May-June, 302 AC


"It's really not that bad, it isn't," Meri soothed.

"'m not fit to be seen," Jeyne sniffled, sinking down into the tub until the water hid the angry red and white pimples covering her chin. But she couldn't hide the big one on the side of her nose, or the little ones at her hairline. Nor could she escape from Meri's attempts at comfort as she stroked her dark brown hair and made shushing noises, as if Jeyne was a baby or a frightened cat.

Arya wrinkled her nose, frowning at the pinkish water. One benefit of being a princess was that she bathed first in the morning, in steaming water clear as glass. Jeyne only bathed when Arya was done, the water now lukewarm, and then Meri went last, an arrangement which would no longer work once Arya got her moonblood.

Meri was used to suffering through her moonblood, but Jeyne had only gotten hers recently. She was still horrified by the pimples and bloated belly that accompanied her bleeding, even though she had celebrated at first when she flowered a few moons after the Tourney of Winterfell. But then, Jeyne was fifteen, desperate for the long awaited flowering which made her a proper maiden. Arya had only turned thirteen two months past, in the middle of third moon, and she was not so eager. When she flowered she'd be packed off to foster at Last Hearth with her future good family, away from Robb and Rickon and Winterfell. Having no idea when her mother or sister had flowered, all Arya could do was pray that she flowered late, the later the better.

Flurries of snow danced in the grey dawn outside the window as Arya opened her chest, pulling out breeches and a tunic. Both were made of rich dark blue wool and covered with little bits of embroidery to cover the rips and tears. Once they had been Jon's practice garb, worn when he trained with the master-at-arms; now they were hers, for her water dancing lessons with Oro Nestoris.

Ser Perwyn Truefaith and two men-at-arms trailed after Arya as she trotted down the steps, all three of them bleary eyed. Her brothers had trained in the yard with Ser Rodrik Cassel every afternoon, spending long hours slashing and parrying and building up their strength, but Arya trained in the godswood, as soon as the first light crept over the horizon. Her afternoons were spent in council meetings, serving as Robb's cupbearer. Even on days when the council did not meet, or ended early, she still had to preside over her unwanted retinue of ladies-in-waiting. Arya only tried to dodge those duties a few times before she gave up after Lady Edythe Cerwyn told Robb, and Robb quietly told her that he was very disappointed.

Cold clean air filled her lungs as soon as they left the Great Keep, snowflakes dancing past her cheeks. When she reached the godswood it was to find Rickon and two of his friends already there, flinging balls of hardpacked snow for Shaggydog while yawning men-at-arms watched from a safe distance. The black direwolf leapt into the air, catching the snowball in his mouth before crushing it between his jaws, chewing as if it were a rabbit or a squirrel. Rodrik Ryswell gave a whoop, his hooded cloak nearly falling off as he waved his arms. Ben Blackwood was far less at ease with the chill of northern autumn; his hooded cloak was securely fastened, his skinny arms and legs covered in layers of thick wool as he worked on the walls of a snowfort.

Arya wondered how many layers Ben would wear when winter finally came. An autumn flurry was nothing compared to the wild blizzards that would soon come howling. By midwinter every bolt of wool and pelt of thick fur would be more precious than gold, or so Robb said. He seemed to spend half his days closeted with Hother Umber, organizing the weavers who wove wool into cloth, the hunters who brought in pelts, and the seamstresses who fashioned them into cloaks and cloves and hats.

Snow melted quickly in the godswood, turning into slush as the warmth of the hot springs radiated upwards. So it was a soft squish that alerted her to the danger, drawing the wooden sword from her hip and raising it just in time to deflect the thrust aimed at her chest.

"Almost too slow, princess. Again," said Oro Nestoris, raising his own wooden sword and taking the ripple stance. At six feet tall he overtopped her by half a foot, with a reach much longer than her own. Flecks of frost dotted his thin beard and sable robes, but he did not seem to notice the cold as he attacked, driving her back and forth across the godswood.

Her legs soon cramped with the effort of sparring in the slush and mud, dodging tree roots and trying not be distracted by the sound of a snowball fight breaking out. A water dancer could not count on firm ground, no more than she could count on peace and quiet as she judged her next move. When sweat began to bead on her brow Oro permitted her to rest for a little while. Then it was time to review grappling.

For months she had endured twice daily practice, once with Oro in the morning, and again at night as she forced a reluctant Jeyne and a grim Meri to learn how to escape unfriendly hands. After so much time and effort Arya thought she could escape from any hold, but that was before thick robes and gloves came into the equation. It was much, much harder to escape an arm at her throat when she could not dig her bony chin into Oro's elbow. Drills were also harder with a heavy cloak clasped at her neck; when she tried to take it off, Oro rapped her on the hand with his wooden sword.

"I'll be fine, it's not that cold," Arya protested, disgruntled.

Oro raised a slender eyebrow at her. "Now it is not so cold. Later it shall be much colder."

"Winter is coming." She refastened her cloak, raised her sword, and charged.

By the time the lesson ended she had a healthy crop of bruises to show for her trouble, including the beginnings of what would soon be a magnificent black eye. Arya didn't mind; she'd won it in the process of giving Oro a bruise of his own, the first one she'd ever given him. She was grinning as she made her way to the forge, ignoring Ser Perwyn's mutters of distress and the men-at-arms swapping coins. Ondrew had bet that it would take another month before she landed a hit on her dancing master, and scowled into his brown beard as he paid smug Porther two groats.

The forge was one of the best places to practice listening with her ears. Most people would only hear the sound of hammers ringing in the dim smoky air, perhaps the hissing of smiths quenching hot metal in cold water or the deep low gasp of the bellows. But there were other sounds, sounds most men would miss. There was the quiet thunder of the fires, the soft scuffle of feet, the gentle scritch of charcoal as Master Armorer Theowyle worked on a design for some lordling's order.

Gendry was at his anvil, pounding on a piece of metal that looked like it might be a gorget. His muscled chest was bare beneath his leather apron, streaked with sweat and soot. His face was sweaty too, what little of it could be seen beneath his bushy black beard.

"You should shave," Arya said, when Gendry finished with the gorget. "It looks like you found a loose chunk of Shaggydog's fur and glued it to your chin."

"I didn't know m'lady was an authority on beards," Gendry grumbled, but there was a hint of laughter in his blue eyes.

"Princess Arya has a point, lad," Theowyle said briskly as he examined the gorget. "Well done. The gorget, not the beard, that looks like sommat her direwolf dragged in."

"Nymeria doesn't drag anything in, she eats it straight away," Arya retorted. Ser Perwyn gave a strangled laugh, Theowyle chuckled, and Gendry ran a hand over his beard, oddly quiet. Feeling guilty, Arya stepped up to look at the gorget.

