21 Beasts and Blizzards
"There! Lookit, the Fenn's coming out with 'em! There them are! I told ye, I told ye! That's the Stark, the Red Wolf herself, see the hair under her helmet? And Lady Winter, with the sword and all them knives! Ooohhh... theys with the Bronze Yohn and the Scorpion Bear, the little one, too! They's comin' too! 'et's go, 'et's go, we can meets them, see that Valyrian steel they's got. I told ye they'd come through again when the chief says the dead are past the Wall, didn' I? Told ye they'd see our goats, drink our milk, din' I?" said Adog, rememberin' not to point at the chieftain lady while he made his way through the goats towards where the bridge between the inner and second ring was waiting. He also remembered to keep his trap shut about the word he'd heard that Lady Winter would be by the well again; Umman had already agreed to watch the flock while Adog went into Winter Town to trade.
Umman wasn't all that bright, but he was good with the flocks of goats the Flint clan kept, ever since they'd been children together in the Northern mountains, just south of the Gift and the Wall. Adog resolved to give him both their rations of ale when he got back from Winter Town, since he wouldn't have a chance to see the fight. They'd missed the first one, out shovelin' snow so the goats could eat what was underneath until the army of the dead came, and gatherin' up anythin' that the goats could eat that would last until later in the winter.
He didn't know much about the army of the dead, but he did know how tough wildlings were, and anythin' that scared though fuckers was somethin' he was glad to be on this side of the wall for. They were past the wall now, it was said, but he could look out and see that the Stark hadn't been sittin' around jabberin, she'd been makin' all this happen. Now she were comin' here, probly to see the goats.
"Hey, Adog, get some milk! They's gots ta want fresh milk!" said Umman excitedly.
Sansa strode out side by side with her sister; she'd put the crannogmen of House Fenn and the mountain clan of House Flint in the same section of the inner ring, since their home lands were so far apart that they'd never feuded. The crannogmen, too, were very practical people, as were the mountain clans, and those who trod the treacherous narrow paths of the mountain cliffs didn't look down on the small men of the Neck.
Here, among these clansmen and clanswomen, she was called the Stark, of clan Stark, by their custom, while their leader was in turn called Lord Flint of House Flint, by the custom of the Kings in the North. These little titles, these courtesies between liege lord and bannermen, these, too, were the legacy of the ancient Kings of Winter. A legacy of granting the proud mountain clans the respect of their own titles, and accepting their own ways of addressing their own leaders in turn, even making it their own to the extent of her family referring to whichever of them was 'the Stark' in Winterfell. Her ancestors had been proud, had conquered, but hadn't tried to replace all they ways of those conquered, their religion, their leaders, and their pride, and in turn, they'd been Kings in the North for generation after generation, with few rebellions compared to other kingdoms.
She continued into the Flint camp with Arya, Lord Royce separating to speak with their cavalry and infantry, Lady Mormont already scrambling nimbly up the rigging on the outside of one of the camp's scorpion towers. The Stark in Winterfell spoke loudly, her voice strong, knowing that with these people, softness was seen as weakness, but rudeness was also unwise, "I wish to meet with Lord Flint!"
"Aye, I'm the Flint," said an old man, coming out from under one of the tents. The Flints, like many of the mountain clans, had piled up blocks of snow and ice to surround their tents, protecting them from the weather. As with every camp, the tents were sheltered under pitch-covered wood roofs, to protect them from not just months or years of winter weather, but also arrows falling short and other battle debris. Also like many of those she was visiting now, the bows they gave in respect were both deeper and much more sincere now than they had been the first time she'd met them.
"Thank you for calling in the rest of your clan and your herds, Lord Flint. I came to see you to pass on some news, and to make sure you had what you needed. Your clan has contributed much more than only three years of winter stores; you should be very proud of that, and in turn, you are entitled to the fullest measures of supplies from the central stores," said Sansa. They were one of the few houses to have contributed so much food, fodder, and so many animals.
"Eh, some more combs. My stupid brother-in-law didn't bring the basket, and the goats, it's past time some of them need to be combed."
"Of course; I'll have combs made immediately, so you can gather the wool as soon as possible," said Sansa, making the signs for you and question for Arya, who returned the sign for no, "Would you mind providing a sample comb, strong and simple? I'm afraid I don't know enough about combing goats to know what will work best."
"Not really differen' than combing sheep," he replied easily, then, at the shake of her head, he squinted at her oddly, "You never done combed goats or sheep? Not even once? I heard the Stark was a great needlewoman. How'd you know you gots good cloth if you don't feel the wool yourself? You don' sew that foreign silk shit, do you?"
Sansa ignored the faint hint of a smirk from Arya, replying easily, "I'm afraid I start with cloth, leather, thread, and yarn, though I do have a gift for you in my saddlebags, to show my personal appreciation of you and your clan's diligent preparation for the winter, and your outstanding contributions to all of our survival. Before that, though, the comb?"
He waved her on, striding away from the castle with her, his clansmen ahead of them taking up the handles on the long wooden bridge and sliding it out over the fire trenches and the moat between the inner rings and the second ring on wooden rollers, heavy counterweights keeping it from falling into the moat. On the other side, a pair of the clan's shepherds were staring at the two Starks crossing the bridge behind their chieftain with excitement... at her face, and her spear, and her dress, she noted, even more than they stared at Arya.
Adog approached with an entire set of combs, which he used one at a time, showing Sansa and Arya how to use each, then giving them that comb so they could do so themselves. Sansa followed the instruction politely, mildly interested in the different kinds of wool which came even from the same goat, and how that translated to different quantities and qualities of cloth on a personal level, as well as with keen interest for her new role as a facilitator of trade. Arya, of course, was paying close attention, getting along with the clansmen easily.
Patting the new goat, Bessie, that Adog had brought her, Sansa carefully pulled the comb through, this one made to gather and the undercoat in particular. She took a few strokes, then looked at the wool she'd gathered more carefully; she held it up and brushed it against her cheek, her eyes closed as she did so; it was indeed different than the other wool she'd combed, the top of her comb held a different type of much softer, finer hairs than the rest.
Umman smiled widely, having come back with two rough cups of goat's milk, "Ooooh; tha's Bessie, all righ'! She's got the sofes' undercoa' in the east flock, she does! 'Ere, hav sum o' Caeri's milk! 'est in the North, it is!"
As Arya intercepted the cups, smelling them and pouring the milk back and forth between cups, swirling them to ensure she'd notice any poison on the cup itself before she took a sip and then handed Sansa her cup. Sansa ran a gloved finger through the softer hairs caught on one part of the comb; even in the clump she'd pulled out, they were still mixed with the longer, coarser ones, but she knew her fabrics, knew them well, and the fine ones were the finest she'd ever seen, which gave her an idea based on her many hours of listening to trade agreements and brokering deals, so she took a drink of her milk, noting that she'd have to make sure to arrange for some Flints to speak to Tormund about fermenting goat's milk, and spoke.
"Thank you, Umman. Lord Flint, if your clan can separate out only these fine hairs, and only from Bessie and the other sheep with very soft undercoats, then I believe you can sell these for a very considerably higher price than the undercoats of your other sheep. This is, truly, exceptional wool. I would also like the opportunity to make an offer for the final fabric after you've heard other offers, to use for my personal projects."
"More? Like twice? Three times?" asked the Flint.
"If it's made into woolen cloth and yarn that retains this softness after it's dyed, ten times or more," replied Sansa. Luxury exports, especially ones from both sharply limited and living sources like goats, rather than limited like gold mines, would strengthen the North in the future. She continued, praising the clan's goat with much more sincerity than she'd once praised hairstyles and dresses in King's Landing, "Bessie's undercoat is truly exceptional, a credit to your clan."
