AEMON THE DRAGONWOLF
Part 4 - Rise and Fall
Daenerys Targaryen, finally arrived in Westeros, must fight for her home on the Sunset Sea. Jon Snow returns to the Wall at the head of an army to face the monsters beyond, while Sansa and Bran hold Winterfell. A lost girl takes a detour on her way home, and a forgotten man faces his ghosts. Across the wide expanse of the Seven Kingdoms, players in the Great Game move and strike in turn.
Wylis I
Wylis had no idea how long he'd been in this cell. There were no windows, so he could not count the passing days by watching the sun. The Freys no longer came down to mock him, and they hadn't fed him in quite some time. His filthy surcoat, once blue-green and stretched taut over his belly and mail, hung loosely and was covered in muck.
He missed his wife. Poor Leona must believe him dead; otherwise he was sure that with or without Father's permission, his dear wife would have bartered the Harbor itself for his safe return. And his daughters, the jewels of the Merman's Court? They must be married by now, with children of their own. They would not have put their lives on hold because their father was locked in a dungeon, and he wouldn't have wanted them to do so.
His cellmate was in the same boat. Greatjon Umber, Lord of the Last Hearth, lay snoring on the stinking cot he'd been given to sleep on. He'd always been a large man, and a very strong one, but years of poor rations had eaten away at his strength, leaving him rail-thin and weak of body. Jon, too, had left children and grandchildren in the North, and had heard no news of them since the gods-cursed wedding.
The Red Wedding. Wylis remembered the words in disgust. A few of the Freys had come down to mock the prisoners after, and that was the name the Riverlanders had given that atrocity. It wasn't right. The gods hated those who broke guest right more than anyone, even kinslayers. Why were the Freys still alive and prospering?
These days, the two Northmen were lucky to receive water, let alone food, blankets, an empty bucket to piss in, or even a candle to see their cramped cell. The dungeons of the Twins had become an imitation of the Black Cells in King's Landing, and Wylis and the Greatjon knew they would go mad if they were to stay here much longer.
A few hours later, when Jon was awake, the two were chatting quietly, trading stories of their families. In the relentless darkness, a friendly voice was all that kept Wylis from screaming himself hoarse in rage and despair. It hardly mattered that Wylis had heard all of the Greatjon's stories already, and vice versa. They'd been reduced to whispers, not for secrecy, but because they were so parched with thirst that they couldn't speak at a normal volume for any length of time.
"Now, Uncle Mors' girl, my cousin Gilliane...she was a true northern beauty," the Greatjon said with a sigh. "She was as tall as Uncle Crowfood, broad in the shoulders and as strong as us lads, but her face was as pretty as a man could wish for. When we were children she was terrified of horses," he added. "My brothers and I, and her brothers, would ride in a circle around her, because she was so scared of falling. We'd make silly faces until she forgot her fear," he said fondly. Then his whisper turned murderous. "Then those wildling bastards stole her right out of our keep. We formed the largest search party in decades. Even Rickard Stark came to look for Gill, though Lady Lyarra was deathly ill at the time."
"He was a good man, Lord Rickard," Wylis said for the hundredth time. "Didn't deserve to go the way he did."
The Greatjon agreed, as always. He was in the middle of his anti-Targaryen tirade when the walls began to lighten. Someone was approaching with a candle. The footsteps, deafening in the silent dungeon, were light, probably those of a woman in soft slippers.
She came into view. It was a Frey serving wench, slight of build and comelier than most. The girl was carrying a trencher of bread and meat, and two mugs. Wylis' gut, silent after days without food, rumbled with sudden interest.
The serving girl said nothing, but slid the trencher through the small gap made for that purpose. Wylis smelled roasted pork.
"Is this a trick?" the Greatjon asked hoarsely. "Your lot left us to starve to death; now you feed us?"
She didn't answer.
"Are you mute, girl, or just stupid?" the big man roared. "What is happening here? Are those poxy, godless Freys playing with us?"
