Early September, 300 AC
"STARK! STARK! THE KING IN THE NORTH!"
Arya clung tightly to her horse's reins. She had not seen such a crowd since that awful, awful day by the Great Steps of Baelor. Her heart pounded in her chest, her breaths echoing in her ears. I must be a lady for Robb, a lady like Sansa. She hadn't argued when Jeyne Poole brought her a gown for their entrance into the city, sturdy grey wool trimmed with thin strips of white silk. She'd even sat still long enough for Meri to untangle her shoulder-length brown hair and arrange it beneath the bronze circlet Gendry had made for her at Robb's command.
"KING IN THE NORTH! KING OF THE TRIDENT! KING OF MOUNTAIN AND VALE!"
To distract herself Arya stared at the city of White Harbor. Whitewashed stone houses lined the wide straight cobbled streets, their roofs of dark grey slate, steeply-pitched so the snow would slide off when winter came. She was not in King's Landing; the people's faces told her that. The smallfolk were cleaner and better fed, and wild with joy for the return of their king after his miraculous escape. Men hooted and whistled and stomped their feet; women cheered and waved.
Most of Robb's horse were camped outside the city, but the great lords of the north and their bannermen would not be sleeping in tents this night. Robb himself rode at the head of the procession, a few horse lengths ahead of Arya, accompanied by Ser Marlon Manderly. His banners flapped in the breeze, the direwolf of House Stark snarling as it ran across its ice-white field.
The King in the North looked as fierce and proud as his banners, his bronze and iron crown shining on his brow, Grey Wind loping at his side. An auburn beard covered the lower half of her brother's lean face, his high cheekbones prominent beneath the dark circles that ringed his blue eyes. An angry red scar slashed across his right cheek, a grim reminder of the arrow wound that nearly killed him. The smallfolk did not seem to care how stiff and stern Robb was, only that he was alive.
Ahead Arya could see a hill topped by a castle of pale stone. The New Castle, it was called, the seat of House Manderly. The horses' hooves clopped on the cobblestones as they left most of the smallfolk behind, climbing the Castle Stair that led to the keep. Marble mermaids lined the streets, holding empty bowls in their outstretched arms.
"What are those for?" Arya asked.
Ser Perwyn Truefaith glanced at the statues, bringing his horse slightly closer to Arya's. Nymeria gave way, running ahead to join Grey Wind. The direwolves trusted Ser Perwyn utterly; he was one of the few of Robb's men that they would approach for an ear scratch.
"Fountains, perhaps?"
"Nay," Hoarfrost Umber rumbled from her other side. "They fill the bowls with whale oil at night, to light the way." Hoarfrost was a tall, broad youth of eighteen or so, the Greatjon's second son, now heir after the Smalljon's death at the Red Wedding. "I saw them a few years ago, when Lord Manderly held a feast for his nameday. The Merman likes to try and get his guests as fat as he is; I'd never heard a table groan before."
Arya's stomach growled, remembering her hasty breakfast of porridge as the host broke up their camp. Ser Perwyn chuckled, and the knot in her chest loosened.
"I imagine he'll outdo himself in honor of the king." Their scouts had reached White Harbor several days ago to warn Lord Wyman Manderly of his approaching guests.
"Oh, aye," Hoarfrost agreed, his dark hair fluttering about his shoulders. "Gods know he'll be even more lavish than usual. There'll be crab and whitefish stew, lamprey pies, lobsters drowning in butter, salmon and cod roasted whole, and strong black beer to wash it all down."
Arya licked her lips, her stomach rumbling even louder.
"No beer for you," Ser Perwyn said, eyeing Arya apprehensively. "Milk, or watered cider, perhaps." She stuck her tongue out at him.
There were no children among Robb's host, but for Jeyne and Meri and Arya herself. They had traveled for weeks and weeks, past the bogs of the Neck and the grassy plains between Moat Cailin and White Harbor. So it was, perhaps, not surprising that on one evening, in the chaos of setting up yet another camp, a serving man had forgotten that the girls were only to be served wine or mead that had been well watered.