Once they'd finished, Adog handed her the entire set of combs, some of wood, some finer ones of metal, and the Flint spoke again, "There; sets like these. Four o' those to three o' these to one o' those for a set. We gots ourselves good and snug, if'n the dead don't get to us, so we don't need more from the Stark. We've prepared proper, we have!"
With a look at Arya, he continued, shifting topics to the military, "Only thing, men, soldiers need better leaders. Still doing stupid shit in trainin', gettin' in the way. My clansmen'll be killed doing stupid shit like askin' for archer te shoot and then sum other bastard walkin' right where they's landin'."
Arya glanced at her sister, who made the sign for you. As was their habit in these matters, Arya answered first, "Is that primarily the infantry? Not the archers, the cavalry, the Free Folk?"
"Aye, the foot soldiers ain't got good leaders."
Arya nodded, "Agreed. As we speak, two more leaders are heading towards us that I believe will resolve the situation. Jamie Lannister was trained by the same man whose table I learned large-scale warfare at, Tywin Lannister. He faced Dothraki and dragons both, and not only held his ground with his men, but also made a lance charge on horseback against a dragon grounded by a scorpion bolt when the battle was lost."
"The Kingslayer! A Lannister!" exclaimed the Flint.
Sansa took up the conversation, "Men of your tribe owe him your life. When you were fighting with my father and Robert Baratheon, you defeated Rhaegar Targaryen and were entering King's Landing, where the Mad King had put wildfire under the city, and as he ordered his pyromancers to 'Burn them all!' just before Jamie Lannister killed the pyromancer and then killed the Mad King."
Sansa watched the clansmen's faces; she'd been telling this story to every House of the North and the Vale and every clan of the Free Folk, and universally there were winces and shudders here. The men and women in and around Winterfell had all seen wildfire tests, all seen the results, all been warned in the most vigorous - and violent - terms to keep fire and heat of all kinds well away from the Substance. To hear it had been planted under a city they or their fathers or grandfathers, uncles or brothers or sons had been in or even near... that wasn't something to generate happiness. It was, however, something to generate gratitude to mitigate decades of hatred and scorn.
"The Three-Eyed Raven saw it?" asked the Flint, "He said so?"
"Yes, he did," answered Sansa, "We do not trust Ser Jamie the way Brienne of Tarth does, so we will test him, and watch him, but if he passes our tests, he should be trusted as much as any Southron from south of the Vale. The other coming is the Hound, Lord Sandor Clegane, who we trust much more. He came back out into a riot from safety, alone and without orders, and saved me from rapers during a riot in King's Landing when Joffrey was King. When he broke with Cersei and Joffrey during the Battle of Blackwater, he risked himself to offer to take me with him."
Arya continued, "The Hound taught me how to survive during a war, alone in the country, taught me about killing and surviving being hunted, about how the world really works, how so many men and women really are. He put himself between me and those who would have killed or harmed me, when I was still just a girl with a small sword, shared his food with me when we were both hungry, even when neither of us got enough. He won't admit it, but he tried to do his best for me - tried to sell me, but only ever to family, never to Cersei, never to Walder Frey, even though we arrived at the Twins during the Red Wedding; he got me out again, unharmed and unnoticed. He's one of the greatest Westerosi swordsmen, and trained as a leader in warfare besides."
Upon Arya's receiving a terse nod, Sansa continued, "I have also made final arrangements for space and housing within Winterfell and Winter Town. Based on the supplies your House has provided to the central stores, in addition to those of your clan who are already living behind the walls, there are an additional six places within Winterfell, and eight in Winter Town, for whichever of your House you wish to send. Please send whichever you believe will be able to best rebuild your clan if the camps are overrun, even if either Winterfell or Winter Town falls. I urge you to split your people between the two with care; Winter Town's walls are shorter, while Winterfell may be a more attractive target for the wight dragon."
Sansa didn't mention the many camps of people, outside all the walls, or the flocks and herds outside even the camps, all at far greater risk than those inside the walls. The sisters watched the man take in a breath, trying to hide his relief. He'd clearly been worried about the survival of his clan, as all the Houses were concerned. Unwilling to admit it, of course, but fearing all the same. This was the best she could do - there was only so much space, only so much food behind walls even stacking people in four high bunk beds to make more space for supplies, only so many places they could defend against a siege that included giants, mammoths, and dragons.
In the end, after discussion with Lord Reed, Lord Royce, Lady Meera, Lord Manderly, Lady Mormont, Kitty, and Arya, she'd decided her first instinct was indeed correct - the places remaining after babes, children, pregnant women, and those with necessary skills for the war and the winter were taken in would be allocated to the houses solely based on food contribution. The Flints thus got more places behind walls than some Houses twice their size; something they'd argued in conclave yesterday, and something she could only hope to be arguing in conclave for many years to come, for it would mean they lived.
Thankfully, she'd been able to set things up with the food-gathering caravans such that those poorer houses which wouldn't have been able to make the required contributions had their gathering parties alongside those houses willing to give them loans, or with the Iron Bank, and the richer houses who had failed to contribute enough had found themselves next to the many foreign traders who had brought in nonperishable foodstuffs to sell at meals. No house of the North or the Vale, no clan of the Free Folk had, in the end, failed to contribute at least three years of supplies, even after years of war. The Sealord of Braavos had even cut a deal with some of the Free Folk for sled designs and trainers to help the city out when the fresh water supply froze, as was expected.
The clan leader gathered himself to ask, "Bessie? The other goats with the softest undercoats? Flocks in second ring. Before rest of clan gone, flocks gone first. Without flocks, no future for the clan. Whoever left will need the best of our goats to rebuild with."
Suppressing a wholly inappropriate giggle at the thought of what her younger self might have thought at the prospect of arranging shelter for the right goats to rebuild a House with, Sansa replied calmly, "Certainly. I'll see to it that three of the sheep inside the walls in Winterfell, and three in Winter Town are moved out to the flocks to make room for six of your clan's goats. Put a necklace with your clan's sigil on them, so all know to eat them last."
"Valar Morghulis," said the Flint.
"Valar Dohaeris," said Sansa. More of the Northerners and those of the Vale had picked the expression up both in conclave from Lady Winter, and from the many discussions and deals made with foreign merchants. She'd heard the Flint himself had thought it darkly appropriate to their current grave situation, and even heard Lord Mollen and Lord Whitehill using it to greet each other; by the rather vicious undertones, she suspected they felt it was more appropriate to their feeling toward the other house than wishing each other well in any capacity, and as a common greeting, it was an almost Southron means of wishing ill on the other.
Arya put her fingers to her lips and let out a complex whistle in the same pattern as the horn calls for 'Prepare to advance', at which Lord Royce began to make his goodbyes, while atop a different tower a small figure in black strode calmly off the edge of the upper platform, wrapping an arm around a single hanging rope and sliding quickly down, cloak flying out behind her, as smooth as any sailor descending from the crow's nest. Landing solidly on the cleared ground of the camps, she jogged up to the Flint.
"Melaane and Jaycobb; they can plot trajectories," she said, then restated it for those not as familiar with the arcane language of siege engines and master archers, "They could use the setting circles at different ranges even before the Maesters made the more detailed charts."
"Yes! They are very smart; know their numbers, and have fighting instinct too!" said the Flint proudly.
"Send them into Winterfell on the morrow; they will report to Gilly for classes. I want them taught to read and write better, and taught the mathematics to create the setting circles and the charts," said the Scorpion Bear, "We don't have enough Maesters, and every difference in the siege engine or the ammunition needs either a Maester to create a new chart, or someone who knows to work it out on their own."
"I will have them there after they break their fast," said the Flint with a smile. When their clan returned to the mountains, they would be stronger than they left, and smarter, however many fewer they were. War was becoming harder with these new weapons, and the clan would rise to the challenge. They were Flints! But... that was not enough, not anymore. These new weapons were wondrous and terrible for those with the skills to use them, but there was more to a clan than that, "Maesters study many things; will they teach more, too? Healing? Building?"