"It does look nice," she said. Gendry crossed his arms, a shy smile on his lips. The hammer clutched in his hand shone in the light of the forge, the head ornately engraved with a horned bull. He'd stammered when she gave it to him, accepting it only after she made Ser Perwyn show off the new sword she'd gotten for him from the same armorer. She'd gotten daggers for Ondrew and Porther too, and a new eating knife for Robb.

Arya hadn't gotten anything for Rickon; he was already far too enthusiastic with a wooden sword. Poor Ser Rodrik declared that if training Robb and Jon was an honor and training Bran was a pleasure, training Rickon was an ordeal. It fell to his wife Lady Donella and his daughter Beth to console the longsuffering master at arms. Lady Edythe said Beth was getting quite good at tending bruises, sprains, and, on one memorable occasion, bite marks.

A basin of warm water awaited Arya when she returned to her chambers, and she quickly scrubbed herself down with a damp soapy cloth, wincing when she touched her fresh bruises. Jeyne helped her into a clean gown and laced her up; Meri undid her long plait, brushed out the tangles, then braided it back up again. When she was little Arya had her hair lopped off as soon as it reached her shoulders, like her brothers did, but proper ladies didn't wear their hair so short. Ugh.

It was an hour before midday when Arya presented herself at the council chamber, formerly the private solar above the Great Hall. Servants had already placed a platter of meat pies on a sideboard, along with a flagon of cider. She placed the largest of the meat pies before Robb, who took a begrudging bite. After months of persistent nudging Robb was finally beginning to look stocky again, as he had been before they left Winterfell. Then he was a boy, but now he was a king, who sat at the head of the long weirwood table with a bronze and iron crown upon his head and a direwolf at his feet.

Ser Gilwood Hunter waved her away when she offered him a meat pie, and held his cup out for more cider. The keeper of laws was much too fond of wine; that was why Robb had weak cider served at council meetings. Despite his embroidered silks Ser Gilwood looked more like an innkeeper than the heir of one of the oldest, richest houses in the Vale, what with his ruddy, puffy cheeks and a nose covered in broken veins. Even old Hother Umber and plain Torrhen Poole looked dignified by comparison, and Lord Jason Mallister put them all to shame. One would never guess that he was nearly ten years older than Ser Gilwood; he carried his fifty-seven years with the grace of a king and the elegance of a courtier.

No one needed their cup refilled for a long while, so Arya stood like a statue at Robb's right hand, listening and resisting the urge to fidget. How could Grey Wind sit so still? Surely he was bored too. There were long reports from Lord Gerold Grafton of Gulltown and Lord Wyman Manderly at White Harbor to be read aloud, whispers gathered from the many merchants who came and went.

The weight of the flagon soon grew onerous. She was already tired from the morning's exercise; listening to Torrhen Poole's steady voice was almost as good as a lullaby. Arya might have fallen asleep, if not for Grey Wind nipping at her shin now and then when she began to sway. Feeling guilty, she forced herself to focus on the council meeting. Lord Mallister was not especially pleased by Robb's decision to open negotiations with Highgarden regarding the shipment of food during winter.

"I understand your reservations, my lord," said Torrhen Poole, handing a parchment to the keeper of ships. The keeper of accounts had his usual stacks of parchment with him; that he could so easily find the one he wanted always surprised her. "However, the prices across the Narrow Sea..."

"Nothing more to be had from Braavos," Hother Umber said brusquely as Lord Mallister read the paper, his brow furrowed. "Lorath never has enough to sell, and Pentos is asking prices that would make a Lannister shit himself."

"Will the Tyrells be any more reasonable?" Lord Mallister finally asked.

"I believe so." Robb shifted slightly in his seat. "At Sweetroot Ser Loras meant to kill me or die gallantly in the attempt, but Dacey Mormont and Smalljon Umber took him captive. I personally accepted Ser Garlan's surrender of the Tyrell foot; he wept with relief when I told him Ser Loras yet lived."

"Aye, and small wonder, with nearly all the Tyrell cavalry slain," said Lord Mallister, grim approval in his blue-grey eyes. "Few kings can boast so great a victory."

"How great, my lord?" Arya asked, unable to resist. Robb never spoke of his battles, and she only got bits and pieces from the knights and men-at-arms.

"Tywin Lannister brought over twenty-one thousand men to Sweetroot, princess. We had less than eight thousand men, but a battle is not won or last by numbers alone. Wit matters more than strength, a lesson too many men forget. Your great-uncle, Brynden Blackfish, chose the ground, and our Young Wolf laid the trap."

Her brother's face was frozen, but for a muscle twitching in his cheek.

"By the end of the battle, over twelve thousand of Lord Tywin's men lay dead upon the bloody field. The rest yielded." Lord Mallister smiled proudly. "Lord Tywin would have fled if he could, but the Mallister and Bracken horse cut him off to the rear. I've never seen such a sight. The old lion in his spotless golden armor, pale as a corpse, near speechless with rage. His Grace, splattered with mud and blood, direwolf snarling at his feet, the only man to ever force Tywin Lannister to strike his banners." Mallister sipped his cider, a smile on his lips. "And best of all, we lost less than a thousand men."

"Thank you, my lord," Robb said, his voice soft. "But past glories will not feed us come winter. Highgarden is likely our best, if not only option, with the discord across the Narrow Sea."

The talk returned to grain prices, and Arya returned to only half listening. Discord was one way of putting it. Three letters had arrived from Sunspear at the end of first moon. The first was from Princess Arianne Martell, announcing the recent death of her father, Prince Doran, mere days after she gave birth to his first grandchild. Now Princess Arianne ruled Dorne, with her infant daughter Eliandra as the new heir. The other two letters were much older and much more important, written by Sansa and Robett Glover in Meereen during eleventh moon, carried across the Narrow Sea by a swan ship, delivered to Sunspear, and then sent on by raven.

Each letter was written in code, which was good, given that only two of the three ravens sent from the Old Palace had reached Winterfell. Robett Glover reported a slave revolt in Qohor, nervous magisters in Pentos, and unrest in Myr, Tyrosh, and Lys. In Volantis the triarchs had expelled all Braavosi from the city and were considering banning Summer Islanders from their ports, when they weren't bickering over how to handle the Dragon Queen.

Sansa's long-awaited letter from the pyramid of the Dragon Queen had nearly sent Robb into a nervous fit. The letter began with yet more reassurances of Sansa's health, safety, and continued maidenhood, as well as sweet notes for Arya and Rickon. Her sister then proceeded to inform the King in the North that the Dornish retinue was observing Daenerys Targaryen, now Queen of Meereen, as a potential rival to the Lannisters who now claimed the Iron Throne. Further, she was in possession of three living dragons, though Sansa had only seen two of them, one from a distance. As for the other...

