AEMON THE DRAGONWOLF

Part 3 - Banishing Nightmares

Arya I

Arya had learned much since King Robert had barged into her world, drunk and loud and unwelcome. Her training with Syrio had taught her to watch her surroundings—and men—and see them for what they were. Her days of servitude in Harrenhal had taught her the horrible things humans could do to each other, and when to keep silent despite the atrocities before her eyes. Her training with the Kindly Man had taught her how to listen and report, and how to infiltrate a place where she was a stranger. They, Jaqen, the Hound, and the Waif had taught her how to kill.

In her idle moments, Arya wondered if her masters would be proud of her achievements, or horrified by the monster they'd created.

Infiltrating the Twins had taken all of her talents. The naturally impatient Arya had forced herself to be still, to listen, and to wait. She'd worn the pretty face of a long-dead Westerosi girl to find work, knowing that old Walder Frey could not resist pretty wenches. The girl who had once been No One had swallowed her disgust and served the repulsive lecher for weeks, enduring his groping hands and lewd comments.

All the while, she had listened. House Frey was large and full of petty feuds, with brothers, nephews, grandchildren, and cousins fighting for the old lord's favor. After a moon's turn at the Twins, she knew all of the rumors, and had spread some of her own. More importantly, she knew the names of every man involved in the Red Wedding, and her list had grown longer by several Freys.

Arya's dreams were her only consolation in a castle full of enemies. By day she was Bella, a simple-minded, good-natured common girl who served the family their evening meals and scrubbed the floors with vigor. By night, she was the leader of a massive wolf pack, and the Riverlands were hers.

Her Nymeria-dreams were infinitely preferable to the alternative. Any night Arya didn't join her wolf, she'd dream of the Red Wedding, or the Waif's knives, or her father's execution. To ensure she would not be discovered, Arya had taken the coldest, most inhospitable bedchamber in the castle, which no Riverlands servant wished to share. There, she could have nightmares and wolf-dreams without giving herself away.

Her fingers had clenched around her wine jug as Walder Frey spoke of alliances and defeating enemies to Jaime Lannister, of all people. She wished she could have killed them all that very night. Alas, Arya Stark was older now, and she knew her limits.

Once the Lannisters had left, Arya had ensured that Nymeria's wolf pack would hound the westerlanders out of the Riverlands. Every night, a sentry would go missing. His remains would be found the next morning, devoured by wolves. If the remaining men were spooked and whispered about the vengeance of the Starks, so much the better.

Meanwhile, Nymeria had scouted around the Twins. As the gray direwolf turned north, she'd caught the scent of two small, bog-dwelling humans. Arya's control had slipped for a moment, and the beast had cornered the crannogmen scouts behind an enormous oak tree, snarling through alarmingly sharp fangs.

"Direwolf," the older one had whispered, pale as milk.

"Is it the king's beast?" the younger had replied, watching Nymeria with wide green eyes.

"Nay, King Robb's wolf is dead."

"Jon Snow's, then?"

Nymeria—and the human seeing through her eyes—had frozen at the names of her brothers, and the crannogmen had noticed.

"It knows the name," the older crannogman had said in awe. "Are you the Lord Commander's wolf, noble one?"

Arya had nudged Nymeria into shaking her massive head.

"But you are a Stark beast, that much is plain," young green-eyes had said.

Nymeria had nodded.

"Go home then, lady wolf. Your brother is in Winterfell with Jon Snow and Sansa Stark. The Riverlands are no place for a creature of the North."

Arya had considered her options. Nymeria had eaten well, and would not devour Northmen while Arya whispered that these people were friends of the pack, but communicating through a direwolf was not exactly easy. She'd looked down at the snow, and had a sudden idea.

Before the two men's amazed eyes, the enormous gray direwolf had lifted her left paw, and drawn a letter in the snow. Three more had followed.

"Arya," the older scout had read in shock. He'd dropped to one knee, followed by his companion. "Forgive us, your grace; we had no idea you were a warg like your brothers!"