Still, she remained silent. But in the dim light of the single candle, Wylis thought the girl had smiled. Now free of the trencher, she reached up with her candle and lit the long-forgotten torch hanging from a bracket. It flared to life, blinding the northern prisoners until their eyes had adjusted to the light.
When they were finally able to see, the girl was gone. The torch-lit food remained, proving that she hadn't been a figment of their imaginations.
"What in the seven hells are they up to now?" Wylis wondered aloud.
The Greatjon shrugged. "I'll never understand these weasels. Mayhaps this is our last meal, and they'll execute us after."
Wylis' heart sank. He hadn't thought of that. But with King Robb long dead, it seemed that no one cared to ransom the Greatjon and himself. Perhaps they'd outlived their usefulness.
"Well," he said at last, "if this is our last meal, I mean to enjoy it."
He picked up one of the mugs and drank deeply. He was so thirsty that he'd have drunk Walder Frey's piss at this point, but the wine they'd been given was surprisingly good. The Greatjon followed suit, and together, they demolished the warm bread, cheese, and pork until not even a crumb was left. Wylis felt uncomfortably full, but it didn't matter. If he was about to die, he'd die with a full belly.
The day passed slowly, with both men sure they'd be dragged outside and executed. No one came for them. The torch went out. After brooding in the dark for hours, Wylis finally fell asleep on his dirty bed of straw.
When the two prisoners woke, there was a fresh torch burning on the bracket, and another trencher of food. There were two steaming bowls of porridge, fried fish, and boiled eggs, along with mugs of nettle tea. Beside the food lay a small pile of blankets, neatly folded, and their overflowing waste buckets were gone. Empty buckets stood in their place.
"By the gods," the Greatjon mumbled. "Why are they doing this, Wylis? Even if the Late Lord Frey had died of old age, his sons wouldn't change course like this."
"I don't know, Jon," Wylis replied honestly. He picked up one of the bowls and sniffed appreciatively. Nothing had ever smelled so good; he caught hints of cinnamon and cloves, and the bowl warmed his hands nicely.
The servant girl kept coming. It was always the same wench, and she never said a word. Sometimes they were awake when she came, and they pestered her with questions that went unanswered. Sometimes they were asleep, and the smell of food or the sudden light woke them. Whatever her other duties were around the Twins, she came twice a day, every day.
The nameless girl's arrival made it easier to track the time. A week went by, and Wylis and Jon began to regain their strength. Then a fortnight passed, and the two men were able to walk—slowly—around their cramped cell again. A moon's turn after the girl's first appearance, she appeared without food while they did floor-presses to strengthen their arms.
"What are your names?" she asked suddenly.
The Greatjon fell in surprise. Wylis nearly did the same, but caught himself. They stared at the serving girl, incredulous.
"You can talk!" the Greatjon cried.
"Of course I can talk," she said impatiently. "What are your names?"
"Wylis Manderly," Wylis told her. "Son of Lord Wyman of White Harbor."
"Jon Umber, Lord of the Last Hearth," the Greatjon added. "What's yours?"
"Bella." The girl's eyes narrowed. "So you're supporters of Robb Stark?"
"Robb Stark is dead, girl," the Greatjon boomed, impatient. "But yes, we were loyal to Lord Ned and his Young Wolf."
"Not that it matters," Wylis told her gloomily. "King Robb is dead, the Boltons have taken Winterfell, and the Starks are all dead."
Bella the serving wench smirked.
"Your information is outdated," she said, and her Riverlands accent shifted into something more familiar, more northern. "Roose and Ramsay Bolton are dead. Jon Snow and Sansa Stark are alive, and they took back Winterfell. He's the new King in the North; I heard it from the crannogmen."
Wylis and Jon looked at each other in amazement. Wylis hardly dared believe her!
"And the south?" Jon asked her.
"Tywin Lannister was murdered on the privy," Bella told them, and her smirk grew. "Joffrey Baratheon was poisoned at his wedding. Myrcella and Tommen Baratheon are dead. Cersei Lannister named herself queen, and blew up the Sept of Baelor with all her enemies inside. She won't last long," the girl added with satisfaction. "Daenerys Targaryen is sailing to Westeros with an army and a navy. Dorne and the Reach are already on her side."