"Viserion speaks more clearly than any beast I have yet encountered, even Nymeria," Arya read aloud, her eyebrows in her scalp. No wonder Robb was pacing the maester's study and yanking at his hair. "However, he does not like the way I smell, and only barely tolerates my presence, preferring my lord husband, no doubt thanks to his blood." Arya frowned. "His blood?"

"Daeron the Good wed his sister, Daenerys Targaryen to Maron Martell, Prince of Dorne" said Maester Luwin, who was taking notes at his desk. "That would make Daenerys the great-grandmother of Prince Doran, Princess Elia, and Prince Oberyn, if I recall the lineage correctly."

"No word of dragons can leave this room," Robb said fervently. "Sailors' talk is one thing, confirmation from Princess Sansa another. Gods, the council—"

The council was now reviewing other correspondence which required their attention, Torrhen Poole taking notes as Hother Umber read a list of cargo lately arrived at White Harbor. They had not been so calm the day Robb informed them of the news from Meereen, after first taking solemn oaths of silence from each man. Ser Gilwood drank an entire cup of wine in one gulp, Torrhen Poole turned white, Lord Mallister snapped a quill in half, and Hother Umber swore so vividly that Arya finally found out what buggering actually meant.

Today was much less interesting. After the lists of cargo came lists of where the cargo was meant to go, and then lists of what villages and holdfasts had announced their intention to take shelter in the Wintertown. Did Torrhen have a list of lists hiding somewhere?

"One last small matter, before we finish for the day," Robb finally said, as Arya tried not to crumple with relief. Thank the gods she wouldn't have to attend another council meeting for at least two months. "I've a letter from Lord Sorrel Roote of Lord Harroway's Town. He seeks permission to wed Beony Beesbury, widow of Ser Raymund Frey, and adopt five of her children."

Ser Gilwood choked on his cider. "What, all five?" He demanded. "Has Lord Roote none of his own? Or is he incapable of getting children on his former Frey?"

"Lord Roote is a widower," said Mallister, frowning. "Winter fever took his wife and sons ten years past." No one seemed to notice Robb's pallor, no one except Grey Wind, who laid his snout on Robb's knee, and Arya, who chewed on her lip, a dull pang in her stomach.

"He said as much in the letter," Robb said calmly, stroking Grey Wind's ears as if nothing was wrong. "Lady Beony has seven children, and Roote is unsure whether or not she is capable of bearing more. As it stands, her eldest sons have already come of age in Oldtown and Lys, but he seeks permission to give her three daughters and two young sons his name."

Robb gave a slight smile. "He has persuaded his septon to anoint them again, should I grant my leave. Sarra and Serra Frey are maids of seventeen; they shall become Sarra and Serra Roote, at least until he finds husbands for them. As for the younger ones... Cersei Frey is a girl of ten, the poor child who bore witness to the kinslaying and testified against Ser Aenys and Ser Symond Frey at their trials. He begs my leave to have her anointed Cicely Roote; as for her brothers, Tywin and Jaime, they are only just turned four, and Ser Sorrel wishes to anoint them Thyme and Jack."

"Your Grace is merciful to even consider such nonsense," Ser Gilwood grumbled. "Taking a nephew as an heir is one thing, but a traitor's get?"

"Indeed, Ser Patrek Mallister slew Raymund himself," Robb said mildly, tilting his head toward Lord Mallister in acknowledgement of his son's deed. "Yet Ser Perwyn Truefaith has honorably served Princess Arya despite Lord Walder's treason. Shall we deny good Lord Roote a wife and children because we fear their father's blood?"

A few more minutes of quibbling and the meeting ended, not a moment too soon. Hother Umber and Torrhen Poole left first, grimly talking of salted meat, with Lord Mallister and Ser Gilwood not far behind. At last it was just Arya, Robb, and the direwolf nuzzling at Robb's leg.

"You can't fall asleep during council, Arya," her brother sighed, picking at what was left of his meat pie.

"I'm trying," she replied, hurt. "I was worn out from my lessons, that's all, and Torrhen kept droning on and on—"

"He cannot help having a dull voice," Robb said firmly as he stood, stretching muscles gone stiff. "Preparing our people for winter comes before all else; do you think I am not weary? You are not the only one who spends mornings training."

Arya bit her lip as Robb walked over to a bookshelf and selected a heavy tome. She knew about the hours Robb spent with his honor guard, riding at quintain and sparring with blunted swords, proving the angry scar across his cheek had not made him weak.

"It wouldn't be so bad, if I didn't have to stand still," she finally mumbled, staring at her feet. "Water dancers dance, they don't just freeze in one spot and stay there."

Robb set the tome on the weirwood table with one hand and pinched the top of his nose with the other. "What do you think the First Sword of Braavos does when guarding the Sealord? Does he turn cartwheels and sprint around the room? Or does he watch and wait, alert to every word spoken and gesture made?"

Chastened, Arya muttered an apology. She was about to leave when she recognized the book Robb was opening. It had arrived from Dorne a few weeks after Sansa's letter, a gift from Lady Myria Jordayne, heir to the Tor, with page after page of runes and elegant script bound between covers of deep green leather.

"Found anything else?"

Robb scowled. "Dragonglass for the Others, steel and fire for the wights, and not one word about why the Long Night itself. Half the pages are notes about why the translation of the runes is not precise; one rune might have five meanings. This one—" he pointed to a rune with sharp swirled lines. "It's not clear whether it means cold, wind, blizzard, solitude, or despair."

"Have you showed them to any of the wildlings?" Arya asked. Surely one of the hostages could read the runes of the First Men; they wore them on their arms or around their necks, graven on thick bands of gold.

"Toregg," Robb said with a grimace. Arya remembered that one; he was the leader of the hostages, a tall, deep-voiced man of twenty or so, with wild ginger hair and an even wilder beard. "He told me nothing of the Others he had not said on the day they arrived. The oldest runes he wears came from the day of his grandsire's grandsire; they resembled the runes in the book as much as a donkey resembles a horse."

Late afternoon found Arya wishing she was on a horse. Instead, she was in her solar, a book on her lap and ladies on every chair. Reading a lengthy discourse on the endless details of running a household was bad enough, but Lady Edythe had somehow contrived to find one that was drier than Dorne, and Arya's eyes kept drifting from the page to the cluster of women and girls who followed her as the tides followed the moon.

Almost everyone except Arya was occupied with needlework. Lady Rhea Royce sat closest to the fire, stitching away at a complicated scrollwork design with posture as haughty as she was. Even Lady Edythe Cerwyn sat less stiffly as she patiently taught a complicated new stitch to a wide-eyed Beth Cassel. Catelyn Bracken and Cornel Umber worked steadily beside them, Catelyn stitching a verse from the Mother's Hymn while Cornel covered a strip of trim with the mountain flowers for which she had been named. Arya wasn't sure how she felt about her betrothed, Hoarfrost Umber, and she wasn't sure about his sister either. More than once she'd noticed Cornel watching her water dancing practice, thin lips pursed.

