Hello, gang! I'm not dead, though not too long ago I was in serious pain and wishing I was. Hooray for sciatic nerve injuries! To be honest, the pain helped me get into Arya's head more easily, so I don't know what that means going forward.
So, Season 8 started and suddenly I got a flood of new subscribers. Welcome, all! I will continue to ignore the show after S6 (except to make fun of it), and do my own thing. If that's your jam, pull up a chair. This chapter has something you will recognize from A Dance With Dragons (the Faceless mask procedure). I didn't make any of that up, if you're a curious show watcher.
On we go!
Arya II
Arya and her escorts were a day's ride from Riverrun, or so the Greatjon said. After years of surviving on her own, it chafed to have Ser Wylis and Lord Umber so close, always inquiring after her, forcing her to stop and rest, and being generally annoying. She wasn't helpless, Arya wanted to shout. She'd done just fine alone, she didn't need to be coddled like a babe in arms!
And yet Arya held her tongue. If nothing else, the House of Black and White had taught her patience, and instead of insulting her brother's loyal bannermen, she saved her breath. She knew a pair of warriors could come in handy in several scenarios. Unlike Nymeria and her pack of smaller wolves, her human companions could use their hands, read maps, and if needed, ride for help among Robb's former bannermen in the Riverlands.
The trio did not fear getting caught in the woods. The wolves had chased away or devoured any enemy that came too close, making the journey quick and painless. They lit fires each evening and cooked whatever meat the wolves had caught; if the hunting was poor, they toasted some bread and cheese from the supplies Arya had stolen from the Freys, or nibbled on some sausage.
She knew it bothered the men to be so dependent on wild beasts, but it was for their own good. Lord Umber and Ser Wylis had tried to split guard duty among the two of them, but they still tired easily after their long captivity. More than once, the chosen guard had fallen asleep, and the wolves had done the rest, chasing away the curious and the dangerous.
This night, Ser Wylis skinned a brace of half-starved hares, caught by Nymeria's pack. The Greatjon was sorting through the belongings of two dead Lannister soldiers, also caught by the wolf pack. As the big man told Arya, it couldn't hurt to have extra steel and supplies, and the westerlanders were better equipped than most.
"Right," said the Umber, reappearing by the fire with his haul. He'd taken three daggers, a sturdy bow, and a full quiver of arrows, along with a rope of sausages. "How is your aim, Princess?"
"I was a good shot," Arya replied, thinking it over, "but I haven't used a bow in years."
He held out the bow and quiver. "I know these wolves are your most dangerous weapon," he said with a crooked grin, "but it can't hurt to have a spare."
Arya took it. Her two companions often forgot that she had Needle—and knew how to use it—but she had no objection to carrying a ranged weapon as well.
"Let's go over our plan again," Ser Wylis suggested. "There's little room for error, if you'll pardon me saying it, your grace."
The Greatjon huffed, sitting heavily on a fallen log. "I can't argue with that. And yet, we've seen enough oathbreakers in this war that I'd trust a pack of wolves over human allies any day, Wylis."
The White Harbor knight unrolled the map he and the Greatjon had been working on, showing Riverrun in detail. Arya was to wear the face of Whalen Frey, the man responsible for killing Grey Wind, and younger brother of Lame Lothar. She would gain entrance to the castle, and immediately begin to weaken the Freys from the inside after spinning a tale of the horrors at the Twins. Nymeria would alert the Northmen when their time came to sneak inside and join the battle.
"I dislike sending you in there alone, your grace," the Greatjon rumbled, not for the first time. "But you did take the Twins without a single wound or casualty, even to the wolves!"
Arya smirked, leaning back against a tree-trunk. "I did better than that. I caught Petyr Baelish in his web of lies and dosed him with widow's blood. The two-timing son of a poxy whore will never harm another Stark."
The two men stared blankly at her, and a long silence fell, broken only by the crackling of their campfire. At first, she thought it was the cruelty of her chosen poison that had shocked them, or perhaps her crude language?
"Petyr Baelish?" Ser Wylis asked finally. "Wasn't that the boy who dueled your uncle for Lady Catelyn's hand?"
"Yes," Arya explained. "He also tried to poison my cousin Robert Arryn, betrayed my father in King's Landing, and if the tales are true, attempted to kill my brother Jon as well. I wouldn't be surprised if Littlefinger were the one responsible for old Lord Arryn's death, the one that drove my father south and started this whole mess," she finished, struck by the idea. It fit, and it made a certain sense when she remembered some of her ridiculous cousin's letters to his devoted uncle, and the strange conversation she'd overheard in the Red Keep.