"Why are you telling us all of this?" Wylis asked, more curious than suspicious. Tywin Lannister dying on the privy was too nonsensical to be a falsehood, but what did the serving girl gain by sharing all of this with two prisoners?
"Because you asked," the girl replied, blinking innocently. "And I have a message for you."
"Do you, now?" the Greatjon wondered, intrigued. "Well? What is it?"
"Winter is coming for House Frey," she said, cold as the White Knife that ran past Wylis' home. The accompanying grin was too innocent for her tone, and it made Bella look younger than usual. "So rest, and recover your health, my lords. It won't be long now."
She left without another word.
Wylis dreamed of wolves. Then he woke, and heard the howling of a real wolf pack outside the castle. They were close, far closer than wild animals had any right to be. Didn't the Freys have any hunters? It was nonsensical to leave the beasts so near their home, where they could get into the chicken coops, or the pig pens, and demolish the castle's food supply. His already abysmal opinion of House Frey dropped further.
Bella arrived with their breakfast then, humming to herself. She was even more tone-deaf than Wylis' father. The Greatjon snored away under his blankets, but the smell of food would wake him soon enough.
"Do you hear that?" Bella asked Wylis, and he caught an almost childish excitement in her eyes. "The wolves are here. How much longer do you two need to recover before you could ride away?" she asked, taking Wylis off guard.
"What? Escape from the Twins?" he choked, spraying his ruined clothes with tea.
"I can get you out without running into a single Frey," she said, quietly confident.
"Today," the Greatjon butted in, sitting up and looking wide awake. "We'll be ready to leave today. Are we the only Northmen here?"
"Aye," she replied. "I meant to free un—Lord Edmure as well, but he's not here. They've taken him to Casterly Rock with his Frey wife and son."
"What about horses?" Wylis asked.
"I have four horses ready for us," she said. "And saddlebags with provisions. We should reach White Harbor in a fortnight, if we don't run into any heavy snowstorms."
Wylis dropped his spoon. The very thought of being home in so little time!
"Your father is probably at Winterfell, Lord Wylis," Bella told him. "The crannogmen told me King Jon summoned all of the northern lords there."
"And my son?" Jon asked her. "Jon Umber? The Smalljon?"
The servant girl frowned. "I heard he turned Rickon Stark over to the Boltons. He died fighting for Ramsay Bolton."
"No!" gasped the lord of the Last Hearth. "He'd never!"
The girl shrugged, but her eyes were hard. "That's all I know. If he betrayed the Starks and he still lives, I'll kill him myself, Lord Umber. You may rest assured of that."
"And who are you, to be so concerned with the affairs of the North?" the Greatjon asked, frowning at her.
Bella's face was carefully blank. Slowly, she raised a hand to her forehead, and curved her fingers as though she meant to scratch at her skin. But to Wylis' and Jon's horror, the skin peeled away entirely, revealing a different face underneath. It was a familiar, impossible face.
"How dare you!" roared the Greatjon, pulling at the cell bars in his fury. "Essosi scum, who gave you the right to steal the face of Lyanna Stark?"
The Faceless Woman blinked in surprise.
"I'm not wearing Lyanna Stark's face," she said, gazing at them with Stark-gray eyes and that long, northern face. "I'm wearing the face of Arya Stark. My face."
Oh. That made more sense; Ned's youngest girl had always looked like her late aunt. But the Greatjon was still as angry as a hunted bear.
"Prove it!" he demanded. "If you're truly Arya Stark, prove it."
The girl bit her lip. She seemed to be thinking hard for a moment, then leaned back against the wall and spoke.