So far as future goodsisters went, Arya preferred Wylla Manderly, who sat in a corner, untangling a spool of green thread as garish as her dyed hair. At least Wylla was bold, completely unafraid of either her half-feral betrothed or his wild direwolf. Not that she was stupid; Wylla had enough sense to see when their tempers were rising and defuse them before anything happened. Even so, Wylla was nearly as fond of poetry as Sansa; at the moment she was trying to tease a song out of Alys Karstark as her sister watched, amused.

Wynafryd Manderly had come to Winterfell for the tourney, accompanying her lord grandfather. Although the king ably resisted the Lord of White Harbor's enthusiastic offer to mint new coinage for the Three Kingdoms, Robb could not stop him from leaving Wynafryd behind when his vast retinue departed. For ten moons Wyn had "visited" with her sister Wylla, but she seemed to have little interest in chasing a crown for her grandfather's sake. She spent more time idly chatting with Ser Perwyn than she did with Robb, trading tales of overbearing relations and the differences between growing up at the Twins and the New Castle.

"Oh, very well, Wylla, if you insist," Alys laughed, rising to her feet with a smile that did not reach her eyes. She hummed for a moment, then began to sing, her pointy chin tilting upward, her eyes half closed as she sang about a maiden who yearned for a husband and children of her own.

Arya scrunched up her nose. She hoped Alys had picked the song, not Wylla. Lady Alys was supposed to wed Lord Daryn Hornwood shortly after the Tourney of Winterfell, but the day after the tourney ended, Lord Karyl Vance had caught him abed with his daughter Rhialta, a maid of fifteen. Lord Vance wanted to skewer Daryn for defiling his daughter, but King Robb intervened, persuading Vance to permit a hasty marriage instead, a decision which succeeded in preventing bloodshed but also succeeded in making everyone angry.

Daryn Hornwood was angry because he claimed Rhialta was no maid but a temptress who seduced him. Alys was angry because Rhialta's two sisters swore Daryn had made persistent advances since the tourney began, which Daryn hotly denied until Arya told Robb that she had also seen Hornwood whispering to Rhialta and slipping her flowers when he thought no one was looking. No one but Arya saw the flowers, but everyone saw the handprint Alys' slap left on his cheek for the next several days. Meanwhile, Lord Harrion Karstark was angry at the dishonor to his sister as the wronged betrothed, Lord Vance was angry at losing a daughter to the cold north, even if she was Lady Hornwood now, and Robb was angry at having to settle the entire dispute. Arya felt like she was the only one who wasn't angry, though she did feel badly for Alys, and thought Daryn and Rhialta were idiots for getting caught.

"Princess Arya?" Wynafryd was looking at her. "Where is Mya today?"

"In the stables, I think," Arya replied. Probably talking Joseth's ear off, trying to get the master of stables to let her breed mules. Mya swore they were the best mounts for winter snows, hardier than a horse and less difficult than a donkey.

"Of course she is," said Rhea Royce, stabbing her doublet with unnecessary fervor. Well, that was an improvement, at least. Having Mya Stone and Rhea Royce in the same room never ended well.

After winning the joust Ser Mychel Redfort had declared Arya queen of love and beauty, spurning his wife Ysilla, Rhea's younger sister. That little scandal paled in comparison to what he had done after the tourney ended. When they reached the Crossroads Inn they should have taken the High Road to the Vale, but instead, Mychel, Ysilla, and Ser Wallace Waynwood secretly met with a bastard girl, abandoned the rest of the Valemen, and galloped off to Harrenhal.

Once there, Ser Mychel and Ysilla flung themselves at the dwarf High Septon's feet, swearing they had never consummated their marriage and begging for an annulment. When it was granted, they immediately married again, Ser Mychel taking Mya Stone to wife, Lady Ysilla taking Ser Wallace as her lord husband, and both couples consummating that very night. Ysilla was already with child by the time she returned to Runestone with her stammering husband in tow, and Lord Yohn Royce had grudgingly forgiven her.

Lord Horton Redfort was not so merciful. It did not matter that Ser Mychel was the most renowned young knight in the Vale; he refused to even see his fourth son before disowning him. Almost penniless, Ser Mychel and his bride had ridden north, a scorching letter from Lord Horton preceding their arrival. Arya thought Robb would turn Ser Mychel away when he begged to join Robb's honor guard, but then Ser Mychel said something about Jeyne Westerling and Robb sent her out of the room. When she returned, it was to find Ser Mychel pledging his sword to a pale, glassy-eyed Robb.

As for Mya Stone... technically she was one of Arya's ladies, but almost all of them shunned her, some intentionally, some inadvertantly. Mya knew the courtesies and skills expected of a bastard girl, not those expected of a knight's lady wife. She did not know how to embroider, or play the harp, or write poetry, or talk of fashion. At dinner she sat with Mychel, drinking from the same cup, clasping hands under the table, trading laughs and kisses. But when Mychel was busy with his duties… Mya loved her husband, but not Winterfell, so different from the mountains she called home.

For Arya's nameday she had gotten Robb to allow her a short journey up the kingsroad, a chance to ride all day before the autumn snows began to fall. Not that he would let Arya go far; only three days up the kingsroad, where they camped on the edge of the wolfswood. Nymeria found a tumbled down tower hidden in the trees, whining and scratching at the stones until Arya discovered a vault hidden below, the floor scorched from some traveler's campfire. She would have thought nothing of it, had she not seen a scrap of white silk trim in a corner, attached to ragged threads of grey cloth. Then she sat down and sobbed until she heard someone else clamber down the rough stones. Mya offered her a handkerchief, awkwardly patted her on the shoulder, then scrambled back up to fetch Ser Perwyn, Wynafryd trailing behind.

Arya wished she could have returned the favor later that afternoon, when they glimpsed the northern mountains looming in the distance. Mya Stone kicked her horse into a gallop, leaving the rest of them far behind as she rode toward the peaks. She did not return until the next morning, her eyes puffy from weeping, the tracks of her tears visible against her dirty cheeks. Despite her misery she was still beautiful, with her dark hair and blue eyes almost as pretty as Gendry's.

A pair of hazel eyes were looking at Arya; she forced herself to return to the present as Wynafryd began to speak. "Will Mya be joining us when we depart Winterfell?"

"No, I don't think so. Why?"

Wynafryd pursed her lips, her eyes glancing at Ser Perwyn for a moment. "Oh, some small matter with my horse. I should like to speak with her before we depart, if I may have your leave."

"Of course," Arya said, puzzled. With a smile Wynafryd rose, dipped a curtsy, and left, both Wylla and Ser Perwyn watching her leave. Odd, Arya didn't remember any issue with Wynafryd's horse. Wavetreader was a sweet mare, fond of apples and jumping. Oh, well.