Robb was resting in his tent, wearied by the long day's ride, and Ser Perwyn was having Gendry check his horse's shoes. By the time Dacey Mormont noticed something was amiss, Jeyne and Meri were cuddling and giggling and playing with each other's hair, and Arya was trying to challenge Greatjon Umber to a spar, brandishing a wooden sword at the Lord of Last Hearth while he roared with laughter.
Arya felt her ears turn pink at the memory. The mead had made her feel invincible. More unfortunately, it had loosened her tongue. She'd used every oath and curse she'd ever overheard as she demanded that the Greatjon fight her, shouting to be heard over his booming laughter. Dacey Mormont had been forced to remove Arya, a task made difficult by Arya immediately challenging Dacey to a duel.
The lanky woman had promptly disarmed her princess, sending her wooden sword flying across the campfire. That done, she challenged Arya to a foot race, which Arya lost spectacularly. After what felt like hours trying to catch her longlegged foe, she finally collapsed, lungs burning. Dacey fed her an enormous hunk of campbread and settled her in the tent she shared with Jeyne and Meri. The girls were already curled up on the pallet they shared, cheeks rosy, noses touching. Arya's feather mattress felt too big, too empty. Then she remembered that the mattress had been Lady Catelyn's, before the Twins, and Arya found herself weeping into her sleeping furs, guilt gnawing at her heart.
"Now there's a view!"
Arya turned, startled by Ser Perwyn's voice. They had reached the crest of the hill, and the harbor stretched out below them, its waters glimmering in the midday sun. An ancient fortress with crumbling black walls stood beside the shore, grimmer than a grave.
"The Wolf's Den," Hoarfrost told her, seeing where she was looking. A cadet branch of House Stark had once lived there, a thousand years ago. House Greystark, was that what Maester Luwin had said? She couldn't quite remember.
War galleys crowded the inner harbor; when she counted their masts she found at least thirty ships. She wondered if they were the same ships that had carried Robett Glover north to fight the ironmen. In the Outer Harbor a massive stone island jutted from the sea, crowned with a ringfort of weathered stone. Men guarded the top of the ringfort, blue-green banners flapping in the wind.
The same banners flew from the walls of the New Castle, blazoned with white mermen holding black tridents. Dark green hair flowed down their backs, as wild as their beards and tails, and above every merman flew the direwolf of House Stark. No sooner had they reached the moat than the drawbridge creaked down, the portcullis winched up, and the great oaken doors banded with iron swung open.
"Our home is yours, my liege," Ser Marlon Manderly said as he led them across the drawbridge. The greybeard's courteous voice was in odd contrast to his hard face. Ser Marlon was cousin to Lord Wyman; rather than a white merman on blue-green, his violet surcoat bore three silvery mermaids. Normally a lord or his heir would greet the king, but Lord Wyman was too old and fat to sit a horse, and his eldest son, Ser Wylis Manderly, was off in the Free Cities buying food for winter.
They found Lord Wyman in his hall, atop a cushioned throne carved with leviathans and mermaids. A plump lady with thick yellow hair stood to one side of the high seat; to the other side stood a pretty girl who looked to be her daughter, a maid of twenty with a long brown braid.
As the lords and bannermen arranged themselves behind Robb, Arya found herself ignoring the merman in favor of looking about the Merman's Court. Its walls and floor and ceiling were made of wooden planks notched cunningly together and decorated with all the creatures of the sea. As she approached the dais, Nymeria at her heels, Arya trod on painted crabs and seahorses and starfish, half-hidden amongst twisting black fronds of seaweed and the bones of drowned sailors. On the walls to either side, pale sharks prowled the depths, whilst eels and octopods slithered amongst rocks and sunken ships. Shoals of fish swam between the tall arched windows. Higher up, near where old fishing nets drooped down from the rafters, the surface of the sea had been depicted, waves rolling in a thousand shades of green and blue and white.