"When I last saw him he'd run afoul of my brother's direwolf, and no one deserves it more."
"If he's guilty of all that, then certainly, your grace," the Greatjon answered, wide-eyed. "I'm surprised you let him walk out of the Twins."
"A quick death was too merciful for the likes of him," Arya answered, shrugging. "I'm sure my cousin Robert and the Knights of the Vale will think of a fitting end for the sniveling snake."
She rolled over onto her bedroll, ignoring the uncomfortable looks the men were sharing over the fire. Arya knew she wasn't a stupid little girl anymore, and she wasn't a good girl, or even an innocent.
Seven hells, could anyone be that in this world? And if two men who had witnessed the worst atrocity ever committed in the sight of the gods didn't understand, who would?
...I see you, wolf child...blood child...begone from here, dark heart, begone!
It gnawed at her daily, knowing that she'd chosen to avenge Robb and Mother instead of running to Jon, her living family. Once, she wouldn't have doubted for a second that Jon would know her and love her still, dark heart and all. Now, Arya wasn't so sure. As for Sansa...well, they'd never seen eye to eye, and if Sansa didn't love her, that wouldn't hurt as much. As long as she had Jon and Nymeria, Arya would be fine.
Thinking of home is pointless, Arya told herself viciously, wiping at a stray tear before the men could see. There is a job to do first, and a girl—Arya Stark of Winterfell—will do it. These Freys deserved the gift, and Arya would give it to them gladly.
She closed her eyes, and recited her prayer in her head. It had grown much shorter after her visit to the Twins.
Cersei. Ilyn Payne. Gregor Clegane. The Red Woman. Beric Dondarrion. Thoros of Myr. Black Walder Frey. Lame Lothar Frey. Emmon Frey. Raymund Frey. Edwyn Frey.
A distant wolf howled, singing her to sleep.
Ser Wylis woke Arya the next morning, apologetic but insistent.
"You looked so peaceful that it seemed a shame to disturb you," he told her, handing her a plate of food, "but we'd best get going, your grace."
Arya couldn't remember the last time she'd been with such a fatherly figure. Ternesio Terys the sailor, perhaps, but never with her. The Kindly Man had been mild-mannered and kind without any paternal affection, in that detached way the House of Black and White loved so much. But Ser Wylis, who obviously missed his daughters, made her uncomfortable in a way the Faceless never had.
She scarfed down her sausage, hardly noticing what it was. The food they'd stolen from the Twins was running low; they'd eaten well to replenish the men's strength, and planned to stock up for the journey home in Riverrun. It hardly mattered now. Changing faces was not easy on the belly, especially if the owner of the face had died a violent death.
Arya had barely finished her food when she ran to the campfire and picked up a discarded tin cup. Ignoring the men's questions, she disappeared into the trees, searching for the nearby creek. It was only a few steps away, and she needed some privacy, as well as fresh water, to make her potion. She crouched at the muddy water's edge, rinsing the cup and her special dagger. The water was icy cold.
"Lady Arya, what are you—" the Greatjon huffed, exasperated. Wylis Manderly was not far behind. Then they saw the knife in her hand. "Your grace, no!"
Arya whirled around. "How did you think the Faceless worked? If you don't want to see it, look away."
Without waiting for a reply, Arya turned back to her task. She reached into her bag and pulled out the special powders, a small silver spoon for mixing, and a tiny set of scales. The nearest large rock would serve well enough for a table. Quickly, with all the efficiency she'd learned from the Waif, she mixed the potion that would help her new face adhere, and come alive. She didn't know if the men had stayed, but at least they were quiet.
Once the potion was finished, Arya removed her shirt and set it aside, to keep it clean. She bound her breasts flat with a length of linen, biting her lip at the pain and thinking jealously of the Waif's childlike body. Then she reached into her bag of faces, some stolen from the House, and some collected at the Twins. Whalen Frey came out, thick eyebrows against pale skin and an empty mouth that had died gasping for breath. She placed the face on the flat rock, where she could reach it easily once her blood obscured her vision.
Arya sat on the cold ground. "Don't interfere, no matter what you see or hear," she warned the men. "Or the magic won't take. I'll be fine."
She braced herself, and picked up the small dagger. It was a beautiful thing, with a handle that was half black ebony, and half white weirwood, like the doors of the temple. Runes in a mysterious forgotten language decorated both sides. She kept her body as still as the earth beneath her, and only her left arm moved.