They left Winterfell four days later, a lightly falling snow covering horses and riders alike. Arya rode at the head of the smallest company, composed of Jeyne and Meri and the warriors and men-at-arms who would see Arya and her ladies safely to the Dreadfort.

After nearly two years of endless siege Greatjon Umber had insisted upon a royal visit from Princess Arya, especially since she had not seen her betrothed since the siege began. Even the tourney at Winterfell could not tempt either the Greatjon or his son Hoarfrost away from the Boltons; they watched them as intently as cats at a mousehole, convinced that Roose Bolton would attempt some trickery should they leave their post for an instant. Robb was inclined to refuse, given the chaos and filth of even the most well-run siege camp, but he yielded after Arya begged for time away from the confines of the northern court.

The other two companies were a bit larger, and as different from each other as night and day. Hugo Wull led the company bound for Skagos, a wildling woman at his side and mountain lords in his train. Rickon was very upset by Osha leaving, but she was the only wildling Robb could trust to translate the Old Tongue still spoken on Skagos. The other company was led by Wynafryd Manderly, who was finally returning to White Harbor, accompanied by knights in gleaming armor, men-at-arms in well-kept livery, and a band of mummers with colorfully painted wayns.

"Are you ready, Princess Arya?" Ser Perwyn asked, reining up beside her. Nymeria followed at his heels, blood dripping from her jaws. The hare had been fast, but not fast enough. Grinning, Arya dug her heels into Faithful's sides, the mare breaking into a trot as Ondrew and Porther blew their horns, Stark banners flapping in the wind.

The roads were slick with autumn frost, the softly fallen snow turning hardpacked dirt into mud and slush. Unable to move any faster than a trot, it took a week of grey skies before they finally reached the banks of the White Knife. Here the parties would split, with Arya's company following the road east to the Dreadfort, and the rest taking ships down the river.

Bold and brawny as he was, Hugo Wull did not look eager to reach Skagos. Not that Arya could blame him. Old Nan said the Skagosi were terrible cannibals; some hundred years ago they'd risen up in revolt and killed their overlord, the Magnar of Stonehorn, then slew Lord Stark. It took his son several years to crush the last pockets of resistance in the wild mountains, and Winterfell had not sent an envoy to the Skagosi since, so long as they paid their taxes.

Unfortunately, Skagos had the most dragonglass that could be found in the North, dragonglass sorely needed for the war to come. Hopefully the promise of ships full of grain, salted meat, and wool would help sort out an arrangement, with Osha's command of the Old Tongue to help smooth the way, though Robb chafed at needing her assistance. Rickon could speak a little of the Old Tongue, thanks to the months he'd spent with Osha walking the wild, but none of the other northern lords or ladies did, though Alys Karstark was trying to learn from some of the spearwife hostages.

"If the wildlings turn on us, it will be useful to understand their tongue," she shrugged when Arya asked why she bothered. Cornel Umber thought the idea absurd; wildlings had stolen some cousin of hers, and she avoided them like the plague.

Rickon did not share such concerns; a few of the younger hostages sometimes played with him in the godswood, screaming at each other in the Old Tongue as they chased each other in circles. It seemed as though behaving for the length of the tourney and the following month had used up all of Rickon's limited patience; ever since the last guests departed he was wilder than ever. Ser Rodrik japed that Robb should send Rickon to Skagos; perhaps the Skagosi would appreciate a Stark who shared their barbaric manners. That was the day of the biting incident; Rickon had reacted badly when told that Osha would be gone for several months, unable to tuck him in or tell him stories. The wildling woman might be a leal servant now, entrusted with Rickon's care in place of Old Nan, but that meant she must obey the King in the North, not her little prince.

Lady Wynafryd was only going home to White Harbor, a far less dangerous destination, but she also seemed oddly reluctant to board the ship which waited for her by the docks. Almost every day she'd ridden with Arya, rather than her own people, idly chatting with Arya and Jeyne Poole or singing slightly off-key with Ser Perwyn. Arya's sworn sword was also being strange, staring at Wynafryd when no one was looking and only talking when he had to. When he finally asked for Arya's permission to escort Lady Wynafryd to White Harbor, Arya happily gave him leave. Maybe if he kissed Wynafryd he'd stop looking like a kicked hound all the time, though they better not get caught.

Even then she wasn't rid of his moping, as a fit of guilt struck as soon as Lady Wynafryd boarded her ship. "Are you sure, princess?" Perwyn asked again as a man-at-arms fetched his things from a wayn and carried them onto the ship. "I swore a solemn vow to keep you safe, your lady mother—"

"I'll be fine," Arya said waspishly. "There's Ondrew and Porther, and the rest of the escort, and the Greatjon's entire camp is armed to the teeth. I order you to get on that ship."

Reluctantly, he went. Arya watched from the shore as the rest of the two companies board the ships, the mountain lords comforting their shaggy ponies, who had never traveled by ship before, the White Harbor knights laughing and japing as they formed an orderly line so the most important could settle themselves first. Only then were the men-at-arms permitted to board, and last of all came the mummers with their colorful wayns full of props and costumes.

Arya would miss the mummers. Ever since the tourney they had put on show after show to entertain the smallfolk of Wintertown and the nobles of Winterfell. They began with a tragedy, The Son's Lament, an old play about Brandon the Burner, who'd set fire to the western fleet after his father Brandon the Shipwright vanished into the Sunset Sea. After a few moons of that they put on a farce, The Carpenter's Clever Wife, which was about a stupid carpenter whose wife entertained other lovers right before his face. Half the jokes made no sense, but the other half were very funny, and when one lover accidentally kissed the other on the arse Ser Perwyn laughed so hard he nearly choked on his wine.

But it was their last play which proved most popular, much to Robb's chagrin. The Romance of Strongspear the Squire and the Weirwood Maid was a barely concealed retelling of the events leading up to Princess Sansa's marriage to Ser Olyvar Sand, starting with the singing of The Honest Hand and ending with the shades of Prince Aemon the Dragonknight and Queen Naerys crowning Strongspear and the weirwood maid as the ideal knight and lady.

Arya had heard The Honest Hand many times at Riverrun and in the northern keeps they visited on their journey home, but somehow she'd forgotten to tell Robb that Sansa wrote it for their father. That revelation made her brother start openly weeping when she told him late one night, after the play when they were huddled under the covers with Rickon between them. She didn't understand why he was so upset; Lord Eddard deserved to have a better song than the stupid Rains of Castamere.