"Close your mouth," Ser Perwyn hissed under his breath as the hall grew quiet. Arya obeyed, startled. She hadn't realized that she was gaping openmouthed at the painted walls. On the dais Lord Wyman was rising to his feet, his face and neck pink from exertion.
"Welcome, Your Grace," Lord Wyman boomed, lowering himself gingerly to one knee. The two women followed suit, as did the household guards, the butts of their silver tridents tapping against the floor. "White Harbor is yours. Hearth and heart and harvest we yield up to you, Your Grace. Our swords and spears and arrows are yours to command. Grant mercy to our weak, help to our helpless, and justice to all, and we shall never fail you."
"As you keep faith with me so shall I keep faith with you. Rise, my good lord of White Harbor," Robb said, his voice echoing through the hall. Grey Wind sat on his haunches beside Robb, as stern as his master. The ladies eyed the direwolf as they helped Lord Wyman back to his feet, the younger one fluffing the cushions before Lord Wyman settled back into his chair.
Lord Wyman clapped his fleshy hands, and serving women appeared, bearing trays laden with bread and butter and salt and cups of wine. "Be welcome beneath my roof, and at my table. Wynafryd!"
The young lady stepped to the front of the dais, glaring as a servant passed her one of the trays.
"It is only right that you be served by my own beloved granddaughter," Lord Wyman said, shooing the girl forward. She went, but only after giving her lord grandfather a look that might have peeled paint. Robb seemed equally irritated for some reason as he took a piece of bread and a cup of red wine.
Greatjon Umber and Dacey Mormont were next, as they stood closest to Robb. Whatever was going on, Wynafryd seemed friendly enough by the time she got to Arya, and she even smiled when Arya took the largest slice of bread and slathered it with butter.
"Thank you, my lady," Arya said, pleased that she had remembered without Jeyne Poole elbowing her.
"You are very welcome, princess," Wynafryd answered, offering her tray to Ser Perwyn and Hoarfrost Umber next. "We are honored to host King Robb, just as we were honored to host Prince Rickon last year."
Arya had taken a larger bite of bread than was mannerly, and was punished when she choked on it. "You saw Rickon?" She covered her mouth with one hand as she coughed crumbs. Wynafryd was opening her lips to reply when her grandfather bellowed across the hall.
"A toast!"
Everyone fell silent as the Lord of White Harbor raised his cup, his jolly face turned solemn. "Over a thousand years have passed since my fathers pledged their faith in the Wolf's Den before the old gods and the new. We were dispossessed, forsaken, strangers. Yet the Starks of Winterfell welcomed us to these shores, and when we bent the knee the Kings of Winter raised us up and took our hand in friendship, a debt that can never be repaid." He held his cup high. "The King in the North!"
"The King in the North!" Arya shouted back. Her shout was drowned beneath the flood of voices, but Grey Wind and Nymeria were another matter. Their howls rose above the throng, the haunting sound making the hairs on the back of her neck prickle.
For a while all was quiet as men drank Lord Wyman's wine and ate his bread. Arya watched the fat lord closely. He seemed amiable enough as he spoke with his granddaughter, but she sent Nymeria over to him anyway. Lord Manderly sat quite still as the direwolf sniffed him, her hackles raised, but his smile never faltered. No sooner had the lord met the she-wolf's approval than she abandoned him, intent on the massive haunch of mutton that Grey Wind was devouring.
While the wolves tore into the meat and Robb spoke with a toothless old lord whose tunic bore the crossed keys of House Locke, Jeyne Poole and Meri stuck to Arya like burs, frightened into silence by the thick press of tall lords. Ser Perwyn and Hoarfrost Umber stayed close as well, talking of the best brewhouses and mummer's halls within the city. It seemed like they'd be standing in the Merman's Court forever when Lord Wyman finally roused himself and commanded that his noble guests be escorted to their chambers.
"Save for King Robb, if you would honor me with a private audience," Lord Wyman said, chins wobbling. "There is much to speak of before Your Grace returns to Winterfell."
