"I won't leave Robb," Alysanne said. She dug her feet in and would not move, craning her neck in search of the Stark boy. Theon shouldered his way past Jaime to stand in front of Alysanne.
"He has Jon and the rest of them. You're of no use to him here, he'll only worry for you instead of his own survival." Theon said. For a tense moment Alysanne simply stared at Theon, her face blank and eyes wide and watery. "Come on," Theon prodded, and Alysanne silently nodded and muttered her agreement.
With a hand tight around her upper arm, Jaime kept Alysanne close as he followed Theon through the hall. All seven hells would freeze over before Jaime would willingly follow a Greyjoy ever again, but Jaime had no knowledge of Riverrun, no notion of where he might bring Alysanne to wait out this mess.
"What are you doing here? You should be well on your way to King's Landing by now," Alysanne said, straining to be heard over the din of the hall. A gray blur streaked past Theon to latch around the throat of an approaching man, smaller than the hellish beast belonging to Robb Stark.
They stopped while Theon slit the throat of another man who stepped in their way, only to find his leg in the maw of a direwolf. It rankled Jaime to stand aside, but he was loath to leave Alysanne undefended. "Would you prefer I hadn't?"
"That's not what—" They stopped again, but it wasn't Theon who halted them. Alysanne fought against Jaime's grip, a distraught cry of "Eddara" ringing through the hall. Jaime tightened his hold on her before she could make it far. The direwolf shot off toward a brown-haired girl cowering behind a large, bearded man; the Greatjon, Jaime remembered.
Just as Theon offered to go after her, a bolt whistled through the air and found a home in Eddara's throat. Alysanne let out a strangled wail, and it was only Jaime's firm hold on her that kept her standing. The Greatjon had been the true target, a fact made clear when another bolt pierced through his skull several moments later. Men in the gray and blue of House Frey advanced towards them at Alysanne's cry, and panic clawed at Jaime's chest.
"Move! We must go," Jaime demanded. Theon abandoned his course towards Eddara and returned to their side.
Hysterical, Alysanne had not given up on her fallen friend. Jaime released her arm to wrap his own around her waist, steering her onwards and forwards. He followed Theon through the halls of Riverrun until they reached the first empty chambers they could find. Theon hurried them in and latched the door behind them. A different room than the one Theon had stashed the Stark girl and Tommen in.
Even safe and away from the hall, Alysanne remained frantic. She tried to step around him and reach the door but Jaime held out an arm to stop her. Even as he grabbed her and hauled her to him she struggled to free herself. "We have to go back for Robb!"
Jaime spun her to face him and held her firmly by the shoulders. "There is nothing you can do for him there that others cannot. The men by his side are far more skilled with a sword than you."
Alysanne wavered and took an aborted step towards the door, before clutching tightly to his arms. "Then you go! They'll kill him. They killed Eddara, and they'll kill Robb and Jon and all the rest."
"I will not." At his refusal, Alysanne wrenched away from him and turned around. She stalked back and forth, an eerie reminder of a similar habit of Cersei's. "I told Robb I'd stay with you. I will not go." He wouldn't go even if Robb hadn't asked him to remain with Alysanne. He'd returned for his daughter, not the Stark boy.
Gaining no ground with Jaime, Alysanne shifted her attack to Theon, who stood in front of the door and half listened to their argument. The rest of his attention was on whatever was happening outside their room.
"Theon please. I am asking as your queen," she pleaded. Hesitantly, Theon looked between Alysanne and Jaime.
"You might trust him but I don't, Alys. I can't leave you with him," Theon said. Jaime rolled his eyes and sighed.
"I go where she goes, Greyjoy. I highly doubt she would let me spirit her from Riverrun now." Alysanne, Tommen, and I will live, whether or not the Stark boy does.
At more pleading from Alysanne, Theon relented. With a nod of assent, the Greyjoy slipped from the room and Jaime swiftly barred the door behind him.
xxx
Mother is safe. Or at the very least safer than she was. Arya hadn't waited until her mother found a room to hide in before turning tail and heading back for the hall. Her mother would never have let her leave, and her family was still in peril. Robb, Jon, Alysanne, Bran. Aegon remained as well, and Syrio.
Against her better judgment, Arya sprinted into the hall and crawled under a table, taking a moment to gain bearings. She would not charge blindly ahead; Syrio had taught her better than that. Nymeria growled low beside her, and Arya wound her fingers through her fur to bid her to wait.
A sword. I need a sword. She hadn't taken Needle with her into the feast, not like Robb, Jon, Bran, and Aegon had taken their own swords. Proper or no, Arya would never be without it again. She reached over to grab a sword off the dead man lying closest to the table she hid beneath, and recoiled when she recognized the man to be no man at all but Lucas Blackwood, the older brother of Jon's squire Alyn. Gritting her teeth, she snatched the sword and said a silent apology. Arya took another moment to decide her next move.