Besides, the rest of the play was great fun, what with the false queen's sneering monologues, the heartless hand throwing a tantrum when the rebel king outwitted him, the weirwood maid's scathing speech condemning the heartless hand, Strongspear volunteering as champion before thrashing the enormous butcher knight, who was played by two mummers, one sitting on the other's shoulders. Rickon whooped with glee at all the bashing and slashing, Arya almost leapt out of her seat when the false queen cast a spell to shatter Strongspear's shield, and when the Maiden sent a flock of doves to save the squire the Great Hall roared with approval, even the northern lords who rolled their eyes whenever the Father appeared onstage to weigh his scales or the Crone appeared to lay a hand on the weirwood maid's shoulder.

The romance scenes were a bit gross though. Strongspear kept making long speeches about the weirwood maid's peerless beauty and kind heart, and the weirwood maid kept pining at Strongspear whenever his back was turned. When Strongspear defeated the butcher knight he swept the maid up in a passionate kiss while Robb made retching noises so quietly only she could hear him; shortly after the maid gave Strongspear a chaste kiss in the godswood, and they kissed again at the end when they said their wedding vows. Jeyne was mad to be kissed, so much so that she and Meri practiced sometimes at night when they thought Arya was asleep, but Arya didn't see the appeal in having someone else's mouth and teeth mashed up against hers. What if their breath stank, or, gods forbid, what if they used their tongue?

There were a few other bits that didn't make sense. When Strongspear first came on stage he had a long conversation with his widowed aunt about justice and duty, and swore to protect the innocent on behalf of his aunt's murdered children. When he finished his monologue the aunt embraced him and named him the son of her heart before disappearing for the rest of the play, though the same mummer played the Mother whenever she appeared on stage. There was also a lot of fuss about a lily knight who wanted to help the weirwood maid but couldn't because the lily lord was a judge in her trial. After the combat the lily knight embraced Strongspear, who begged the honor of being dubbed by the lily knight, naming him the greatest warrior in the realm. Wasn't Strongspear supposed to be the greatest warrior? Or the greatest knight, anyway, which was the same thing.

Bran wanted to be a knight, she remembered sadly as she watched the ships weigh anchor, weak sunlight glinting off shields and armor. He dreamed of mastering lance and sword, maybe even joining the Kingsguard someday. What would have happened, had the Lannisters not broken his legs? Would Bran have sparred with her, testing his sword against her bravo's blade? Would he dream of becoming Robb's sworn sword, keeping a grey cloak instead of taking a white?

A pang of guilt gnawed at her belly as Arya looked over her company, now awaiting the princess's command to cross the bridge over the White Knife and continue their journey. She was sick of being looked at all the time, like a bug under a Myrish lens, judged for her courtesies and her gowns and the tidiness of her hair. She should be with Sansa, dressed in mail and leathers as she guarded her day and night, like Ser Perwyn guarded her.

As the company continued east and the days passed Arya soon realized how much she missed his quiet presence at her side. The soft watch he kept over Jeyne and Meri, the faces he made when he thought Arya was forgetting herself and being too wild. And now she had no one to practice her water dancing with each morning; Ondrew and Porther were too terrified of accidentally injuring their princess to be any use. Frustrated, she made Jeyne and Meri practice grappling with her inside their small pavilion every morning until they finally reached the Dreadfort.

Jeyne shivered when they first caught a glimpse of the Dreadfort, one hand reaching out to grab Meri's for comfort. Arya could not blame her. Through the falling snow she could see thick, high walls, topped by triangular merlons like sharp stone teeth and guarded by massive towers. Atop the walls stood a few men-at-arms in flapping pink cloaks; she saw one of them point at her before running off, no doubt to report the presence of a Stark to Roose Bolton.

Thankfully the ring of tents surrounding the Dreadfort looked much more welcoming, hundreds of cookfires blazing away merrily between tidy rows of tents. The largest pavilion was a bright flame-red with grey trim, the Umber giant roaring from its banners. She had almost forgotten how much the Greatjon resembled his sigil; when he bowed to greet her it was like watching a tree bend in half, and he nearly crushed her with a bone-crunching hug, his bushy black beard scratching the top of her head.

"How goes the siege?" Arya asked when he finally put her down, trying not to gasp for air. Behind her Jeyne Poole smothered a giggle.

"The same as it has since we got here, princess," the Greatjon rumbled, waving at a manservant, who brought slung camp chairs for Arya and her ladies. Only after Arya sat did he sink into a camp chair of his own, one much, much larger than hers. "I'd love to taste Bolton blood before winter comes, but His Grace will not permit me to smash the walls."

Arya knew that already; the Greatjon had sent plenty of ravens trying to get Robb to change his mind. She thought it would serve the Boltons right if their stupid keep was torn down stone by stone, but Robb thought it better to keep the walls intact, so folk could shelter in the keep when winter came. The Wintertown could not hold all of Bolton's smallfolk, even with carpenters and masons frantically building new houses and laborers digging cellars under the existing houses so they could shelter more people. More importantly, the Dreadfort was the strongest keep in the North; storming it would be a bloodbath.

That night she dined in the Greatjon's enormous tent, eating roasted venison and sipping rosehip tea as she tried to get to know her betrothed. Hoarfrost Umber seemed to have the same idea; he barraged her with questions about how she spent her time, his frown deepening at every answer.

"Your dancing master will likely find Last Hearth too cold for his taste," he said finally, scratching at his beard. "Nor would you have time for such lessons. You will be in my lady mother's care when you come to foster, and Lady Marna keeps busy from dawn to dusk, especially with Nuncle Hother away at Winterfell."

"Marna!" The Greatjon bellowed, distracted from the conversation he was having with poor Jeyne. While Hoarfrost interrogated Arya, the Greatjon had demanded that her ladies tell him every single bit of gossip about the king and his council that he'd missed while besieging the thrice-damned Boltons. "Gods, what a wife," he said, slapping his thigh. "Five strong sons and daughters, and Last Hearth has never run so smoothly as it has with her in charge of the household."

He thumped his chest, a drop of mead splashing on the roaring giant stitched into the cloth. "Every stitch is her work," the Greatjon boasted, "her fingers were always red when the girls were too young to help; when Fern wed and left for the Karhold I wasn't sure if she wept from joy or sorrow. You've seen how well my Cornel stitches?" He did not wait for Arya to answer. "Long years of practice, and now she's as skilled as her mother!" He beamed proudly, not noticing Hoarfrost's furrowed brow.

"Princess Arya has little practice with needlework," said her betrothed. "Her mornings are spent in the training yard, rather than the solar."

"The godswood, actually," Arya corrected, annoyed.

"Ah, well, children will have their little follies," the Greatjon laughed, waving a meaty hand. "A maiden flowered takes things more seriously, I'm sure once Marna has the princess sewing all day she'll learn quickly enough."

It was a relief when Arya could finally take her leave, retiring to her own pavilion with Jeyne and Meri in tow. Thankfully her pavilion was easy to find, being the only one sewn from pure ice-white silk, trimmed in grey with a direwolf banner flapping overhead. A cold wind howled outside as they prepared for bed; when she lifted the flap of the tent she saw the flurries had turned to fat flakes of snow, so thick she could barely see anything beyond the men-at-arms who stood guard.