"Of course, my lord," Robb said, turning to catch Arya's eye. "Princess Arya."
She sighed and gave Jeyne a glum look as she set her cup on a serving girl's tray. "Yes, Ro- Your Grace?"
Robb jerked his head. Forcing herself not to scowl, she made her way to her brother, Needle tapping lightly at her hip as she walked. They waited a moment for Lord Wyman to push himself to his feet, then followed him through a door behind his cushioned seat. The passage was airy and clean, well lit by torchs in mermaid sconces. The direwolves' claws clicked on the stone floor, their noses twitching as they inspected their surroundings.
The private audience chamber was even nicer, a warm room with white plaster walls. On one of them hung a sheepskin with a map of the north painted across it in faded colors. A patterned Myrish carpet lay on the floor, its flowing blue waves soft as fresh fallen snow. Beeswax candles burned on the table, the silver candlesticks shaped like tridents. Wyman Manderly settled himself into the enormous chair behind the table, sending a servant off to fetch refreshments worthy of his royal guests.
The servant came and went, leaving behind a flagon of Arbor gold and a tray filled with golden crusted pies. Arya took one and bit into it to find chunks of crab in a sauce so tasty that she almost forgot herself and groaned. She ate it up in three bites before taking a second.
"I am sorry for your loss," Lord Wyman said softly. "Lady Catelyn was a good woman, as fair and gracious as the north has ever seen." Arya swallowed, the crab suddenly having lost its savor.
"I thank you," Robb said, his voice thick but steady. "We share your grief. Ser Wendel died valiantly."
An awkward silence fell as Lord Wyman blinked, his face pallid, his eyes wet.
"He tackled two Freys away from Robb," Arya blurted. Wyman turned, as though he'd forgotten she was there.
"Fierce as a mastiff, my Wendel," Lord Wyman said. "A man could not ask for a more gallant son."
When Arya thought of gallant knights she thought of handsome young men, like Lord Beric Dondarrion before his deaths, or Ser Loras Tyrell, who was so pretty he made Prince Joffrey look homely. Ser Wendel had been fat and balding, with an enormous bushy brown mustache that only increased his resemblance to a walrus. But he died for Robb, she told herself, and that was gallant.
"Too many good men died at the Twins," Robb was saying. "Smalljon Umber slew several Freys before taking arrows meant for me. Owen Norrey and Donnel Locke were slain fighting in the camps, along with half our men."
Lord Wyman shook his head. "It is a wonder that Your Grace survived." He glanced at the angry red slash on Robb's cheek. "My household kept vigil in the Sept of the Snows for you, my liege, from when first we heard of your wound until we received word that you were on the mend. I am thankful that the gods heard our prayers."
"You may thank my lady mother and my lady wife, Lord Wyman," Robb said, his voice tight. "Lady Catelyn took Lord Walder Frey hostage and forced him to let us go. When he threatened to send men after us she slit his throat, and was killed for her bravery." Her brother touched his cheek, one finger resting on his scar. "The arrow took me here. Six inches deep, it was, almost to my spine. Queen Jeyne cleansed the wound and dressed it; it was the work of two moons for her to draw the arrowhead from my flesh."
Lord Wyman's mouth opened and closed; his skin tinged slightly green as he tried to find his tongue. "By your leave, I will bid Septon Theomore to hold a service tomorrow in honor of Lady Catelyn and Queen Jeyne."
Robb nodded, candlelight flickering off his crown. His eyes were shadowed, sunken in his thin face. He hadn't eaten any of the pies, Arya suddenly realized. She bit her lip, then plucked the biggest, goldenest pie from the tray, the pastry flaking against her fingers.
"They're very good," Arya said, holding the pie out to Robb.
"Fit for a king," Wyman Manderly agreed, a look of concern upon his fleshy face. "A king needs his strength." Trapped by courtesy, Robb accepted the pie and took a bite. Now that his mouth was full, Arya saw an opportunity, and took it.