On the other side of the hall, her Uncle Edmure held off two men, and Arya watched in horror as Olyvar Frey charged towards them. Olyvar Frey was no great swordsman, and Arya had no doubts she could disarm him in a single breath. He'll get himself killed. Him and Edmure. Olyvar lurched forward and drove his sword through the back of one man attacking her uncle. Shame for doubting Olyvar and relief for her uncle's safety burned through her in equal measure.
There was no sign of Alysanne or Bran, and Jon and Robb were together fighting alongside the Smalljon and the Blackfish. Arya inched further to the edge of the table she was hiding beneath and leaned her head around. At the back of the hall, Arya saw one of Aegon's cousins take a sword to the belly. Aegon shouted and charged forward at the man, meeting him with a rain of steel. Blackfyre flashed through the air, and Arya was so enchanted by it she almost missed another man advancing on Aegon. He hadn't noticed, and his two Kingsguard were fighting off men of their own.
The answer to Bran's whereabouts came with a vicious growl from Summer, who launched onto the man bearing down on Aegon and tore his head clean from his body. Though Bran's doublet was torn and stained with blood, her brother fought on fearlessly.
A pink cloak fluttered out of the corner of her eye, and Arya set her shoulders and tightened her grip on dead Lucas Blackwood's sword. Lord Bolton cut his way through the hall towards the exit, striking down Ser Wendel as he advanced. Nymeria crouched low to the ground and Arya took a bracing breath. Fear loomed close, and Arya launched herself out from her hiding spot before it could catch her.
Too many men stood between Lord Bolton and the exit for him to make a quick escape, but Arya found her path hindered. A boy, no older than she, stepped into her path and haphazardly swung his sword at her. One of the Freys, Arya recognized him from Alysanne's march in the Westerlands. Arya swung her sword back at him and let out a grunt with the effort, though it was Nymeria who claimed the killing blow. With a sickening crunch, Nymeria ripped the boy's throat to shreds. Arya did not linger on the gruesome sight and pressed onwards.
No sooner did the Frey boy's body hit the floor did her mentor appear by her side, a trio of Bolton men close behind. Syrio's sword danced in the air as he met blades with the three of them, making a glistening arc as it turned one of his opponents to ribbons. Arya wished she'd remained hidden beneath the table if only to watch him.
Arya engaged one man attacking Syrio, and her arms quivered as she held off a heavy strike with her sword. She met him blow for blow, and at the first opening, drove her borrowed sword upward through his chest. The man gurgled as he fell, and Arya's stomach roiled. Adrenaline thrummed deep in her bones and her cheek tingled. She lifted her hand to touch it, and it came away bloody.
"Who are we after, girl?" Syrio asked. Arya faltered and searched the hall desperately. Lord Bolton drew ever nearer to the exit.
"There," she pointed. "Lord Bolton, he—" a warm spray of blood swallowed her words. Arya snapped her head to look at Syrio, but found an arrow pointing at her from between his eyes.
Not today, not today, not today. Tears gnawed at her eyes and seared gashes down her face, sticky with her own blood and Syrio's. She pushed onwards. Her legs felt as if they were twigs, and her lungs burned as though she was Aerion Brightflame, who'd poured wildfire down his throat. Syrio, Aegon's Cousins, Lucas Blackwood, the countless Northmen who Arya could not yet name were raging fires, brighter than any funeral pyre.
The embroidered, flayed man on Lord Bolton's cloak became clearer as Arya pushed closer. Only the long trestle table stood between them when a crossbow bolt struck his shoulder. Roose Bolton lurched, and as he trundled about he was met with a blur of gray. Grey Wind pinned him to the ground, teeth gnashing and nipping at his neck.
The direwolf lumbered away as Robb charged up to them, clearing the way for her brother to drive the blade straight down through Lord Bolton's chest. Robb left the blade there and stepped back, chest heaving. The disgraced lord struggling in his death throes made for a ghastly scene. He tried to rise, only to howl in anguish as the blade drove deeper.
Slowly, and then all at once, the carnage around her came to an end. With Lord Bolton's death, those that remained alive to fight surrendered. Syrio. Lucas Blackwood. The North will never forget this. Nymeria pressed into Arya's side, and she leaned her weight on her direwolf.
xxx
The keep had not settled in the hours following the attack, and Aegon did not think it would for some time yet. The halls rang with howls of pain from injured men, or the wails of those left behind by the slain. There was no respite from it, and neither Jon nor Oberyn thought it wise for Aegon to join the search parties sent out for the Frey and Bolton men who'd fled.