Something at dinner had upset Jeyne's stomach, so rather than sleeping on the edge of the bed they shared, Arya gave her place to Jeyne, in case she needed to run for the chamber pot. The change in position bothered her; Arya liked to sleep on the edge, so she could get up early without having to climb over Jeyne and Meri, who were always cuddled up like bears in a den.

Hours went by and still she could not sleep, no matter how she tossed and turned. Shortly after midnight Nymeria awoke, her nose twitching. She could smell a wounded deer just outside the camp, easy prey for a direwolf's sharp claws and sharper teeth. With Arya's permission the direwolf silently slipped under the cloth walls of the pavilion, as she often did so she didn't startle the guards.

Lacking anything else to do Arya fiddled with the dagger under her pillow, stroking the wolf's head pommel with her thumb. Gendry had made it for her years ago, and though it was really too small for her now, it was still sharp, as sharp as Needle. She wouldn't give up Needle either, despite Oro's scolding and Gendry's offer to make her a new bravo's blade better suited to her size. Jon Snow had given her Needle, she couldn't just replace it, no more than she could replace the hole in her heart that Jon had left when he went away.

She was dozing uneasily when the soft crunch of boots on snow outside the pavilion roused her from her slumber. Was it time for the changing of the guards? It couldn't be that close to dawn yet, and besides, it was coming from the wrong side of the pavilion. Suddenly wide awake, she listened harder, catching the sound of a blade slicing through cloth, a draft of cold wind tugging at her hair as a shadow crept through the long gash in the back of her tent.

Arya gripped her dagger tight, watching from beneath her eyelids as the figure approached, the hood of a white fur cloak pulled down over his face. Should she try to climb over Meri and Jeyne? Or was it better to wait until he was close enough to strike?

The figure made the decision for her. With a low, ugly laugh he wrapped an arm around Jeyne's throat and yanked her from the bed, Meri waking with a gasp of terror. In the distance Nymeria howled, drawn by her girl's fear, but Arya could not count on the direwolf reaching them in time.

"Shhh," the figure said, quiet as the grave. Jeyne's eyes were wide and white, her hands trying to pull the arm away from her throat without success. The figure didn't seem to care; his hood had fallen back, and in the moonlight she could see him smile as he put a finger to his meaty lips. "I'd hate to have to kill my lady wife before she says her vows, and if I kill you, why, she'll have no one to dress her for the wedding." He licked his lips. "No, you wouldn't want that. Three maids are much better than one, even if two are of lesser blood."

"Who are you?" Arya demanded, careful to speak softly. She did not want to find out what the man would do to Jeyne if the guards burst in. No, Arya was on her own, with Jeyne and Meri's lives in her hands. Calm as still water, she reminded herself, fierce as a wolverine.

"Who are you, m'lord," the man sneered. "I'll have to teach you manners later. I'm Lord Ramsay, your new liege." He smiled, chainmail clinking softly beneath his furs as he adjusted his grip on Jeyne. Look with your eyes. His face was gaunt, flesh stretched tight over his bones; his hands were covered in thick gloves, not gauntlets, his throat bare of either scarf or gorget.

"Now, you are going to climb out of that bed, nice and slow and quiet, and then you're going to follow me back to the Dreadfort. We'll see how bold the Greatjon is when he sees your princess up on the walls in a bride's cloak."

Chuckling to himself, he nuzzled Jeyne's hair with his nose, and suddenly she went limp. The man swore under his breath as she collapsed, boneless, all of her weight falling against him. He hesitated for just a moment as if deciding how to carry her, and Arya saw her chance.

"You want me, not her," she hissed. Ramsay stared at her as she climbed from the bed, taking in the white furs she clutched to her chest with one hand. His one eye was as pale as dirty ice, the other covered with a leather patch.

"Oh?" He chuckled, looking from the dark-haired girl in his arms to the one standing by the bed.

"She's the princess, not Jeyne," Meri whispered, trembling as she stood.

"Well, then, no point carrying the useless one." With that Ramsay dropped Jeyne on the floor and stalked toward Arya, a smile on his wormy lips. He didn't look back behind him, didn't see Meri help Jeyne to her feet before both of them darted out of the tent through the great gash he had made. "Come on then, drop those furs, I'll have you in my bed soon enough-"

When he came within reach Arya dropped the furs, her right hand empty, her left behind her back. For an instant he stared at her, his eye roving over her shift of fine white lambswool, over the scooped neckline whose edges glinted with silver embroidery in silver thread. Stupid, he should have been looking at her hands, not her bosom. Then maybe he would have seen the dagger before she drew it across his throat.

Hot blood gushed over her chest and hands as the man tried to scream, spitting coppery blood all over her face. Frowning, Arya slashed again, cutting deeper this time, only barely dodging out of the way before Ramsay fell to the ground.

He had just stopped moving when the guards burst in, swords drawn. Dimly she could hear Jeyne and Meri sobbing outside the tent, and sense Nymeria's fury as she sprinted through the camp, men shouting the alarm. Only then did Arya's calmness vanished, replaced by rage. Bolton's bastard had broken into her pavilion, in the dead of night. He'd terrified Jeyne and Meri, he'd meant to seize her and rape her.

Ramsay Snow did not know what it meant, to trifle with a Stark. Neither did Roose Bolton. If he had, he would never have dared sell Sansa to the Lannisters and try to stab Robb in the back. No, these Boltons needed to be taught a lesson about what it meant to attack the pack.

Grimly, Arya made for the corpse. He had rolled on his back before he died; how thoughtful. Much easier to finish cutting through his neck, though it took a while to saw through the bone before she could yank the head up by the hair. The guards didn't even try to stop her, just watched, one of them muttering prayers under his breath as Arya shoved her feet into her boots, not bothering to lace them. She couldn't, not with the head still clutched tight in her left hand.

Now she saw why Oro made her bother with press ups all the time. The weight of the head barely slowed her as she stomped out into the snow, ignoring the shouts of horror and confusion. Nymeria, Ondrew and Porther, and half the men-at-arms were following her by the time she reached the edge of camp, where the Greatjon watched the Dreadfort from the closest vantage point out of arrow shot.

"It's not MY blood," Arya huffed at the Greatjon when he turned pale at the sight of her, blustering and swearing as if she was the one whose had her throat cut. He would have carried her back to the camp, if not for Nymeria's snarl of warning. She was perfectly fine, but for the cold and the snow. Although the blood was very sticky and uncomfortable; the sooner she made her point to Bolton the better.