"Wynafryd said you saw Rickon?"
All four of Lord Wyman's chins nodded. "I've never seen such a strong lad. As wild as that black wolf of his." He snorted. "Shaggydog, indeed. The beast wounded six of my men before the prince called him off. The direwolf might have killed one of them, if not for that wildling woman."
"A wildling?" Arya asked, baffled.
"Osha," Robb said. "We took her prisoner in the wolfswood before I left Winterfell."
"We would have thought they were both wildlings, but for the direwolf." Lord Wyman chuckled. "Their horse went lame a few days out from Winterfell, and they walked the rest of the way. Five hundred miles through field and forest, three moons since the turncloak took Winterfell, and one day the prince appears at the postern gate, direwolf snarling, and orders the guard to take him to his brother King Robb. As Your Grace was in the south, we appeased him with applecakes instead, and my granddaughter Wylla played games with him- monsters and maidens, rats and cats, come-into-my-castle, and so on. She grew quite fond of the boy, and he insisted that she accompany him back to Winterfell."
"What about Bran?" Arya asked, stealthily pressing another pie into Robb's hand. "Did Rickon say where he went?"
Lord Wyman shook his head. "Alas, no. The wildling woman said he went north with Howland Reed's children; a maid of seventeen and a lad of fourteen. More than that she would not say." He paused. "If it is any comfort... I saw Prince Brandon at the harvest feast held during third moon last year. He was as lively and fit as any boy his age, but for his legs. I spent an entire day meeting with Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik, and Bran listened the whole time. He never spoke but when he should, though I heard he scolded Lady Glover's maester."
Robb's brow furrowed. "He scolded a maester?"
"Apparently the steward was only saving a tenth of the harvest for winter." Lord Manderly grimaced in disapproval. "Prince Bran ordered him to set aside a fourth, and to plant the next crop quickly. Never fear, Your Grace, he was the soul of courtesy otherwise; no boy of eight could do better."
"I am glad to hear it," Robb said quietly, still holding his untouched pie.
"After my men escorted Prince Rickon to Winterfell, I bade them search for Prince Brandon. They asked at every towerhouse and holdfast between Winterfell and Last Hearth, all to no avail. Mayhaps Ser Rodrik has had more luck since then, if the gods are good. Your Grace has known enough woe for a lifetime."
"The gods will do as they will. Much as I love my brother, I must look to my kingdom. How fares Ser Wylis?"
Arya struggled to focus as Wyman Manderly responded at length. Ser Wylis had bought up all the grain and glass to be found in Braavos; much of it was already sitting in warehouses and on ships in the harbor, awaiting Robb's orders for where it should go. Ser Rodrik had sent a raven from Winterfell with lists of keeps and holdfasts and how many people they held in summer and in winter; it made no sense to send grain to a holdfast whose smallfolk would leave to spend the winter in the Winter town, Barrowton, or White Harbor.
When Arya felt her mind began to wander she nibbled at another pie, slipping one to Nymeria under the table. If Bran could listen to him for an entire day, she could manage an afternoon. She forced herself not to yawn as Robb and Lord Wyman talked of how to best use the gold the Lannisters had paid as wergild for Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn; the money paid for the other northern lords and riverlords killed at the Red Wedding would go straight to their houses.
"Is there a raven from my uncle Edmure yet?" Robb asked, one hand pressed to his brow. The careful gesture made him look thoughtful, rather than weary. "When he left White Willow he promised to send the figures for the Riverlands as quickly as possible."
"Nothing yet, Your Grace. I'll venture it will take him some time, what with all the smallfolk fleeing hither and yon due to the fighting. There was a raven for you from Yohn Royce, and another from Lysa Arryn." Shuffling amongst the papers on his desk, Lord Wyman produced two letters, one sealed with bronze wax, the other with sky blue.
"And..." Wyman shifted his bulk, looking uncomfortable. "There is word from King's Landing, Your Grace."
"Sansa?" Arya's voice sounded thin and scared, a little girl's voice. She grabbed for Robb's hand before she realized what she was doing, clutching at his fingers.