Arya cut carefully, letting the sharp dagger kiss her hairline, cheeks, and jaw. She heard one of the men gasp, and ignored him, letting the dagger circle her face until the blood had formed a vivid, stinging mask. She picked up the cup and drank the potion, letting the bitingly cold, tart taste linger on her tongue. It was a shocking contrast to the warm, salty blood trickling past her lips.
Carefully, Arya placed Whalen Frey's face over her own, letting her blood soak into the face and give it life. As the traitor's last moments overwhelmed her, Arya leaned forward, choking on nothing and fighting a silent scream. For a minute, she saw herself in her Bella disguise, looming tall and beautiful over the dying murderer as he suffocated.
This is for Grey Wind, you treacherous piece of Frey shit, the servant girl had told him, and Whalen Frey had taken that to his watery grave.Rot in the Seven Hells!
The faint memory vanished, and Arya breathed deep once more. Quickly, she rinsed the blood that had dripped down her neck and chest in the creek, shivering, and dressed again. Whalen Frey had been dark-haired, so Arya had no need of wigs or hair dye. No one would get close enough to notice his brown eyes were now Stark gray.
Arya tied her hair back in a man's horsetail, then pulled on a stolen Frey doublet and cloak over her shirt. She was shorter than the man had been, and skinnier, but that was alright. Had she been at the House of Black and White, or even at Izembaro's theater, she would have had an array of solutions, from special boots with hidden heels, to suits of stuffed lambswool to give her a belly and fatter thighs. It didn't matter as much here. The plague would explain Whalen's weight loss, and the horse would hide her lack of height until she was inside Riverrun.
"I'm ready," she said.
Her two human companions looked shaken, but they nodded in agreement. There was an unbearably sad expression in Ser Wylis' eyes, as if he'd just watched his Wynafryd die. The Greatjon didn't look much better. Arya ignored them both. They knew what she was, and what she'd done. They'd been pleased enough to be freed from their cell!
They packed up their campsite and prepared the horses, still silent. The Greatjon led them toward Riverrun, with Arya, Ser Wylis, and the wolves following in a single file as the trail narrowed. The sun rose, weak and pale behind dark gray storm clouds. The somber mood of their party was even darker.
When they stopped to make water, Arya had had enough.
"Whatever you two are thinking, just say it," she snapped. "Do you think I'm a monster? I already know I am. Do you think I'm a precious southron lady who needs to be wrapped in silk and hidden in Winterfell while her brother's killers run free? I won't let you! So what is it?"
Ser Wylis waited until he'd laced up his breeches to turn around and regard her with steely eyes.
"I'm a foolish man, your grace. I've heard tales of the Faceless Men all my life, and you are living proof that they're more than tales." He paused. "I can't help but wonder the price one must pay in exchange for such powers, and the desperation that would bring a beloved daughter of the North to that place, after the whole of the North failed to bring you home."
Arya's hand clenched around Needle. She hadn't paid the price. She'd escaped before they could force her to give herself up for good.
"I think your stubborn ox of a grandfather would have wept like a child, to see what came of his ambitions," the Greatjon added, thoughtful. "If he'd known that three of his children would perish in the South, his grandchildren would be murdered and kidnapped and scattered, his home would burn, and the North fall to Boltons, he would have rebuilt Moat Cailin and closed the Neck, Aerys be damned! All of the evils that came to House Stark and the North came from King's Landing, first with the mad Targaryens, and then that useless oaf Robert. We should have let them all rot after the Rebellion!"
Arya shrugged. She'd found Robert craven and useless ever since he'd let Lady die. "And this is why you're all gloomy? After all these years?"
Ser Wylis was still looking at her with that fatherly sorrow. She unsheathed her Needle and held it out.
"Jon gave this to me, before he left for the Wall," she told them. "No one else in my family would have, but he always knew me best. The Faceless Men tried to make me get rid of it. They told me their god would take all of me, everything I was, and there was no room for Arya Stark's things. And for a while, I listened, because I had nowhere else to go. But I didn't give up my sword; I only hid it. I never forgot that I was Arya Stark of Winterfell. I was an acolyte in the House of Black and White, nothing more."
Arya put her sword away, and mounted her horse. "If Grandfather Rickard weeps, let him weep with pride that his grandchildren took back Winterfell from the Boltons, and avenged the Red Wedding. Let him be happy that his family survived, despite everything. Now can we please go to Riverrun?"