Warg. Old Nan had told her about those, many years ago. Wargs were legendary skinchangers who lived among the First Men. In Nan's tales, the Starks of old had gained the ability after defeating the Warg King and taking his daughters for wives. The greatest enemies of the Kings of Winter, the Red Kings of the Dreadfort, had flayed many a captured Stark, hoping to steal their skinchanging ability.

After all she'd seen through Nymeria's eyes, and those of the nameless Braavosi alley cat, Arya knew that Old Nan and the crannogmen were right. She was a warg, and clearly, Robb had been one as well.

"Where are you, your grace? If you're in need of rescue, we'll send to Winterfell for help!" the younger scout had offered. "I'm Rowland Fenn, and this is Maren Greengood."

Arya had shaken Nymeria's head again. She'd felt Nymeria's confusion as Arya used her paw to write, and had realized the wolf's patience would not last long. As quickly as possible, she'd smudged her name with her paws, and written an explanation in four disjointed words.

TALK BELLA VENGEANCE SECRET

The younger crannogman—Rowland—had smiled. "You've found a way to make the Freys pay for the Red Wedding, your grace? How can we help?"

Nymeria had shaken her head again, and pointed with her paw to the word SECRET.

"As you wish, Princess," they'd murmured.

"We'll keep a lookout for Bella and exchange news," the younger one promised.

The older man had used his boot to erase the latest message, and Nymeria had watched as they disappeared back into the trees.

A fortnight after meeting the crannogmen, Arya had finally put her plan into action. She'd lured Walder's disgusting, murderous sons into her chamber with flirty smiles and promises of a good time, and killed them without a shred of remorse. Once she'd stripped them of their faces and fingers, Arya had taken a meat cleaver from the kitchens and chopped the corpses beyond recognition. Parts of them had gone into the river; others had been fed to Lord Walder's dogs and Nymeria's pack. The fingers had gone into the meat filling for Lord Walder's pie. With a grim smile at the thought of Hot Pie, and what he'd say to the desecration of a perfectly good pastry, Bella the serving wench had taken Lord Walder his last meal.

As she disposed of Walder Frey's brood, Arya stuffed their clothes with straw and placed them in beds around the castle, spreading rumors of illness, and poison to turn the lie into truth. One by one, Bella the servant found the men who had plotted the destruction of Robb. With winks, smiles, and kisses, she seduced, stabbed, or poisoned them, and their remains disappeared into the river, or into the belly of a wolf. Poisons and herbs from Arya's stores found their way into the women and children's meals, ensuring they'd stay abed and not wander around the castle.

People came to the Twins, lord and smallfolk alike, hoping to see Walder Frey as his role demanded. They saw him and spoke with him, none the wiser. His loose robe—an old man's whim—hid his smaller, more slender body, and the thin sword at his side. Arya's mummery, and a special potion the Waif had created, disguised her girlish voice. She, Arya Stark, was now Lord of the Crossing. She only waited for the perfect moment to reveal the farce, and declare to the world that House Stark was avenged.

When Nymeria, now patrolling with her new crannogman friend, sniffed a strange man on a horse riding south, Arya bid her watch from the snow-covered bushes. The man was full-grown but small and slight, and had lost an arm. But when he fought his exhaustion and raised his head, the direwolf caught a glimpse of sly, gray-green eyes, and Arya remembered him. From her hiding place, Nymeria bared her fangs. She didn't like the way he smelled.

"My lord," a pox-marked guard called, and Arya left Nymeria's body for her own. "Lord Petyr Baelish begs admittance to the castle. He's in a bad way."

"How so?" Arya replied in the old man's voice.

"He says he was attacked by Northmen on the road," the guard answered.

Arya took her Needle and placed it on her lap. She didn't know if Petyr Baelish would know the significance, nor did she care. There would be no guest right for Littlefinger in this castle.

Even if he'd come to see Late Walder Frey, Arya thought furiously, guest right means nothing to these people. He would be stupid to expect any protection here.

"Send him in, then," she ordered.

Petyr Littlefinger Baelish staggered into the hall. He looked terrible. His eyes were glazed with pain, and it seemed as though every step hurt him greatly. Under his cloak he wore an ill-fitting rough tunic, obviously borrowed or stolen from a poorer man, and one sleeve hung loose and empty. He bowed briefly, and Arya fought the wolf in her head, demanding to rip that exposed neck to pieces.