If they killed her it's all my fault.
"Are they returning her?" Robb asked sharply. "The peace treaty required that Princess Sansa be sent north, unharmed. I promised them fire and sword if they defied me."
Arya's heart sank as Wyman Manderly gave a ponderous shake of his head. "I wish that I had less grievous news for Your Grace. It pains me to say that Princess Sansa is flowered and wed."
Robb surged to his feet, his hands balled into fists, Grey Wind growling at his side. "Is this certain?"
"Aye. They made her speak the vows before the High Septon, in the Great Sept of Baelor. A thousand lords and ladies bore witness. The queen herself threw the wedding feast."
Arya bit her lip, remembering a conversation with her father long ago. When a lord and lady are wed, they lay together and the lord- the lord puts his staff inside the lady's maiden's place, and that is how children are made. When a man forces a woman to-to touch his staff, or he puts it inside her against her will, that is called rape. She shuddered. How could the gods let that happen to anyone, let alone her gentle sister?
"To whom did they wed her? Some Lannister youth? An ancient lord of the Westerlands with grandchildren older than her?" Robb paced, dragging his hands through his hair. "Gods be good, Sansa's only thirteen. I should have taken Tywin Lannister hostage and kept him until they gave Sansa back."
"Now that's the odd thing, Your Grace. They wed her to the Red Viper's bastard. Ser Olyvar Sand, a boy of eighteen. They claim it was a love match."
Olyvar Sand? Why did that name sound familiar? "Sansa would never wed without her family's blessing, let alone wed a bastard," Robb scoffed.
"He fought the Mountain for her," Arya remembered. "Just like the Dragonknight fought for that lady he was in love with."
"Aemon the Dragonknight and Queen Naerys," Robb corrected her distractedly. "Sansa loved those stories, but a Dornish bastard is no fit husband for a Princess of Winterfell." He yanked at his hair, seemingly forgetting Lord Wyman's presence. "I threatened fire and sword, but can I ask my men to besiege King's Landing, to die in their hundreds and their thousands to save one girl?"
"Our sister," Arya snapped.
"Princess Sansa is not in King's Landing, Your Grace." They both turned to look at Lord Wyman.
"Are they coming north?" Arya asked, hoping against hope. Bastards didn't have their own lands; maybe Olyvar Sand wanted Robb to give him a keep. Arya would go stay with them, and be Sansa's sworn shield again, and make sure that the Dornish bastard didn't touch Sansa. If he already had... her eyes flicked to Nymeria, the she-wolf growling low in her throat. They knew how to geld rapers.
"They left for Dorne the day after the wedding. If they follow the Boneway they should reach Sunspear near the beginning of twelfth moon."
Robb jerked his head. "I will send ravens there and to every other keep between King's Landing and Sunspear. They would not dare stop Sansa from writing to her family, not when they claim she wed of her own free will." He sighed. "I thank you, Lord Wyman. Now I should like to refresh myself before dinner; it has been a long and weary journey."
"No doubt, no doubt," Lord Wyman agreed. "There is one more piece of news. I thought it best to save glad tidings for last. The brothers of the Night's Watch have chosen a new lord commander to replace Jeor Mormont." His eyes twinkled. "It seems in place of a black bear they decided they fancied a white wolf."
He placed a third unopened letter upon the table, this one sealed with black wax. Robb flipped it over. Robb Stark, King in the North. Arya knew that handwriting as well as she knew her own name.
"Jon!"
1) This chapter was way easier than Dany I, which took a ton of research and rewrites, and ended up at 6.9k words.
2) Should 11 year olds get drunk? No. Is it hilarious? Yes.
Greatjon, age 45, 7'0, 250lb:
Arya, age 11, 5'0, 90lb soaking wet: FUCKING FIGHT ME
3) White Harbor is neat. I enjoy the Manderlys. Lord Wyman is not subtle about trying to get his granddaughters in good with the widowed Robb /