Blackfyre had made quick work of his opponents, though a sword of Valyrian steel would have been of little use had he been on his own in that hall. He owed Rolly and Daemon his life, that much was certain. And Bran Stark, it would seem. The Stark boy hadn't hesitated to put himself and his direwolf between Aegon and Petyr Frey. Bran had been as furious as his wolf when he drove his sword through the Frey man's neck.
If anything, the events of that evening had made it more apparent to Aegon that he needed to fill the remaining spots on his Kingsguard sooner rather than late. Two Kingsguard would hardly be enough in the wars to come.
He wiped sweaty palms on his trousers and was dismayed to find them shaking again. After the disaster in the great hall had ended, it'd taken Aegon near an hour to settle. He, like many others, would find no sleep that night. Instead, he wandered.
The hall had not yet been cleared of the carnage, and the coppery smell of the congealed blood pooled on the floors assaulted Aegon upon his entering the hall. Servants wept where they mopped, and one by one, men carried the dead from the hall. They shouted for aid whenever they found someone still living, but those instances were few and far between. Aegon found his cousin standing amidst the blood and carnage, the hem of her skirts stained a grim crimson from where they'd brushed through the pooled blood.
Alysanne stood over a corpse, and as Aegon walked up to join her in her vigil, he recognized the man to be a slaughtered Roose Bolton. His cousin made no indication of having noticed him, save for a brief glance in his direction before she looked back to Lord Bolton.
One mastermind behind this, if Jaime Lannister was to be believed. In death, the man's eyes remained as hauntingly piercing as they had in life. He stared blankly up at the ceiling, mouth parted and blood trickling down his chin. A gash remained where Robb Stark had stabbed him with his sword, widened and jagged from where Lord Bolton had struggled. Aegon's stomach churned, and he instead focused on Alysanne.
"I saw Arya and Jon. Is Robb well? Lady Catelyn?" Aegon asked. He'd seen Bran, who had been injured but well enough to talk before milk of the poppy saw him asleep, and Aegon imagined he would have heard had the King in the North or his mother had fallen. And yet, there are many who have fallen this night.
Two men lifted a slain Robin Flint off the floor, a boy who Aegon had met merely two days prior, and carried him past them. Alysanne shuddered. "Robb is alive, as is Lady Catelyn. Lady Jorelle lost an eye, and Lady Eddara—" Her mouth twitched and she clutched her skirts with shuddering hands. "A crossbow bolt to the throat. Courtesy of Merret Frey, I'm told. What of you? I only saw Prince Oberyn. Lord Connington and Lady Ashara? Your cousins?"
Aegon's shoulders sagged. For nearly an hour after the attack, Aegon searched Riverrun high and low for those he loved. Jon was whole and hale, save for a new scar above his left brow, and Ashara had been shaken but unharmed. He'd never felt relief such as what he felt when he laid eyes on his brother Jon, and Arya with him. Alysanne, Arianne; Aegon had perhaps rejoiced at his family's survival far too soon, before he came upon the infirmary.
"Nymeria took a sword to the belly." The mournful cries of Oberyn would never leave him, of this Aegon was certain. Nor would Obara's vengeful curses, Arianne and Tyene's bitter tears, Elia's howls. "She did not live."
A haunted fog flitted over her eyes, and Alysanne shook her head and stepped back from Roose Bolton's corpse, sparing the dead man no more than a sneer. "I am terribly sorry, cousin, for all of this."
"You are not the one who broke guest right, Alysanne." Aegon placed a hand on Alysanne's shoulder and squeezed. "I will hear none of your apologies."
"They will burn for this. The Freys, the La—" Alysanne clenched her jaw and flexed her fingers. Abruptly she turned to him, clawing a hand into his arm. "Promise me, cousin. When you take your throne, you will rain fire and blood down upon them."
Aegon considered his cousin; the fury in her eyes, the blood spattered across her face and dried into her hair which she had yet to wash away; she had every right to justice that he did. "We'll do so together, Alysanne."
"The Frey's, mayhap. But there are those who already call me a kinslayer for my march through the Westerlands. My grandfather… no. It must be you, Aegon. Promise me." Alysanne held her chin high, and her eyes blazed. Her hand tightened where she clutched him, unyielding and firm.
Aegon briefly glanced over Alysanne's shoulder to see Jon approaching, Ghost silent and steady at one side and Dark Sister hanging on the other. He lifted Alysanne's hand from where it clasped his arm and held it in his own. "I promise you, cousin. Fire and blood."
A/N: Again, if y'all absolutely hated the shifting povs for this chapter I won't do it again! I only really intend to do it once more for the battle of king's landing, whenever that comes.