"You came to Winterfell when I was six or seven," she told Jon. "You brought the Smalljon with you. I remember because I saw him sparring with Ser Rodrik and the men-at-arms in the courtyard. I wanted to go and watch, but I was stuck upstairs, sewing with Sansa and the septa," she recalled. "I told Septa Mordane I was feeling ill so I could escape, and when I ran down the stairs, I bumped into you and Father. You were leaving his solar, I think. Father wanted to punish me, but you asked him not to. That's a proper wolf-child, Ned, you told him. She shouldn't be cooped up inside all the time. Then we went down together, and you shared an apple tart with me and told me about your grandchildren."
Wylis watched with interest as the Greatjon's face softened. "So I did," he said faintly. He let go of the bars, and knelt on the dirty stone floor. "Princess Arya! I can hardly believe I'm seeing you here, but I'm glad nonetheless, to find a Stark living and breathing."
Wylis knelt as well. It was only right in the presence of King Robb's little sister, and also their rescuer!
"Break your fast before everything gets cold," she advised. "We have a long journey ahead. I'll return when everything is ready."
Wylis and Jon obeyed. They were burning with questions, like where Arya had been all this time, how she'd become a Faceless Woman, and why she'd chosen to come here instead of heading home to Winterfell, but there would be plenty of time to ask.
Arya Stark returned a few hours later, and led them out of their cell at last. Wylis didn't know how she'd gotten the keys, but knowing she could change faces, it wasn't hard to guess how one slip of a girl could move about the Twins undisturbed. It was eerily quiet; the Crossing was full to bursting with Freys, so where were they?
They followed their king's little sister to a guest chamber in the Water Tower, one of the finest the castle had to offer. Inside, the princess had left two bathtubs full of hot water, soap and oils, combs, razors, shears, and a stack of men's clothing.
"I'm not sure which of them will fit," she said, more practical than apologetic. "but you need good clothes for the trip. Maybe some of those will help."
"Thank you, Princess," the Greatjon told her sincerely. Wylis was quick to agree. He'd sat in his own filth for so long that he didn't dare imagine how bad he must smell. Lady Arya had been kind enough to say nothing, however.
"When you're dressed, come to the Lord's Hall in the east tower. You won't meet any Freys; I've made sure."
And with that mysterious statement, the princess left the two men to their ablutions. Neither Jon nor Wylis wasted any time; hot water was a luxury even in a lord's castle, and they'd had none for far too long. There was no sound except for the splash of water and the slide of soap against wet skin, though Wylis could tell that his companion was thinking deep thoughts.
"What do you remember about the Snow boy?" he asked suddenly.
"Jon Snow?" Wylis replied. The Greatjon nodded, prompting the Manderly to continue. "Not much. He was a quiet one; looked and acted more like Ned than any of the other boys. Lady Stark kept him out of sight, but he'd come alive on the training grounds. He was a natural with a sword in his hands."
"King Robb wanted to make him his heir, when we got the news that Greyjoy had killed the younger boys," Jon told Wylis. "Only a few of us knew it. But the boy was in the Night's Watch. How can he be king then, unless he got out in time and never took the vow?"
"I doubt the North would have chosen a deserter, even Ned's son," Wylis said, scrubbing at his matted hair. "I suppose we'll have to meet him and see for ourselves."
The Greatjon adjusted his position in the tub, which was too small for him, and grunted. "After Aerys the Mad, Robert the Drunkard, Joffrey the Bastard, and Roose fucking Bolton, I'll take a Stark bastard any day, to be honest. Maybe even a deserter."
Their bathwater cooled far too quickly, and it was filthy by the time they'd finished bathing. The two men dried off and inspected the clothes Lady Arya had left for them, passing them to each other and trying them on for size. Wylis was staggered by the tiny breeches and shirts he was wearing now; he'd always been a large man, like his father, and it was strange to look down and not see the generous belly he'd had most of his life. He was, quite literally, half the man he'd been before the Red Wedding.
The Greatjon had lost much of his muscle, but none of his height. Wylis fought back a laugh as Jon laced up breeches that were a full five inches too short for him. Luckily, the woolen socks he'd pulled out of the pile were long enough to compensate.