The two men agreed, appeased for now. There was no need to tell them that she'd killed a priestess of the Many-Faced God, and that the temple might send another to give Arya Stark the gift at any moment. That was her own burden to bear; for now, there were others overdue for a meeting with Death.
At the northern edge of the woods surrounding Riverrun, the men dismounted and the wolves stopped, waiting for Nymeria's command. Arya went on alone, riding past fallow fields and farmers' homes in the dying light. The afternoon was fading when she reached the edge of the Tumblestone. The Water Gate loomed ahead, guarded by half a dozen men.
"Who goes there?" called the watchman.
"Ser Whalen Frey," Arya replied, pitching her voice lower. "I bring news from the Twins!"
There was a small commotion above her, as the men debated and one ran off. Arya dismounted, and waited until a new man's face appeared. He was a fat fellow, with a stupid pointy beard and hair as dark as Whalen's. She couldn't see his legs, but the man walked with a heavy limp. She strongly suspected that this was Lame Lothar.
He took a Myrish lens from the watchmen and peered down at Arya.
"Let him in, that's my brother, alright," Lothar said to the others. To Arya, he called out "Half a moment, Whalen! We'll send a rowboat out to meet you."
Slowly, the portcullis of her grandfather's castle rose. This entrance was always submerged, making the rowboat necessary for those who didn't want to swim. Ser Wylis and the Greatjon would to ride around the castle to one of the other gates, which would make for an easier entry for them and the wolves.
The boat approached, carrying the man who had plotted to kill her family. She wished she could stab him now, instead of pretending to like him, but then she'd never get inside. Wait, she told herself firmly. The moment will come. She didn't recognize the other men on the boat.
"Get in here, little brother!" he called, and Arya led her horse to the water. The poor beast wanted nothing to do with the boat, but she stayed firm. One of the other Freys took a carrot out of his pocket and held it out, tempting the horse to step all the way on. All of the men (and Arya) picked up oars, and then they were off.
"Hello, Lothar," Arya said at last, grateful that the poor light would hide the differences between the man's brother and her mask.
"What brings you here, you little rascal? Did you tire of the Twins at last? We've had no word for at least a fortnight; has one of the girls locked herself in the rookery in a fit of pique?"
"That's what I came to tell you," Arya replied, trying to sound sad. "Things are not well at home, not at all. There's a plague of some sort. I was out hunting when it happened, and now the place is locked up tighter than Father's purse-strings."
Lothar swore. "Leonella?"
Arya shook her head slowly. "She's got it. Your girls, Sylwa, all of them are bedridden. Ours were still alive when I spoke to them last, but the plague took Jammos and at least twenty others. Who knows how many we lost while I was riding here?"
"And the old man? It would be just like him to outlive all of his children!"
The rowboat passed into the castle, and the guards above gave the order to lower the portcullis.
"Father is gone."
Lame Lothar's eyes bulged, and Arya heard the other men gasp in surprise. "What?"
"He's dead, Lothar. Lord Walder Frey is dead." Arya blessed the mummers and priests who had taught her to hide her true feelings. Someday she might be able to say Walder Frey is dead without joy, but today was not that day.
"Fuck me," Lothar said breathlessly. "He finally went. You know what that means, don't you?"
Arya shrugged. "Edwyn is the new lord?"
"Not for long. Black Walder's already offed Ryman; I'd be surprised if Edwyn lasts a fortnight!"
They reached the landing. Arya leaped out of the boat and took her horse's reins again. The beast was eager to step on dry land; it followed her eagerly to the lower bailey. Lothar limped after her, quiet and thoughtful.
"May I take your horse, ser?" asked a timid groom, approaching from the lower stables.
"Yes, take him," Lothar ordered carelessly. Arya took her saddlebags, then let the groom lead her horse away. "Whalen and I have more important things to do. Come, brother," he said, slinging an arm around Arya's shoulders. "We need to see the others. Gods, you look thin," he added, noticing Arya's slighter figure. "Never mind, we'll feed you up. The damned trouts were set up for a siege; there's food aplenty."
"I am hungry," Arya replied, and she wasn't even lying. She'd been riding for hours.
She let Lothar steer her up the stairs to the upper bailey, then into the Great Hall. There was a great deal of noise and light coming from inside, and she guessed the Freys within would be half-drunk and senseless. Good. They would be easier to kill that way.
As she entered, she saw not Freys, but Lannisters. Certainly, the rat-faced men eating at the high table could only be Freys, but the men-at-arms at the low tables were armed like westerlanders, and Arya saw many with golden heads.