After the details were quickly worked out, Sansa presented Lord Flint with the leather breastplate she'd made in recognition of his and his clan's efforts and loyalty, then mounted her horse and trotted over the narrow strip of land between the radial division moat and the ring moats.
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Sansa murmured quietly, so only their immediate party could hear, "I hear the Night's Watch is to hold elections tonight, after they swear in their new recruits. Strange that the endless jobs and training you've been scheduling for them suddenly had a break in it."
Arya murmured back, "It's not strange; we had work that needed doing. Now we have less, and Edd's been moaning about not wanting to be Acting Lord Commander ever since he got here. Pure happenstance."
"Mmm," was Sansa's reply, barely audible over Kitty's quiet giggle.
Arya stood on Sansa's right, hands behind her back, hidden under her cloak, throwing knife half out of its sheath in one hand, blowgun likewise in the other, both Valyrian. Their best intelligence reports all said that the newest arrivals were entirely genuine, but even the best information could be flawed. That intelligence, after all, only reflect what people, warged animals, and Three-Eyed Ravens saw, so a diligent person could fool them all simply by never taking off their false face of helpfulness.
No Faceless Man using a face from the Hall of Faces would be caught by anything they could do, since a Faceless man wouldn't take their face off, either the magic or the mental face. A glamoured face depending on the magical skill of the person, of course, while mummery needed to be touched up quite often; Bran would have seen that easily enough.
She could hear the unusual quiet in the courtyard; the archers on the walls the normal crews - the wall was reserved for their best sharpshooters, and Meera herself was looking down, bow in hand, Valyrian plate cutter arrow nocked. The towers that could see into the courtyard likewise - their crossbowmen on the platforms below the siege engines were always among the best. The ballista crews, though, had been supplemented by Lyanna on the left-hand gatehouse and Fjornel on the inner scorpion with a courtyard view to the rear and on the right.
Hidden, of course, were additional units of the best archers and spearmen they had, though Arya doubted that any treachery would require them. The siege engines were very accurate indeed, and even normal crossbows and warbows with the right arrows could punch through armor often enough at this range. Their best archers, and Fjornel, weren't using normal plate cutters, though; the ancestral Valyrian bolts and arrows of the Starks had been distributed already.
Patrek Mallister approached first, the others waiting at the gates. When he'd left, he'd thought Seagard to be a well defended castle. They had the normal moat by the walls and one additional moat with a wooden palisade behind it, and had constructed four ballista and five scorpions for the towers and gatehouses of their castle, but this, this was another level entirely, as Moat Cailin had been, and there were people everywhere logging and working and training, smallfolk and highborn alike.
He could barely imagine the entirety of the undertaking. They'd needed thousands of men working for weeks to dig Seagard's second moat, to build their palisade, and it was a far cry from the fieldworks he saw here. Feeding the workers, too, had been challenging, and they'd had to deal with dysentery in the workforce and the soldiers alike.
Then, Patrek thought, there was the welcoming party. Lady Stark was in what he thought was armor like the Blackfish had worn, but in the shape of a ladies gown, with a fine boiled leather helmet in place of a fur hat. She was accompanied by a young woman with the Stark look, wearing a ridiculous number of blades. He didn't know why - maybe she was like he'd heard some of the Northern women were like, or the Dornish, and was showing she thought she could fight. Throwing knives wasn't honorable; no true man would fight like that! And... well, he'd tried as a boy, and it wasn't anything you could use for real, either.
Sansa watched him approach, offering him bread and salt as Kitty again offered wine, Leriah on Kitty's other side, Lady Keath behind her, as Korb and Connas were behind Arya and herself, just in case.
Should Jamie or the Freys prove false, her own job was to hold the large, heavy platter in front of her face and neck while moving backwards to the gatehouse as fast as possible. The platter was quite heavy - castle-forged steel, direwolves running around the rim, with a thin layer of silver disguising what was really a small steel shield as a decorated serving dish. She wore only a thin cloak, the thick padded backing to her armored dress keeping her warm enough while she was sheltered from the winds. It certainly impressed some of the men, too - either the thinness of the cloak, or her wearing true armor, the same as they were.
"Welcome to Winterfell, Lord Patrek. The stories of the brave men and women of Seagard defying Walder Frey and Cersei Baratheon have reached the North. Please have bread and salt, and be our guest," said Sansa with her best courtly smile as she curtsied, offering the platter steadily. Heavy for its size it might be, she'd been training with much larger shields for long enough to grow used to them.
"Thank you, my Lady. I bring one hundred barrels of wheat, and one hundred more of salt beef. Were we not prepared for siege ourselves, we would have sent more food and men besides, but we're barely seventy miles from the Lannister forces at the Twins, and must defend our home," replied the heir to Seagard as he took a small piece of bread, rubbing it into the salt and eating. He hadn't really seen guest rights taken quite so seriously as they were in the North, though with the rumors he'd heard in Seagard, and worse, what he'd heard from his traveling companions, he supposed he could understand taking such things seriously. No one wanted Lady Winter coming for their house, whoever or whatever that was. Every Frey who'd participated in the Red Wedding, dead in a single night, no one knowing how. The why was obvious, of course - the North remembers. Well, that was why he was here - the North did remember, so answering the raven they'd received would be remembered, too.
"I thank you for your generous gift, Lord Patrek. This is my sister Arya. She's quite adamant about not wanting or liking to be called Lady Stark or Lady Arya, so you may address her as Lady Winter," said Sansa in a carrying voice, gesturing to Arya, who gave a small nod as not only Patrek but also the Freys froze for a moment, their eyes drawn to the small Stark. Jamie, too, was looking at Arya, but with more interest than fear.
Patrek looked at the short young woman; he'd thought the armguards, the bow, the thin sword and the many knives to be an affectation, but now, looking into her cold, amused eyes, he thought he could imagine her carving through more than two score men. Probably while she smiled. Well... good riddance to bad Freys, and a curse upon them for all they'd done, and all they'd failed to do. He wouldn't want to marry the girl, certainly... but that was his father's decision, not his, and he'd do as he was bid.
With a deep nod, he spoke, "It is an honor to meet you, Lady Winter. You have done the Riverlands a great service, one which can never be truly repaid, by removing the Late Walder Frey and the men he raised to follow in his dishonor. You've done Seagard a great service with that same act; with the Lannisters needing to garrison the Twins, and the Frey armies vanishing as far as the Lannisters know, well, other than Lord Jamie, Seagard has gained a reprieve."
Gesturing to her left, Sansa continued the introductions, "You know of our sister by choice, the Lady of the Crossing, of course."
He accepted a sip of wine from Lady Frey, "A pleasure to meet you, Lady Frey. I'm glad to see you've prospered in the North."
Sansa gestured to the castle, "You're welcome to take a meal in the Great Hall; I would be pleased to meet with you in my solar after dinner and learn what brought you so far from Seagard at this critical time."
"Thank you, my Lady," said Lord Patrek with a deep bow, heading in as she'd indicated, a messenger girl rushing to intercept and lead him.
Too deep, Sansa thought, for the circumstances as she knew them. Something more was happening with the Mallisters. Well, she'd find out soon enough, one way or another.
Jamie Lannister approached next, with the sign for you from Sansa, Arya strode forward as they'd planned, intercepting him before he got within lunging range of Sansa. He wasn't nearly as dangerous with one hand as he'd once been with both, but he was still a dangerous opponent, and losing his overconfidence had reduced one of his main weaknesses.
"Jamie Lannister, thank you for coming North as you said you would. What are your intentions here?" asked Arya, her voice flat.