Lady Arya had been kind enough to find clothes without the sigil of the Freys, thank the Seven. Neither man wanted anything on their person to remind them of their captors, so they dressed in leather and wool of various, but unadorned colors. Perhaps these clothes belonged to Lord Frey's small army of bastards, who would never wear their father's sigil or bear his name. There were supple riding boots, heavy hooded cloaks, and fur-lined gloves as well, to keep them alive in the North.
Once dressed, Wylis and Jon went looking for the Lord's Hall in the eastern tower, where Lord Frey usually sat in his great oaken chair. The lack of Freys—or anyone, really—was getting under Wylis' skin. No castle was this silent, especially not a castle as large and as populated as this one! Had Arya Stark brought an army of Faceless Men with her? Was there plague? Had someone poisoned the family's wine stores?
The hairs on the back of Wylis' neck were standing up. He looked over at Jon and saw the same unease he was feeling. Still, they neared the black oak doors of the hall—the same hall where the Freys had broken guest right—and pushed them open.
There were no humans in the hall, save one. Arya Stark, dressed in men's travel clothes, sat leisurely on the Lord of the Crossing's chair, with her booted legs thrown over the right armrest and her back against the other. She was sipping at a goblet, quite at her ease. That was not what bothered the two men.
The princess was not alone. There was an enormous gray direwolf, bigger than Grey Wind at the time of its death, sitting at the base of her chair. Smaller wolves prowled around the room, which had been torn to shreds. The tables and benches were covered in claw and bite marks. All of the hangings had been torn off the walls, and Wylis smelled dung—wolf's dung, perhaps?—atop the piles of ripped fabric on the floor. The wolves had feasted recently, it appeared, leaving bones everywhere. Wylis hoped the bones weren't human.
As soon as the men had entered, three of the wolves approached slowly, assessing. Before they could cry for help or step aside, the direwolf jumped to life, standing between the humans and her adopted pack. With no more than a snarl from the monster, the small wolves stepped back, cowed and submissive.
Princess Arya abandoned her goblet and stood, approaching them far too casually for a girl in a room full of wild beasts. Now that she'd moved, Wylis saw that the great chair of the Lord of the Crossing had a new, clumsy inscription on top of the carved bridges.
WINTER COMES FOR ALL TRAITORS, it read in crooked, uneven letters.
"Do you like my decorations?" Arya Stark asked them, petting the monster wolf on the head.
"Ha!" boomed the Greatjon. "I can't imagine a better payback, your grace! Where are the Freys now?"
The princess smirked. "That depends. The women and children, and the men that had nothing to do with the wedding, are upstairs in their beds. I made them ill to get them out of the way. The rest are feeding the fish—or the wolves," she added, satisfied.
"Did you do all of this yourself?" Wylis asked, shocked.
She nodded.
Wylis swore. He was torn between admiration and horror; he certainly hoped his daughters would never do such a thing, but he could not blame Arya Stark for taking revenge on her mother's and brother's murderers.
"What about the Freys at Riverrun?" the Greatjon asked. "Lame Lothar and Black Walder were the worst of the lot; Black Walder came down to our cell and boasted that the wedding had been his plan from the start, and Tywin Lannister had only offered a reward for something he'd already wanted to do."
Arya frowned. "Then we'll have to take care of them both, before we go north."
"Your grace," Wylis said gently, "there's no need for this. Your brother is King in the North; you'd be safe there."
"Safe?" she scoffed. "No one is ever safe."
No child should ever be so cynical, Wylis thought in defeat. But he had no counterargument, not for this girl who had lost most of her family in brutal ways. The great wolf seemed to sense distress, because it butted its head against its mistress' hand, offering silent support. Wylis heard a mumbled "Thanks, Nymeria."
"Edmure's in Casterly Rock now," the Greatjon thought aloud. "Even if the three of us went to Riverrun, somehow took the castle—beg pardon, your grace, I'm not doubting your skills, but Riverrun is a mighty fortress—killed some Freys, and took the castle back, we'd need someone to hold it. Mayhaps the Blackfish?"