"What are all these Lannisters doing here?" she asked, looking at Lothar for clarification.
"Bastards," spat Lothar. "Emmon's bitch of a wife thinks we Freys can't handle this castle on our own, so she brought all these golden-haired shits into our castle. We were doing just fine on our own," he added, sounding as petulant as a child. "Now we have to break up fights between them all the time. They think they're better than we are, and our boys disagree."
"Whalen, what in the seven hells are you doing here?" called out the wiry Frey with the thick, black beard. Arya assumed this must be Black Walder.
"Let him eat, he's had a long ride and he's as thin as a reed," Lame Lothar said, giving Arya a heavy pat on the back. "Whalen says there's bad news from home." Immediately, a servant approached with a plate of food. Arya forgot about politeness and dug in, famished.
"Oh?" said a woman in an elegant crimson gown. Arya peered at her, and saw a fat, wrinkled version of Cersei. This must be Genna Lannister, the new lady of the castle and wife of Emmon Frey. The man sat beside her in the lord's chair, looking insignificant, but puffed up with pride in the castle he'd stolen.
"Father is dead," Lothar told the others. "There's sickness at the Twins, and it's taken him along with a score of others."
Another Frey dropped his goblet. It hit the table with a loud thunk.
"You can't be serious! The old man is immortal, surely," the nameless Frey said with wide eyes.
"It's true," Arya told them, pitching her voice low. "Joyeuse and her babe are dead, and Father as well. There will be no ninth Lady Frey. Most of the family is abed, my wife and daughters included. And Lothar's."
"Gods help Maester Brenett," said Black Walder with a sardonic grin. "Our family is too much for one healer to handle." He took a swig of ale, and elbowed the silent man on his left. "Well, Lord Edwyn? What say you?"
Edwyn Frey looked like he'd received a death sentence, not a title. Arya knew from whispers around the Twins that Black Walder had bedded his brothers' wives, and possibly killed his elder brother and father. She was sure Edwyn knew it, too.
"I suppose we must go home," he said seriously. "I'll pack my things and ride to the Twins in the morning. Raymund, will you come?"
"Aye," Raymund replied, and Arya sharpened her gaze. This was the monster who had slit her mother's throat!
"We'll go together," Black Walder said, too cheerful by far. "We must give the old man a proper send-off, eh? And as soon as your Janyce has recovered, you'll need to work on that male heir, big brother."
"And displace you as my successor? I'm surprised, Walder," Edwyn replied, showing more spine than Arya had expected from him.
"Ah, but if Black Walder were lord, he'd have to take a wife at last," Lothar said, grinning. "He's as afraid of marriage as a young maid!"
Black Walder's grin turned nasty. "And what would you know of young maids?"
Lothar clutched his walking stick so hard that Arya thought it might shatter. "Are you questioning my wife's honor?" he yelled, spit flying from his mouth.
"Stop this nonsense, all of you!" shouted Lady Genna, rising from her chair. "For shame; your father has just died! Show some respect and be silent!"
Surprisingly, they obeyed. They ate in silence for a while, until Lame Lothar turned to Arya. "Are you finished stuffing your face, brother? I'll show you to the family wing."
"Alright," Arya replied. She picked up her packs and followed Lothar, noting with disgust how every trout carving and tapestry had been ruined with crude chisel marks, or stained and ripped beyond repair. As if that would erase centuries of history!
She took a candle as they left the hall for the keep. Night had fallen while she ate, and there was no moon. A more perfect night for sneaking and killing was impossible.
Lothar sighed as they walked through the small godswood. "If we didn't have all of these damned Lannisters in the barracks, I'd be tempted to take this castle for myself," he confessed. "You'd help me, wouldn't you?"
"Of course," Arya replied automatically. "Why would I want the golden pig lording it over us?"
"Ha!" Lame Lothar answered, huffing a bit as they climbed the stairs. "Yes, she's perfect for Emmon, isn't she? He'll talk until he's blue in the face about how he's the new Lord of Riverrun and please, bend over and worship his greatness or he'll be disappointed! The fucker was afraid of his own shadow until the mighty Tywin Lannister died, and now he thinks he's Aegon the Conqueror. You should have heard him during the siege! Don't damage the walls, that's my castle now! Don't break down the doors, that's my castle you're attacking! I'm heartily sick of them both, and if I hear The Rains of Castamere one more time, I swear I'll kill him."
You liked the song well enough when you used it as a signal to murder, Arya thought, but said nothing.