"To fight for the living," says Jamie immediately, then looked back at the Riverlanders he'd traveled with. He'd had ample time to listen to them on the big dogsled they'd been put on, and what they'd said and planned had made him think, too, of his own honor, of what Brienne saw in him, and of what he admired in her. Returning his gaze to the Stark that got away, the one who'd approached with her hands behind her back, and excellent footwork. Braavosi footwork, quick and precise. None of the Freys were good soldiers, and most of them had been old by any standard but Walder's and Olenna's, but still, to kill them all in one night was a feat. One Cersei would have loved to perform herself, once upon a time.
Arya waited, still and quiet, simply assessing the man with every measure of her skill. He had more to say, more he wanted to say, and she'd make sure he said it.
"And to return what is yours," continued the Kingslayer, unbuckling his swordbelt and offering Widow's Wail to the warrior woman before him, holding only the sheath in his left hand. After coming all this way, he'd rather not be shot by some skittish guardsman mistaking his gesture as an attack. Guardsmen who hated him for what he'd done, for what Cersei had done, well, nothing he could do about that.
With a lightning quick step, she'd taken the blade from him by the sheath with her right hand, holding it out as a boy ran up, taking the sword and darting off deeper into the castle. Still, she said nothing, waiting without interrupting him, without prompting him. Brienne had been eloquent in her praise, and she'd make sure all those listening would hear what he said of his own free will.
He looked down for a moment, then at Sansa's cold gaze, and Arya's colder one. He knew what Brienne would say to him, had heard it in his head the entire trip up. Well, if he was to die for it, at least he'd die with some honor, tarnished may it be, "And to apologize for pushing your brother out the window, for crippling him."
Arya spoke, her voice without inflection, without warmth or feeling of any kind, "Bran forgave you."
Jamie looked down at his golden right hand for a second, "He's a better man than I am. I'm glad he lived. Am I to die, now? If so, let's just get on with it."
"What will you do if you are not?" asked Arya, betraying nothing.
With a deep breath, Jamie straightened up fully, pride in his posture again, though without the arrogance that had once been so obvious. He'd come to this conclusion days ago, and now, prepared to say it out loud, not knowing if he'll live or die... well, at least he'd regain some portion of his honor.
"I will join the Night's Watch, and fight for the living," said Jamie Lannister.
"And what can a right-handed man without a right hand offer them?" asked Lady Winter.
"My life. A poor left-handed swordsman, now without a sword. My father did try to teach me war, you know, so there's that. Well, he tried to teach me a lot of things, but war was the only one I really learned."
"Oh? Then why did you have nothing but a shield-wall only one line deep, a single line of spearmen, and a single line of archers when the Dothraki charged?" asked Arya without inflection.
"My orders were to get the gold to King's Landing as fast as possible. The food was... not very important to my sister. The best troops, the best scouts all went ahead with the gold. The food column was a lot longer, and with green troops, stretched out. To keep it tighter would have meant halting the lead elements, or letting Randall whip everyone. The gold made it. I fulfilled my orders."
"And after your lines were breaking, why did you gather archers and lead them to fire on the dragon, causing it to abort its attack run because Queen Daenerys didn't want to be pierced?"
"Because I'd forgotten we had the scorpion until after," said Jamie, pointedly looking up at the gatehouses and towers around him, "Which I can see was a mistake. You really have been busy."
"True, but I meant you'd already seen the dragon burn your men alive, less than a hundred yards from you. Why were you still fighting instead of running? You had a horse; you had a better chance at escaping than nearly any of your men," continued Arya, giving no hint of her feelings on the matter. The audience needed to hear this, needed to know that he really did face a dragon with nothing but a few archers, instead of running. Those rumors would spread, would let him be effective, as she needed him to be.
"I won't abandon my army. I gave the orders, it was my responsibility," said Jamie, remembering the screams of men as they burned to death; something he'd hoped not to hear again after he killed the Mad King. All fire burned the same, it seemed.
"And after Bronn grounded Drogon, why did you mount a horse and charge its rider with a spear?"
Jamie held his golden hand up, smiling wryly, "Because it's hard to shoot a bow with only one hand."
At Arya's sign for you, Sansa spoke, "After our mother captured Tyrion Lannister, you attacked our father. Killed Jory in combat, fought our father in single combat until one of your guards speared him from behind. Why didn't you finish our father off then?"
"It wouldn't have been clean," said Jamie, looking down for a moment, then up into Sansa's eyes, "I wanted to fight him, man to man. It wouldn't have been honorable after he was wounded by a soldier who disobeyed his orders."
"Yes, you struck your soldier to chastise him, after. You weren't wearing your plate armor when you fought our father, either. Why not?" asked the eldest Stark.
Jamie cocked his head, a little puzzled by the way the questioning had gone. He'd imagined far worse on the long ride north, "Lord Stark didn't go around the city wearing armor. It wouldn't have been clean if I was the only one in full armor. Your father was an honorable warrior; he deserved an honorable battle. I suppose, too, I was fighting because my brother had been taken, so wearing the King's armor seemed... wrong."
Looking around the courtyard, at the men and women watching, Sansa saw what she'd expected. As much as the Northerners and many of the Vale loved her father, fighting man to man was a long tradition; it was the old way, as Jon had said when he offered single combat to Ramsay. For Jamie to offer single combat in return for her mother's taking his brother... that was different than an ambush.
Arya held out her right hand casually, at which sign a page rushed out to place a sword-belt in it with a sword in a plain black scabbard on the right, and a wooden dagger with dragonglass shards on the left. She held it out to him; the sword had a simple, functional hilt. The blade itself was castle-forged steel, a copy of the blade of Widow's Wail made by Gendry based on Bran's drawing.
Arya spoke, her voice warmer, now, welcoming, "You'll need the dagger, if you're to join the Night's Watch. Don't bother with the sword against wights or White Walkers, it'll be no good. You'll need the sword, though, if you're ever to fight a duel. Try not to lose; left-handed swordfighters don't need that kind of stain on their reputation."
She returned to her sister's side, and Sansa now held out the platter of bread to Jamie Lannister with a small nod, "Have bread and salt, and be welcome in our home, Ser Jamie Lannister. Hurry; Micah here will take you to the Night's Watch. They're gathering in the Godswood, and Lady Meera will need it back for archery training soon enough."
Jamie put on the sword-belt, then took and ate a piece of bread with salt, took a large drink of wine, turned to leave, then turned back for just a moment, to say, "I'm sorry."
As Jamie broke into a jog of his own as the boy ran off towards where the Night's Watch was about to induct new members before the election, the last group approached, the smallfolk from the northern Riverlands, lands which had been under the control of the Twins.
Kitty Frey strode forward, weirwood crossbow on her back, smiling widely, "Welcome to Winterfell. On behalf of Lady Stark, the Red Wolf, thank you for answering my ravens, for coming north, for bringing men and provisions. Please, come and have bread and salt and be guests of the Lady of Winterfell; Leriah will take you to the Night's Watch after you've accepted guest right."
They still looked scared, but approached slowly, keeping their heads down and bowing before they started moving, glancing up at Sansa, who gave a small welcoming smile, and especially looking at Arya, who simply nodded and gestured them forward.
************************
Two days later, they'd already long passed a fork in the river that Jon had said led to the Lonely Hills. Daenerys looked up as she bounced along as the dogsled she was riding on once again swerved suddenly. She was tired, not having slept well in the cold, heavy air of their campsite, and now the winds were even higher than they'd been before. They'd endured the old man's angry tirade at how slow they were to pack up her tent; as a result, they were at the very end of the caravan today, having had to catch up. The main caravan had left without her!
On the other hand, their new rear position was quite far from the wildfire. She shuddered a little. Hearing about that hellish substance had been an unpleasant revelation! She hoped they wouldn't have to use it; her children were far less likely to suddenly burn everything in sight! Yes, her children were much safer. They didn't have to be treated so gently, be kept far from heat and flame.