"Lord Baelish. What brings you to the Twins?" asked Arya in Walder's voice.

"I must see a maester, my lord," he gasped, bracing his remaining hand on his knee. "I've been attacked, and survived purely by luck."

Arya would rather have let him die, but she wished to question him first.

"Very well. Take him to the maester's chambers," she ordered. "There is illness in the castle, and Maester Brenett is quite busy, but he'll see to you soon enough. I will speak with you later, Lord Baelish."

She decided to visit Walder's solar. He was not fond of climbing those stairs with his arthritic knees, so he'd rarely gone up there in his final days. Arya could do it and remain undetected, now that most of the Freys in the castle were sick in their beds.

The solar was musty with disuse. Papers and books lay forgotten on the desk, and the shuttered windows let in no light. Arya opened them at once, breathing easier when the chilly breeze struck her nose. It wasn't quite as pure or as cold as Winterfell's air, but it was something.

There was little of interest in the solar, except for an awful trophy hanging on the wall. Rage filled the young woman as she found the head of her brother's direwolf, stuffed and mounted above the fireplace and covered with dust. On Grey Wind's large head, he bore the Crown of Winter, taken from Robb's corpse after the Red Wedding.

For a moment, Arya could almost see her brother's face, with his auburn locks and Tully-blue eyes. In a fit of anger, the girl who was once No One ripped the direwolf head off the wall and collapsed to the ground, ignoring the cloud of dust as she held poor Grey Wind's head tight. A wail of suppressed grief escaped her, and suddenly she was weeping into the dead direwolf's fur. The crown rolled away, lost behind the large desk.

"You didn't deserve this," Arya murmured between sobs. "We didn't deserve this! I avenged you, and Robb, but it was too late!"

She didn't know how long she spent on the floor of Walder Frey's solar, rocking back and forth, and crying over the stuffed direwolf head. No one disturbed her, and that was a pity. At the moment she wanted nothing more than to kill every Frey in the world, and make them hurt as much as she was hurting.

She could not leave poor Grey Wind here. Arya had discovered a particular spot near the orchard where the men she'd killed liked to piss. After a week's spying, she'd learned the reason—it was the resting place of her brother, Robb. The bastards who'd desecrated her brother's shallow grave would never do it again; it was as good a place as any to bury Grey Wind's head, since she had no means to take it—or Robb—home to Winterfell. And this way the two would stay together.

Tonight, she vowed. Tonight I'll sneak out and bury him properly.

She'd almost forgotten the crown. She crawled under the desk and picked it up, tracing the runes of the First Men and the sharp little swords. When she cut her finger on one, the sudden pain and bloom of red on her hand cleared her mind.

This belongs to Jon now, she realized. The Northmen at Winterfell had made her bastard brother King in the North after the battle; the crannogmen scouts had told her so. Lord Reed would leave soon to pledge his loyalty to him. Perhaps she should send the crown with him, as a message.

No, she decided. For the first time in years, her desire for revenge mattered less than the desire to see Jon again...and Sansa too, she supposed. It was too much to hope that they'd get along any better than they had as children, but perhaps they could begin anew?

She only needed to take care of Baelish first. Then, she could abandon her list for a while, and join her fellow wolves in Winterfell. It was time for the pack, wounded and diminished as it was, to come together again.

The little man was too weak to stand, or so the maester had informed Arya. She visited her guest in his room, one of the nicest guest chambers the Twins had to offer. He certainly looked worse for wear, not the impeccably turned out Master of Coin she'd seen at Harrenhal, or in King's Landing!

"Lord Walder?" mumbled the man, deep in a fog of poppy.

"Lord Baelish," Arya replied, taking a seat at his bedside. "You look terrible."

"You'd look terrible too," he said blearily, "if a direwolf tried to eat you."

"Ha!" cried the new Lady of the Crossing, taking full advantage of Walder Frey's toothless grin. "Run afoul of the wolves, have you? I didn't think there were any left. Last I heard, Roose Bolton was Warden of the North. Whereabouts did you find a direwolf?"