Arya didn't have to wait long. The blast of trumpets and warhorns quickly got results; even with the thickly falling snow, the sparse number of men on the battlements could hardly miss the rider the Greatjon sent to the gates with a white peace banner. With a cold shriek the portcullis began to rise, a single horseman returning with the messenger.

"Lord Bolton!" Arya shouted when the lord drew close, his pink cloak flapping in the wind. "You seem to have misplaced your bastard!"

The snow muffled his answer, but then, Arya didn't really care what he had to say. She didn't want his lies or excuses. She wanted his fear.

She got it, when she flung his son's bloody head at him. The gods must have favored her; it bounced off Bolton's horse before rolling face up in the snow, staring lifelessly in the light of the many torches. Roose Bolton did not flinch, but the uneasy look in his pale eyes tasted as sweet as the coppery blood still clinging to her lips.

"My line is ended," said the Lord of the Dreadfort, his face whiter than the snow. "I yield."

"I yield, Princess Arya," she taunted, Nymeria snarling at her feet.

"I yield, Princess Arya," said Roose Bolton, his eyes as flat as his voice as he unclasped his scabbard and flung his sword at her feet. The Greatjon stared at him, eyes hard, and after a moment Bolton also dropped his dagger.

"Good. Lead us into the keep." She could kill for a hot bath.

By the time they were inside the walls, a hot bath was the last thing on her mind. How had Bolton held the walls with so few soldiers? They looked as if a strong wind would knock them over, their dull eyes sunk deep in hollow sockets, their arms trembling as they dropped their swords and spears. Arya had thought the servants would gather in the yard, to watch their lord yield the castle, but there was no one, no one but a few dozen men-at-arms.

Four of them led the Greatjon, Arya, and Nymeria to the lord's study. To her surprise it was warm and cozy, though the fire smoked a bit. There was a flagon of mulled wine on the desk, still hot, and the Greatjon drank it down as they waited for Bolton to return from the stables, where several of the Greatjon's men had escorted him so he might put up his horse.

The Greatjon did not seem to mind waiting, but to Arya each minute felt like hours. Restless, she began to pace the solar. Nymeria followed, claws clicking on the stone. They must have circled the room ten times when the direwolf's keen ears heard the sound of ragged sobs from behind the door that led to the lord's chambers. Finding it was not bolted, Arya let herself in.

A woman lay on the floor between two cradles, weeping, a small bundle clutched to her ample bosom. One cradle held a sleeping girl of two, but the other was empty.

"Lady Bolton?" There was no one else who would wear a pink gown patterned with drops of red.

"My baby," the lady whimpered, rocking. Her face was red and puffy, wet with tears and snot. "My baby, my little boy..." What sort of man lingered in the stables when his sons were dead, when his wife wept on the floor?

Then Arya knew.

They found the men the Greatjon set to guard Bolton in the back of the stables, their bodies pierced by sword and spear. A dozen of Bolton's men and one of his captains had been waiting, hidden behind the same bales of hay that concealed a postern door. Not that their loyalty had been rewarded. Weak as they were, it had taken all of them to subdue five of the Greatjon's well-fed men, with only their lord escaping into the snow storm.

Snarling with fury Nymeria bolted out the postern door, her nose searching for the stink of man and horse. Unnoticed, Arya sank onto a nearby hay bale and closed her eyes.

The world was a mass of white, all other scents muffled beneath the smell of cold and snow. Slow down , Arya told the direwolf. It would be no good to exhaust herself; her legs were already tired from sprinting after a deer and then sprinting across the camp. With a low whine Nymeria agreed, slowing to an easy trot.

Dawn was breaking over the horizon when Nymeria finally caught sight of her prey. The horse stood outside a broken-down cottage, his reins dangling with no place to tie them, and when he caught the wolf's scent he fled. Nymeria was not so hasty. She circled the cottage, her snout twitching as she drank in the smells. Smoke rose from the chimney, along with the faint smell of roasting meat, and Arya pawed at the door, whining. She could smell death on the air, but she had to see him, she had to know.

When the door opened Nymeria almost fell, her paws skidding on the snow as she caught herself. A pair of middle aged men stared at the direwolf, mouths agape. One stood by the door he'd opened, and the other crouched by the hearth, but their faces and scents were almost the same. Brothers, then. With a growl of warning Nymeria pushed past the first man. She could not smell steel on either of them, but she could smell the foul stench of the corpse lying on the dirt floor.

The face was almost unrecognizable, the skull smashed to a pulp, the mouth drenched in blood. Arya looked around the small room. A crude stone morter and pestle lay on a rough wooden bench beside a bronze knife, all three bright with blood. The silent man crouching by the hearth held a skewer over the coals, though she wasn't sure why he bothered. It bore only a small triangle of meat, barely a mouthful.

She had seen enough. Tail wagging, the direwolf left. The two-leggers would need her to guide them here so they could collect the body. Back in the stables Arya opened her eyes to find Jeyne and Meri hovering over her.

"He's dead," she told them, groaning at how stiff she felt. Arya was about to rub her aching neck when she remembered that her hands were covered in dried blood, as were her face, chest, and much of her shift. She winced, giving her pack sisters a sheepish smile. "Do you think someone could get me a bath?"


NOTES

1) The casualty numbers from Sweetroot are based on the casualties from Cannae, which the battle was based on. Estimates suggest that 55% of the Roman army was killed, another 22% captured. Meanwhile, the Carthaginian army suffered only 11% killed. Robb wanted to win, and he did, but he was NOT prepared for the sheer bloodbath of his victory. No wonder boy doesn't brag about the carnage.

2) Medieval annulments were difficult to obtain, and we don't get precise information on how they work in the Faith of the Seven. Given that in canon the High Septon could annul Sansa's unconsummated marriage to Tyrion (if he weren't first a Lannister lackey and then the High Sparrow), I think the Mya Stone plot is plausible. High Septon Paul has balls of steel to risk alienating Lord Royce and Lord Redfort.

3) The Carpenter's Clever Wife is just The Miller's Tale from The Canterbury Tales. Oh, puns and accidentally kissing people on the ass, humor really doesn't change over time.

4) Thanks to siberien and MissKate for suggesting northern use of rose hips! :) Rose hips are the fruits of roses; they are high in vitamin C and can be turned into tea, soup, jelly, baked goods, or candy.

5) The Greatjon's wife is never mentioned in canon, but it is stated that his uncles Mors and Hother serve as castellans of Last Hearth in his absence. I decided fuck it, his wife is Marna Wull (my own invention), and while Mors and Hother were the official castellans, she's the one who runs Last Hearth because running a keep in the lord's absence was literally one of the most important jobs of a medieval lady.

6) Yes, Ramsay's plan was stupid, because he is stupid. Remember how he wanted to skin Barbrey Dustin in canon, aka one of the Bolton's strongest allies? He was clever enough to lure Nymeria away by wounding a deer and then setting it loose near the camp.