She turned to look at Jon, who was pensively looking up into the low clouds moving quickly above them, "Jon? Did you see Drogon or Rhaegal?"
"Aye; they flew west a few minutes ago, and I think they landed on that hill over there."
"That's a hill? It looks like a mound of snow. Everything here looks like a mound of snow," complained Daenerys.
"Aye, but that's a hill" chuckled Jon, then pointing to another mound of snow, "Over there, that's a snowdrift."
Dany gave a huff, then smiled, "You're feeling better? You looked... lost in thought."
"Not really. I was just thinking that it smells like snow."
"Of course it smells like snow, Jon. There's snow everywhere!"
"No, I mean it smells like it's going to snow. You know, like you can smell when a storm's coming? Like that."
"A snow storm?" asked the silver-haired woman.
"Aye. We could end up buried in snow, you know," replied Jon, grinning, "Old Nan said there were snows more than a hundred feet deep, in winter, you know. Even Drogon could be buried so deep he had to dig his way out!"
"That sounds awful," replied Dany, giggling at the thought of a sour-faced Drogon emerging from a white landscape, shaking himself like a horse, snow flying everywhere like water off a horse's mane after fording a deep river, "How do you Northerners survive weather like that?"
"It's actually quite cozy, if you have decent shelter first," he said.
"And if you don't?" she asked. She expected she knew the answer - it'd be no different than getting caught in a sandstorm in the Red Wastes. The lands here were just as barren - she'd seen some of the Free Folk chopping through the ice to set fishing lines, just as a few of the Dothraki with desert experience had been able to catch a lizard here or there, or find a plant to eat and get juice from.
"Then you freeze to death," Jon answered seriously, confirming her expectation.
"Ah," she said quietly, then changed the subject entirely. Death by cold, being kept away from the warmth of life, that sounded like the worst possible way to die to her, "Are you all right, after hearing about Arya?"
"It was a bit of a shock, I'll admit. Not the duels themselves; she'd talked about fighting in a tourney, so that's no surprise. Her killing someone, just like that... that was a shock. I've fought people, killed people, but I never liked it. Never enjoyed it. Never did it for fun," said Jon quietly. He knew he was good at fighting... at killing... but it wasn't what he wanted to do. Arya'd always wanted to learn to fight, and it sounded like their father'd found her a good teacher; a great teacher, even. Though what kind of man was he, if a man had come to Westeros to challenge his sister in a fight to the death over being his student?
Daenerys replied, her voice soft and thoughtful, "I've seen bravos, growing up, you know. Missandei's story is right - they aren't dangerous to anyone but their own, and all over Essos, they follow their own code of honor. I even saw a duel once! Viserys didn't allow me out often, but sometimes, when we were moving between houses, I was able to be outside more. We were in Norvos; I remember because the views of the hills were amazing. I was late getting home, and two bravos met in front of me; one touched his sword, and then they were fighting, right there. Once the one hit the other in the arm, they were done, and they both left. Neither threatened me, nor did any other bravo I ever saw."
"So, they're like knights?" asked Jon.
Daenerys laughed, "No! They don't run around in armor, or fight in big battles, or get anointed by some particular god. They're... bravos, who like to fight."
"I've never been to Essos. The only times I've been south of Winterfell is to see you, or with you, even! You've seen so much; tell me, what were the hills around Norvos like?"
"They were steep and tall; I imagined flying over them on a dragon! Well, I thought I did; actually riding on a dragon is the most amazing feeling, to see the world stretching out below you, the wind on your face, flying through clouds. Or above them, even - they stretch out below you in an unending sea of white," said Daenerys, her voice full of remembered joy.
"You really love flying on Drogon, don't you?"
"I do. Perhaps I'll have to bring you along; you missed the ride to Eastwatch, after all," she said with a teasing smile, then shifted again as the caravan slowed, coming to a halt on the frozen river, between the shelter of two small hills, once again beginning the process of feeding the dogs, small one-man dogsleds getting the first of the food for their dogs, then darting off in pairs to check the area, a considerable distance between the members of each pair.
While most of the dogs were finishing their meals, a high-pitched, staccato drumbeat sounded faintly across the quiet landscape from a hill to the north, followed by two tiny specks descending the hill quickly and a loud shout from the caravan's leader.
"Snostorm inkommande! Full fart mot stenhalan!"
Immediately, more than half the entire caravan started moving out without hesitation, the rest, including their own sled, simply loading the sleds with anything that someone could hold in place by hand. The old man who gave the passengers instructions came to them after they'd started, coming into place besides them.
"Blizzard coming, and fast! We go to Rocky Hollow, wait it out! You dig in, do not use stupid tent! You Night's Watch, yes? Been in North?"
"I was!" said Jon, "To the Fist of the First Men!"
"Good! This real Northern storm! You dig, dig as small as you fit in, fit very tight together! Use dark man spear for air, four holes, four times each hour, or you die! Use canvas line hole! Small fire only if lots air!"
"Aye," said Jon, watching the small dogsled move off again.
"Jon?" asked Daenerys, worried.
"You know that snowstorm I was worried about? We're getting one, a big one. We'll all have to sleep together for warmth; all of us. He wants us to use Grey Worm's spear to poke air holes and keep them clear," said Jon.
"Air holes?"
"You can't breathe through snow, Dany. We'll need to have someone awake all the time to keep the air holes clear."
"I'm sure we can all stay awake for a few hours, Jon."
Jon chuckled wryly, "I hope it's only a few hours. More like a few days. Could be a few weeks, even, though it seems awful early for that. Winter is here."
"Weeks!"
"That's what Father said, and the men of the Night's Watch. Deep in Winter, the storms last for days and weeks. You didn't think Sansa said carrying at least three months of food was required to leave a city for nothing, did you?" asked Jon, "She's the Lady of Winterfell. It's the Lady's duty to manage the supplies and keep everyone in Winterfell fed and warm for as long as she can in winter, just like it was Lady Catelyn's duty before her. Just like it's Lady Manderly's duty in White Harbor."
As they moved north, the sky before them turned black even as they could still see the sun setting in the west. The caravan split, then, some sleds staying atop the river, while the rest went up a steep hillside on the shore to a very rough plateau, crowned with great boulders and rock formations around what turned out to be a basin, covered in thick snow.
Jon saw an sled pulled by eight dogs moving slowly up the hillside, uncoiling a rope that stretched down to the sleds down on the river, already turned on their sides and partly buried to make a windbreak.
The old man came by again, accompanying a large cargo sled, which dropped off a small pile of wood, a barrel of pitch, a package of dried foods for Jon, and a small kettle. They stuck a stake with a wide, deep set of fins at the end and in the middle deep into the snow, looping the middle of a long rope around it, one knot in the rope on the right of their entrance they'd come from, and two on the left side.
"You Southrons, dig deeper! Pack snow, like this," said Meras as he took up a piece of wood from the pile, showing them briefly how to dig, how to pack the snow on the walls and into large bricks, "Make walls. Make turn at entrance, keep wind out. Put furs or canvas over entrance. Keep warmth in! Air holes here, here, here, here. Bigger! Feel sleepy, put fire out! Angle like this. Use wood when got air, when need to dry. Bring food in. Bring all furs, all cloth in. Sleep in pile, like dogs, stay warm. Stay dry! Keep rope at entrance! Piss, shit on right, one knot, five paces! Keep hand on rope or die! Use kettle, melt snow from left, two knots!"
The old man left them to it.
As the sky darkened quickly above them, all around, Tyrion could see clansmen were digging quickly, much more quickly than their group. Fifteen or so yards away, he saw a small, pinched-faced girl of perhaps three and ten dive into their hole with a flatter piece of wood, followed by a scarred young woman of perhaps one and twenty who started handing snow blocks to a rather hideous, wart-covered middle-aged woman who set them around the entrance.