Baelish couldn't hide a grimace.

"Go on, tell an old man," Arya insisted.

"I took Sansa Stark north. She married Ramsay Bolton. It was a mistake," he said painfully. "Her bastard brother's wolf did this to me, after we took Winterfell back from the Boltons."

Arya fought a smirk. Good boy, Ghost!

"You harbored an enemy of the Queen Regent?" Arya asked, raising an eyebrow. "Mayhaps I ought to send you to her in chains. Here I thought you were a humble servant of King Tommen, as I am, and instead you've been plotting against the crown. For shame, Baelish!"

"Cersei and her boy will never hold the South," Littlefinger mumbled. "And Jon Snow will never hold the North. Fools, all of them."

"You're a slippery one, Littlefinger," mused Arya in her Walder face. "I can never puzzle out what your intentions are. You really are more trouble than you're worth."

"You're one to talk about intentions, Lord Frey," Baelish replied, blinking up at Arya with tired eyes. "One moment you were the Young Wolf's supporter, and the next you had broken the most ancient law of men and gods and butchered him in your hall. He disrespected you by marrying a Volantene wench instead of your Roslin, but did he not offer the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands in exchange?"

"A Lady Paramount married to the floppy fish was a poor substitute for a Queen in the North," Arya improvised, "and the Lannister alliance was more powerful than Robb Stark's. Enough of my men had died on the boy's foolish quest."

Baelish gave Arya a little smirk. "You're a survivor, Lord Walder. I respect that. Too many fools would die for honor, glory, even gold—but not you."

"I suppose I am," Arya answered. "As are you. Is there anyone left in the world that you might call a friend, Petyr Baelish?"

"I must write to Lord Robert," he mumbled, his eyes closing again. "The Northmen and Lord Royce will have sent ravens full of lies; my stepson will be confused and worried."

"What sort of lies?"

But Baelish had succumbed at last. He slept, not knowing that Arya burned with curiosity at his bedside. She knew the man had plotted with Tywin against Robb; she knew it was his interference that had created the Lannister-Tyrell alliance that had ruined Stannis Baratheon. She also remembered the looks he'd shot at Sansa once, at the Hand's Tourney. They'd made Arya's skin crawl even then, though she'd been too young to understand what they meant at the time.

She was not exactly sure what he'd done to Jon, but if Ghost wanted him dead, it must have been worthy of a death sentence. During her intelligence-gathering phase, before killing the participants of the Red Wedding, Arya had heard much about Fat Walda Bolton, Wardeness of the North, from her jealous, thinner sisters and cousins. The lady had been a diligent correspondent, and worried about her babe's future when her husband's vicious bastard was nearby. Fat Walda's letters had ceased abruptly, and the Twins were rife with rumors about her fate. In this case, Arya was sure that the rumors were kinder than the truth.

And Petyr Baelish had sent Sansa to that family.

Arya gave Littlefinger more than a moon's turn to recover from his ordeal. In that time, she gave the crannogmen permission to take the news of Walder's death to Jon, though not who had done it; she'd tell him that herself. She also amused herself by peeking at her guest's correspondence and searching through his possessions. There was little to interest her, except for a familiar-looking dagger.

She turned it over in her hands. Arya had seen this dagger before, she knew it! She recognized the rippled pattern of Valyrian steel, easily discerned after years of sneaking into Father's room to peek at Ice. She also recognized the hilt of black dragonbone. But where had she seen it?

Frustrated, she'd hidden the dagger in a pocket and returned to Littlefinger's messages. All of his urgent ravens had gone unanswered, save one. Her cousin, Robert Arryn, had written to him at last, and the letter read:

Dear Uncle Petyr,

I am sorry to hear of your recent troubles. Mother always warned me about traveling in the wilderness, and it seems she was right, as she was in all things.

I have heard the reports you mentioned, but do not fear. I don't trust them; they're all waiting for me to die, and I don't believe you would be so cruel to your beloved wife's son. I am with Lady Waynwood, but I hardly mind what she tells me. She's just as likely to poison me as any of the others, and more, so her stupid Harry might have the Vale. I've taken on a food-tester, just in case.