They reached a door next to another ruined tapestry of the Tully sigil, and Lothar opened it. "This is you, brother. I'm next door, but don't wake me if you need something. Go and bother Emmon and Genna, since they like being in charge so much."
"Will you ride home with Edwyn and Black Walder tomorrow?" Arya asked, dropping her bags on the bed and lighting the candles around the room.
"I'd rather ride with you in a few days, after you've had a rest," Lothar replied. "If I go with them I'll witness a murder, and I'll never make it home unless I kill Black Walder first. Riding with you is safer."
"Right," Arya replied, hiding a smile. That's what you think. "In that case, I'm going to bed. Sleep well, Lothar."
"And you, Whalen."
He limped out of the room and closed the door behind him.
Finally!
She had made it. She was inside Riverrun with the men who had killed her family, desecrated Robb's body, and thrown her mother's corpse in the river. Now it was time for revenge.
Arya locked the door to her chamber; she wanted no disturbances until she was ready, and living at the Twins had taught her that Freys were a nosy bunch. Once she'd ensured that no one would bother her, she undressed, removing her brown and green hunter's clothes with the Frey sigil. Instead, she pulled on a pair of black woolen breeches, a black shirt, and a black doublet from her pack. She pulled dark gray socks on, and thought with grim humor that they spoiled the effect; if she'd had black ones, she could have passed for Brave Danny Flint. Black, soft-soled slippers completed her dress.
The weapons came next. She slid the small vials containing her poisons into a special holster at her wrist. Littlefinger's Valyrian steel dagger and sheath went into her left sock. An ordinary dagger went into her other sock, another into her belt, along with a set of lock-picks. She stuck a fourth blade into the bindings under her shirt. On her back, Arya carried the bow and quiver the Greatjon had stolen for her, and a rope and grappling hook, for emergencies. Needle would stay here, for now. Whalen Frey had never owned such a blade, and she had enough steel for tonight.
She used the remaining time to warg into Nymeria, using her paws to write short messages to the Greatjon and Ser Wylis. The men watched the direwolf writing in awe, and asked as many questions about the castle and its garrison as she could answer through her stubborn wolf. Nymeria's pack patrolled, searching for any humans unwise enough to leave the castle.
Arya emerged two hours later, once the noise outside her window had dwindled. Within the family wing, she found Ser Emmon and his wife, sound asleep and snoring in the Lord's chamber. By now, Arya had killed enough men to do it silently, and Emmon Frey was no different. He didn't scream or call out, but as her dagger opened his throat, his snoring ceased forever.
Lady Genna didn't wake. Arya stood above her in the dark, seeing Cersei Lannister under those golden curls, and wavered. The woman hadn't done anything to the Starks, as far as she knew. But she was Tywin Lannister's sister, and even if she hadn't known of his plans for the Red Wedding, she had benefited from them!
Mother and Father and Bran and Rickon were innocent, Arya thought, her dagger trembling in her hand. Nobody cared about that, and they killed them anyway.
I can't leave her alive, Arya reasoned.I need the westerlanders and the Freys at each other's throats, at least, the ones who survive this first night. Fear cuts deeper than swords.
But her hand wouldn't move. She hadn't killed an innocent since that stable boy in the Red Keep, and he hadn't been all that innocent; he'd been one of Cersei's spies. She had poisoned the women and children at the Twins, enough to make them ill, but the only lives she'd taken had been those who had ordered or carried out the Red Wedding. Even the Faceless Men hadn't taken that from her; they'd tried, sending her to kill Lady Crane, and Arya had failed.
The woman on the bed rolled over, and quite abruptly, Genna Frey was awake. It was too dark for her to see Arya in her black clothing, but the dagger, glinting in the faint starlight and dripping with her husband's blood, was all too visible. She opened her mouth to scream, and Arya struck one quick, devastating blow.
Valar morghulis.
Lady Genna slumped back onto her bed, her throat sliced to the bone as Catelyn Stark's had been. Arya ran out of the room, eager to forget what she'd just done. If she gave it any thought at all, she would lose her nerve and her chance to avenge her family!
Cersei. Ilyn Payne. Gregor Clegane. The Red Woman. Beric Dondarrion. Thoros of Myr. Black Walder Frey. Lame Lothar Frey. Emmon Frey. Raymund Frey. Valar morghulis!
No, Arya is not going to kill every single soldier in Riverrun by herself. Never use the same party trick twice!
Next up we'll go back to the Wall to see how Jon is doing.
Thanks for reading, and have a wonderful day!