Tyrion selected a flat, short piece of wood, and said, "I'll go in first and start the hole. Grey Worm, Qhono, if you could come in after me and enlarge the hole? Jon, Lord Varys, pack the snow and make walls. We might be here for some time. At least it'll smell better than the sewers, even if it's smaller."
Daenerys looked up, then smiled as Drogon and Rhaegal came in for a landing next to them, Drogon's tail carefully held inside the boulders that were behind them, one wing stretching over their small party as the wind began to blow snow as well as air.
"Or we could ask my children to help, rather than having to dig so deep," said Daenerys, rubbing Drogon's cheek fondly.
************************
Theon stepped out of the small boat, followed by his crew. Euron had part of his fleet patrolling the entrance to Blackwater Bay quite vigorously, so he was going to portage around the patrols. They were far enough out he didn't think the Lannisters would have many people here, so he could sneak in to rescue Yara, or die trying. Yara'd come for him, so he was going to come for her... that was the least he could do, after running when Euron boarded their ship.
He jerked, startled, as a whisper cut through the darkness ahead of him, "The lone wolf dies."
"Who's there?" demanded Theon in a harsh whisper as his crew drew their weapons behind him.
"The lone wolf dies," came a repeat of the saying... but with a clear question in the tone, not a threat.
"But the pack survives," whispered Theon, hoping he was right. He'd heard that, often enough growing up... and so he hoped. A man emerged from the darkness before him, striding over the cold ground with a bag on his back, walking very carefully, dressed as a sailor.
"You the Greyjoy? Theon?" asked the man.
"I am. Sansa sent you?" asked Theon.
"No One sent me, but I reckon Lady Stark's the one what wanted you to get some help. Gods, boy, you think carryin' boats ain't gonna be noticed? Put that shite down. Got three boats in a cove, mile down along the coast. Look for a cave near three gnarled trees in a line. Here, take this shite - be careful! You gots some Lannister armor in there, can make as captured spies, if'n you be seen. Here, gots a map - you look at it in the cave, don' be lightin' up in the open. Gots your Uncle's patrols... and his passwords, too. Might change, might not, but good tonight, I 'eard em myself. You Iron Islanders are awful loud, you know. Half of you don't know nuthin', looks like."
Theon took the sealed leather tube the man was offering, while the man took the time to set the bag down carefully, "Thank you, and tell Sansa thank you."
"Ye saved her from the Boltons. She's gots Bran and Arya back, now. I figure she wants you to have your family back, too. You be careful with this bag, you hear! Them bottles, all wrapped up? That's wildfire, that is, ifn' you boys ain't any more quiet than them aboard those ships," said the man, "I gots to go. If'n you get stopped, whichever of yous in the Lannister armor, the Lannister password is 'Mines of Casterly Rock'. Old gods help you."
With that, the man faded back into the darkness, leaving behind the tube of papers and the bag.
************************
Late at night, Sansa was sewing as Arya strode by Sansa with a feather-duster, saying, "Pardon me, m'lady" as she passed. Once she'd passed Sansa's line of sight, the assassin dropped the duster, reaching up under the thick layers of the dress she was wearing to draw a slender, blunt training knife, striking for Sansa's back and missing as Sansa'd dropped her sewing project and used her long legs to open the distance, keeping the heavy wooden chair between them as she went for the set of emergency gear across the room with a quietly murmured, "Screaming."
Arya stepped over the discarded sewing project and launched herself off the chair towards Sansa, knife leading as Sansa deflected with a steel knitting needle and a push to shove Arya off course; by the time Arya, using a reduced measure of her speed, had come up, Sansa was already jabbing a spear with a blunt training head at her carefully, yanking it back before Arya's left hand could grasp the haft below the blade. A few exchanges later, and Sansa's spearblade poked Arya in the side after Arya 'fell' for her feint.
"Good feint, good use of your precision. You're getting a little quicker, too, sister, and your footwork was solid. Good placement when you threw your sewing down, right where I'd rather have stepped. Why didn't you go for the crossbow? You and Kitty always keep one ready, now, as hard as that is on the string." asked Arya quietly.
"It's only one shot; if I miss, or even hit without doing enough damage, both my hands are occupied; I'm not fast enough to recover from that," replied Sansa easily.
"Good! Your freakish reach is an advantage; using a medium spear like that makes it very hard to close the distance intact, as long as you don't let it get grabbed," smiled Arya, hiking her dress up to replace the blunt.
Sansa struck suddenly, one finger reaching out for Arya's shoulder, and missing as her sister ducked, while they giggled together before settling down on the divan, Arya pulling the dress up again so Sansa could adjust the thigh strap.
"How are the new knitting needles?" asked Arya. She and Gendry knew weapons well enough, but using needles was not her skill, and she was quite sure Gendry had never even tried.
"They're good; they catch less than the wooden ones, though they're a bit heavy. If I hadn't been working on leather armor so much, it might have been harder to use these," said Sansa, steppiung back and spinning the heavy needle through her fingers gracefully before tugging the 'sheath' part of it off, revealing the training blunt inside.
"Well, I'm glad they work for your knitting as well. People will question them less that way, and it's very easy to overlook something used in plain sight, if it's used the way you expect. What did Bran mean earlier, when he said the Manderly ladies liked the gloves?"
"You remember Bessie Flint, the goat? Well, I'd found some wool, almost as soft as hers, but just a bit in mixed colors, so I made up gloves for the Manderly ladies. They've done very well for us, so a bit of personal attention is the least I could do. You met them; what would they want from us?" asked Sansa. She knew very well she needed to pay attention to her bannermen, to all the people in the North and the Vale. She'd learned about fear from Cersei, about uncertainty from Littlefinger, about maneuvering and politics from them and others... but she'd learned about fostering loyalty from her father, and from her mother, and that was a tradition she intended to continue.
Arya considered; she'd spoken with the girls, and heard more about them, both here and on her journey, "More than anything, Wylla and Wynafryd want to make sure White Harbor stays in Manderly hands, and under the Manderly name. They're shrewd, all three of them, in their own ways. Wynafryd's definitely her grandfather's heir, but I don't think she'd mind if it was Wylla who kept the name. They follow the Seven, but only to a point - Wynafryd had a bunch of young men with her when they first met me, and then mostly young women at breakfast when I joined them the next morning! All loyal to House Manderly, of course."
Sansa laughed, nudging her sister, "And did any of them catch your eye, Arya?"
Arya glared at Sansa, "Do you think me an addled idiot? No, I'm not going to respond to bait in a trap like that. Marriage isn't for me; the Many-Faced God is who I've made my commitment to serve, not some man or woman who wants my loyalty given to them."
Sansa held up her hands palms out in mock surrender, "All right, all right, who am I to offend such a dedicated priest, unwilling to even entertain the prospect of marriage. If you're done deflecting..."
Arya smirked, "Drat. Foiled in my cunning plan to distract you from your evil purpose of consolidating all power in your own hands. They'll want to see if Jon's interested in them, of course - a highborn Stark bastard would be exactly what they wanted, letting them keep their own name and rule White Harbor, now that he'd not King anymore. Without him, they'll keep looking, so if you can arrange a match with a good bastard, or a Free Folk or smallfolk man who wants to settle down here in the South. Maybe even a second or third highborn son willing to give up his name, though I suspect they're both too strong-willed for that to work out well."
"So, like Gendry?" mused Sansa.
"Hmm... he might like Wylla. She'd certainly keep him on his toes, and she's got that same simple honor. They aren't ready for the Mormont way"
"Oh? Just don't say anything about the father of their children? Maybe in a few years; for now, they're likely still too invested in the Seven, so they'll want a good marriage."