"He's dead," the princess told them coolly. "The crannogmen told me. The Lannisters threatened to catapult Uncle Edmure's son over the walls, so he yielded the castle. The Blackfish died fighting rather than surrender." There was no grief on her face. That struck Wylis as odd, but perhaps she'd never met her mother's uncle. This strange girl, who wore Lyanna Stark's face but showed no emotions except hatred and rage, made him nervous. It was too easy to think the worst of her. Mentally scolding himself, Wylis looked around the room to buy time.
"What about Jason Mallister, of Seagard?" he suggested at last. "Out of all the Riverlanders, he and the Blackfish were your brother's most valued supporters. A brave man, and honorable besides."
"Patrek Mallister was in the cell next to ours," the Greatjon spoke up. "They took him away a long time ago. If Black Walder keeps him prisoner in Riverrun to make his father behave, freeing the boy will earn your grace Lord Mallister's gratitude and loyalty."
"I like it," the princess decided, though there was no indication of that on her face. "Then we'll free Riverrun from any Lannisters or Freys inside the walls, and send for Lord Mallister when we have his son. Or we could make Patrek the castellan," she suggested.
"He and Edmure are friends, or were," Wylis said, "and he was on your brother's personal guard; a trustworthy man, though not as serious as his father. He's a bit too fond of drinking and whores for that. Lord Mallister might think it a trick, however, if we sent a raven saying the boy is now castellan of the place where he was held captive."
"Then let him visit," Princess Arya replied with a shrug. "Let's go. We'll have time to plan out the details as we ride."
She walked to a nearby bench, ignoring the wolves sitting around it and laying on the table behind it, and picked up an enormous, ugly greatsword. Jon cried out in surprise and joy when he saw it, and he took it from the struggling Arya before she dropped the heavy thing.
"My sword," he said in delight. "I'm glad it's still in one piece! Looks like I'll be needing it soon!"
The next sword she picked up was thinner and quite a bit shorter, adorned with a blue-green gem on the pommel and a carved merman on the bottom end of the grip. Wylis accepted his weapon with a grateful bow and smile.
"Does it have a name?" the princess asked him suddenly. The cold mask seemed to peel away for a moment, revealing the curious young girl beneath.
"Bite, your grace," he replied easily, "like the bay at home."
"Right, I've had enough of this place," the Greatjon said. "Are we leaving today or not?"
Chastened, Wylis armed himself, and put on the heavy cloak as Jon did the same. Princess Arya, too, wrapped a too-long blue cloak around her shoulders, and led them out to the stables. The Greatjon paused only to spit on the ground outside the entrance to the eastern tower. Nymeria the direwolf followed them immediately, and the smaller wolves followed after a tremendous howl from the direwolf that made the former prisoners quake in their riding boots.
As much as Wylis regretted the change of plans, it was incredible to be free again. No one would have written songs about Ser Wylis Manderly of old, but now he was riding off on an adventure that may very well be sung of in the future. One lost princess, two warriors, a mythical creature of the North, and an entire wolf-pack were off to cause chaos (more chaos) for the Lannisters and Freys. Surely that would make a better song than The Rains of Castamere?
He breathed in the cold, fresh air, and rode on after his companions.
I don't know why Arya chapters are always out of sync with the rest, but that's just how it works. She did spend a whole month plotting while Littlefinger healed at the Twins, so there was plenty of time for her to explore the dungeons in her servant getup. Anyway, I meant to give you an outsider's perspective on Arya in the style of GRRM's prologues, with some random character who will never have a POV again. Also, you should know that when I was preparing to write Arya chapters, I ended up reading articles about child soldiers and how messed up they are after, so my Arya won't go from Faceless Assassin to happy girl at Winterfell with no consequences.
As always, a big thank you to iamqueenkk for beta reading. Also, to chase manaena and whoever left the anonymous review on Chapter 20: you, and others like you, are the reason why I'm still posting on this site, instead of throwing in the towel and sticking to Ao3. I really appreciated your comments.
Next time, we visit the Wall with Jon!