Please do not worry about your reception. I will ensure you are treated as you deserve, and I wish you a safe journey home. If Lord Frey is willing to provide an escort, I will see them compensated and provisioned for the return journey.

Sincerely,

Robert Arryn

Lord of the Vale

"What an idiot!" cried Arya, alone in Walder Frey's solar. "He can't be related to me; no Tully would be that stupid!"

So, someone had accused Littlefinger of trying to poison the sickly liege lord of the Vale. Arya would not put it past him, marriage to Aunt Lysa or not. And Sansa had been with Baelish for some time. She wondered if the man had tried to poison Sansa, too, and that's why Ghost had taken such a liking for his flesh. But no; Baelish had never shown any love—or interest, or admiration—for a Stark, except Sansa. He was more likely to wed her than to poison her.

Idiot or not, Robert Arryn was family. No one poisoned Arya's family and got away with it, and no one sold a Stark to the Boltons and got away with it!

As she pondered what to do, Arya remembered something she'd heard long ago, when she'd still had a family, and the bowels of the Red Keep had been hers to explore.

Littlefinger...the gods only know what game Littlefinger is playing. Yet Lord Stark's the one who troubles my sleep. He has the bastard, he has the books, and soon enough he'll have the truth. And now his wife has abducted Tyrion Lannister, thanks to Littlefinger's meddling...

Seven hells, she had no idea she'd remembered that much. She'd gone all the way down to the river that night, miles from the castle, and had come out smelling like shit. She'd repeated the important bits to herself as she washed her clothes in the river and hiked back up to the Red Keep. But then the gold cloaks had taken her for a beggar, and Father had been too confused and angry to believe her jumbled story. And then Yoren had interrupted their talk!

It wasn't Jon, Arya realized. The bastard must have been Joffrey! Father had figured out that the king's children were bastards, and that was why they'd killed him. And Littlefinger had helped!

She picked up the dagger she'd stolen from Baelish, at last remembering where she'd seen it. Father had kept it on his desk in King's Landing! It was the dagger taken from the assassin the Lannisters had sent to kill Bran. Arya didn't know how it had gotten into Littlefinger's possession, but she doubted very much that Father had given it up willingly!

Arya made a mental checklist of the ingredients she'd brought from Braavos, and what she could get from the maester's solar and kitchen garden. She could mix two dozen deadly poisons in the blink of an eye, but some were too fast for her liking. The strangler? That would make Baelish suffer for five minutes, at most. It wasn't enough for the man who had started the War of the Five Kings. Sweetsleep was even more merciful, and Littlefinger was not worthy of such a peaceful end.

Thickened manticore venom would have been perfect, but alas, she had no sorcerer nearby to thicken it, and unthickened it would kill far too quickly.

Basilisk venom? That would induce a murderous rage, but what damage could a one-armed man with no fighting skills do? Arya discarded that one at once. Widow's blood? Now that was a poison. Arya quite liked the idea of turning Baelish's body against him, and watching him drown in the filth of his own bowels. It would be a slow, merciless death, much like greyscale.

She made her selection, and started preparing the mix immediately. She would allow Littlefinger to go home, escorted by the few Frey men she'd left alive—those who'd had nothing to do with her family's murder. He'd go home with an unexpected gift.

The widow's blood was finished two nights later. Due to its blood-red color, Arya had hidden the two drops needed in a cup of red wine, the best she could find in Walder's wine cellar, and ensured that Littlefinger would drink it. She'd watched him ingest the deadly wine with glee, and toasted his health with her own cup.

The North remembered!

Petyr Baelish would die screaming, so far from Winterfell that no one would ever suspect Jon or Sansa, but not today. Those doomed to death by widow's blood were forsaken by the Stranger until every last organ in their bodies had betrayed them. Arya only regretted that she would not see it for herself; she had her own journey to make.

That's not the last we've seen of Nymeria, so if you'd like to see Arya and her pack of wolves wreak havoc, stick around.

Next up: Bran, Meera, Brienne, and the rest of the escort arrive at Winterfell.