Arya nodded. Sansa was the Lady in the family, so she'd leave arranging marriages to her, "Well, if you're going to appoint a Master of Ships, once we're ready to run caravans through the army of the dead, we can have Wylla up with a dogsled team along with a Braavosi representative, since the Braavosi are leading the naval side of things. Introduce her to Gendry, see if she catches his interest. Maybe even send the Scorpion Bear back with her to inspect White Harbor's siege engines; I bet they'll get along well."
"Well, we'll see what happens," said Sansa, "We're really ready for the dead? White Harbor's going to start stockpiling now; Jon's the last dogsled caravan in, and there's only the one horse caravan north of Moat Cailin. Gulltown's taking over supply of Moat Cailin and the Vale; they're still far enough from the dead, and Cersei's dealing with the loss of the Reach's food and lords to Daenerys. We've got the herds and flocks in, the hunters have taken anything they can which they can't drive south."
"We are, as much as we can be right now. We've got a solid set of fieldworks, Lyanna's crews can loose even in snow and fog, the archers too. The camps are as good as we can manage; they've got solid walls and roofs to protect against the weather and bolts or arrows that fall short. The animals in the second ring are the most at risk," said Arya, "We can always learn more lessons, but we're as good as we're going to be until we have to deal with untrained new forces, and we've got plans for that."
"The Long Night worries me. We've got as many edible mushrooms and sprouts growing in the crypt tunnels as the Maesters identified and the hunters and foragers could find, but that's not nearly enough to really cut down on the rate we're eating through our supplies," said Sansa with concern. The new glass gardens that were under construction would help, but being under siege, in winter, perhaps without enough sunlight to grow crops anywhere, all for years at a time?
Arya nudged her sister, "Cheer up, Sansa. All the peoples of the world have stories of the Long Night. We may not have the kind of magic they once did other than the Three-Eyed Raven and the wargs, but we do have things they didn't; foreign allies, modern siege engines, wildfire and Valyrian steel and two thirds of the dragons in the world."
Sansa's lips quirked upwards slightly, "Stay with me tonight?"
"Of course," replied Arya. She, too, was concerned about their chances, but they'd done everything they could in the time they had. They would win, or they would die... but they would not die alone, and what they'd set in motion would continue after their deaths, in the North, in the Vale, in Braavos and Dorne and many other great cities and nations across the world, so she was quite comfortable with either outcome. All must die... but she would tell her god not today once again, as best she could, for herself, and her sister, and her family and peoples.
************************
Umman wasn't all that bright, but he was good with the flocks of goats the Flint clan kept, ever since they'd been children together in the Northern mountains, just south of the Gift and the Wall. Adog resolved to give him both their rations of ale when he got back from Winter Town, since he wouldn't have a chance to see the fight. They'd missed the first one, out shovelin' snow so the goats could eat what was underneath until the army of the dead came, and gatherin' up anythin' that the goats could eat that would last until later in the winter.
He didn't know much about the army of the dead, but he did know how tough wildlings were, and anythin' that scared though fuckers was somethin' he was glad to be on this side of the wall for. They were past the wall now, it was said, but he could look out and see that the Stark hadn't been sittin' around jabberin, she'd been makin' all this happen. Now she were comin' here, probly to see the goats.
"Hey, Adog, get some milk! They's gots ta want fresh milk!" said Umman excitedly.
Sansa strode out side by side with her sister; she'd put the crannogmen of House Fenn and the mountain clan of House Flint in the same section of the inner ring, since their home lands were so far apart that they'd never feuded. The crannogmen, too, were very practical people, as were the mountain clans, and those who trod the treacherous narrow paths of the mountain cliffs didn't look down on the small men of the Neck.
Here, among these clansmen and clanswomen, she was called the Stark, of clan Stark, by their custom, while their leader was in turn called Lord Flint of House Flint, by the custom of the Kings in the North. These little titles, these courtesies between liege lord and bannermen, these, too, were the legacy of the ancient Kings of Winter. A legacy of granting the proud mountain clans the respect of their own titles, and accepting their own ways of addressing their own leaders in turn, even making it their own to the extent of her family referring to whichever of them was 'the Stark' in Winterfell. Her ancestors had been proud, had conquered, but hadn't tried to replace all they ways of those conquered, their religion, their leaders, and their pride, and in turn, they'd been Kings in the North for generation after generation, with few rebellions compared to other kingdoms.
She continued into the Flint camp with Arya, Lord Royce separating to speak with their cavalry and infantry, Lady Mormont already scrambling nimbly up the rigging on the outside of one of the camp's scorpion towers. The Stark in Winterfell spoke loudly, her voice strong, knowing that with these people, softness was seen as weakness, but rudeness was also unwise, "I wish to meet with Lord Flint!"
"Aye, I'm the Flint," said an old man, coming out from under one of the tents. The Flints, like many of the mountain clans, had piled up blocks of snow and ice to surround their tents, protecting them from the weather. As with every camp, the tents were sheltered under pitch-covered wood roofs, to protect them from not just months or years of winter weather, but also arrows falling short and other battle debris. Also like many of those she was visiting now, the bows they gave in respect were both deeper and much more sincere now than they had been the first time she'd met them.
"Thank you for calling in the rest of your clan and your herds, Lord Flint. I came to see you to pass on some news, and to make sure you had what you needed. Your clan has contributed much more than only three years of winter stores; you should be very proud of that, and in turn, you are entitled to the fullest measures of supplies from the central stores," said Sansa. They were one of the few houses to have contributed so much food, fodder, and so many animals.
"Eh, some more combs. My stupid brother-in-law didn't bring the basket, and the goats, it's past time some of them need to be combed."
"Of course; I'll have combs made immediately, so you can gather the wool as soon as possible," said Sansa, making the signs for you and question for Arya, who returned the sign for no, "Would you mind providing a sample comb, strong and simple? I'm afraid I don't know enough about combing goats to know what will work best."
"Not really differen' than combing sheep," he replied easily, then, at the shake of her head, he squinted at her oddly, "You never done combed goats or sheep? Not even once? I heard the Stark was a great needlewoman. How'd you know you gots good cloth if you don't feel the wool yourself? You don' sew that foreign silk shit, do you?"
Sansa ignored the faint hint of a smirk from Arya, replying easily, "I'm afraid I start with cloth, leather, thread, and yarn, though I do have a gift for you in my saddlebags, to show my personal appreciation of you and your clan's diligent preparation for the winter, and your outstanding contributions to all of our survival. Before that, though, the comb?"
He waved her on, striding away from the castle with her, his clansmen ahead of them taking up the handles on the long wooden bridge and sliding it out over the fire trenches and the moat between the inner rings and the second ring on wooden rollers, heavy counterweights keeping it from falling into the moat. On the other side, a pair of the clan's shepherds were staring at the two Starks crossing the bridge behind their chieftain with excitement... at her face, and her spear, and her dress, she noted, even more than they stared at Arya.
Adog approached with an entire set of combs, which he used one at a time, showing Sansa and Arya how to use each, then giving them that comb so they could do so themselves. Sansa followed the instruction politely, mildly interested in the different kinds of wool which came even from the same goat, and how that translated to different quantities and qualities of cloth on a personal level, as well as with keen interest for her new role as a facilitator of trade. Arya, of course, was paying close attention, getting along with the clansmen easily.
Patting the new goat, Bessie, that Adog had brought her, Sansa carefully pulled the comb through, this one made to gather and the undercoat in particular. She took a few strokes, then looked at the wool she'd gathered more carefully; she held it up and brushed it against her cheek, her eyes closed as she did so; it was indeed different than the other wool she'd combed, the top of her comb held a different type of much softer, finer hairs than the rest.
Umman smiled widely, having come back with two rough cups of goat's milk, "Ooooh; tha's Bessie, all righ'! She's got the sofes' undercoa' in the east flock, she does! 'Ere, hav sum o' Caeri's milk! 'est in the North, it is!"
As Arya intercepted the cups, smelling them and pouring the milk back and forth between cups, swirling them to ensure she'd notice any poison on the cup itself before she took a sip and then handed Sansa her cup. Sansa ran a gloved finger through the softer hairs caught on one part of the comb; even in the clump she'd pulled out, they were still mixed with the longer, coarser ones, but she knew her fabrics, knew them well, and the fine ones were the finest she'd ever seen, which gave her an idea based on her many hours of listening to trade agreements and brokering deals, so she took a drink of her milk, noting that she'd have to make sure to arrange for some Flints to speak to Tormund about fermenting goat's milk, and spoke.
"Thank you, Umman. Lord Flint, if your clan can separate out only these fine hairs, and only from Bessie and the other sheep with very soft undercoats, then I believe you can sell these for a very considerably higher price than the undercoats of your other sheep. This is, truly, exceptional wool. I would also like the opportunity to make an offer for the final fabric after you've heard other offers, to use for my personal projects."
"More? Like twice? Three times?" asked the Flint.
"If it's made into woolen cloth and yarn that retains this softness after it's dyed, ten times or more," replied Sansa. Luxury exports, especially ones from both sharply limited and living sources like goats, rather than limited like gold mines, would strengthen the North in the future. She continued, praising the clan's goat with much more sincerity than she'd once praised hairstyles and dresses in King's Landing, "Bessie's undercoat is truly exceptional, a credit to your clan."
Once they'd finished, Adog handed her the entire set of combs, some of wood, some finer ones of metal, and the Flint spoke again, "There; sets like these. Four o' those to three o' these to one o' those for a set. We gots ourselves good and snug, if'n the dead don't get to us, so we don't need more from the Stark. We've prepared proper, we have!"
With a look at Arya, he continued, shifting topics to the military, "Only thing, men, soldiers need better leaders. Still doing stupid shit in trainin', gettin' in the way. My clansmen'll be killed doing stupid shit like askin' for archer te shoot and then sum other bastard walkin' right where they's landin'."
Arya glanced at her sister, who made the sign for you. As was their habit in these matters, Arya answered first, "Is that primarily the infantry? Not the archers, the cavalry, the Free Folk?"
"Aye, the foot soldiers ain't got good leaders."
Arya nodded, "Agreed. As we speak, two more leaders are heading towards us that I believe will resolve the situation. Jamie Lannister was trained by the same man whose table I learned large-scale warfare at, Tywin Lannister. He faced Dothraki and dragons both, and not only held his ground with his men, but also made a lance charge on horseback against a dragon grounded by a scorpion bolt when the battle was lost."
"The Kingslayer! A Lannister!" exclaimed the Flint.
Sansa took up the conversation, "Men of your tribe owe him your life. When you were fighting with my father and Robert Baratheon, you defeated Rhaegar Targaryen and were entering King's Landing, where the Mad King had put wildfire under the city, and as he ordered his pyromancers to 'Burn them all!' just before Jamie Lannister killed the pyromancer and then killed the Mad King."
Sansa watched the clansmen's faces; she'd been telling this story to every House of the North and the Vale and every clan of the Free Folk, and universally there were winces and shudders here. The men and women in and around Winterfell had all seen wildfire tests, all seen the results, all been warned in the most vigorous - and violent - terms to keep fire and heat of all kinds well away from the Substance. To hear it had been planted under a city they or their fathers or grandfathers, uncles or brothers or sons had been in or even near... that wasn't something to generate happiness. It was, however, something to generate gratitude to mitigate decades of hatred and scorn.
"The Three-Eyed Raven saw it?" asked the Flint, "He said so?"
"Yes, he did," answered Sansa, "We do not trust Ser Jamie the way Brienne of Tarth does, so we will test him, and watch him, but if he passes our tests, he should be trusted as much as any Southron from south of the Vale. The other coming is the Hound, Lord Sandor Clegane, who we trust much more. He came back out into a riot from safety, alone and without orders, and saved me from rapers during a riot in King's Landing when Joffrey was King. When he broke with Cersei and Joffrey during the Battle of Blackwater, he risked himself to offer to take me with him."
Arya continued, "The Hound taught me how to survive during a war, alone in the country, taught me about killing and surviving being hunted, about how the world really works, how so many men and women really are. He put himself between me and those who would have killed or harmed me, when I was still just a girl with a small sword, shared his food with me when we were both hungry, even when neither of us got enough. He won't admit it, but he tried to do his best for me - tried to sell me, but only ever to family, never to Cersei, never to Walder Frey, even though we arrived at the Twins during the Red Wedding; he got me out again, unharmed and unnoticed. He's one of the greatest Westerosi swordsmen, and trained as a leader in warfare besides."
Upon Arya's receiving a terse nod, Sansa continued, "I have also made final arrangements for space and housing within Winterfell and Winter Town. Based on the supplies your House has provided to the central stores, in addition to those of your clan who are already living behind the walls, there are an additional six places within Winterfell, and eight in Winter Town, for whichever of your House you wish to send. Please send whichever you believe will be able to best rebuild your clan if the camps are overrun, even if either Winterfell or Winter Town falls. I urge you to split your people between the two with care; Winter Town's walls are shorter, while Winterfell may be a more attractive target for the wight dragon."
Sansa didn't mention the many camps of people, outside all the walls, or the flocks and herds outside even the camps, all at far greater risk than those inside the walls. The sisters watched the man take in a breath, trying to hide his relief. He'd clearly been worried about the survival of his clan, as all the Houses were concerned. Unwilling to admit it, of course, but fearing all the same. This was the best she could do - there was only so much space, only so much food behind walls even stacking people in four high bunk beds to make more space for supplies, only so many places they could defend against a siege that included giants, mammoths, and dragons.
In the end, after discussion with Lord Reed, Lord Royce, Lady Meera, Lord Manderly, Lady Mormont, Kitty, and Arya, she'd decided her first instinct was indeed correct - the places remaining after babes, children, pregnant women, and those with necessary skills for the war and the winter were taken in would be allocated to the houses solely based on food contribution. The Flints thus got more places behind walls than some Houses twice their size; something they'd argued in conclave yesterday, and something she could only hope to be arguing in conclave for many years to come, for it would mean they lived.
Thankfully, she'd been able to set things up with the food-gathering caravans such that those poorer houses which wouldn't have been able to make the required contributions had their gathering parties alongside those houses willing to give them loans, or with the Iron Bank, and the richer houses who had failed to contribute enough had found themselves next to the many foreign traders who had brought in nonperishable foodstuffs to sell at meals. No house of the North or the Vale, no clan of the Free Folk had, in the end, failed to contribute at least three years of supplies, even after years of war. The Sealord of Braavos had even cut a deal with some of the Free Folk for sled designs and trainers to help the city out when the fresh water supply froze, as was expected.
The clan leader gathered himself to ask, "Bessie? The other goats with the softest undercoats? Flocks in second ring. Before rest of clan gone, flocks gone first. Without flocks, no future for the clan. Whoever left will need the best of our goats to rebuild with."
Suppressing a wholly inappropriate giggle at the thought of what her younger self might have thought at the prospect of arranging shelter for the right goats to rebuild a House with, Sansa replied calmly, "Certainly. I'll see to it that three of the sheep inside the walls in Winterfell, and three in Winter Town are moved out to the flocks to make room for six of your clan's goats. Put a necklace with your clan's sigil on them, so all know to eat them last."
"Valar Morghulis," said the Flint.
"Valar Dohaeris," said Sansa. More of the Northerners and those of the Vale had picked the expression up both in conclave from Lady Winter, and from the many discussions and deals made with foreign merchants. She'd heard the Flint himself had thought it darkly appropriate to their current grave situation, and even heard Lord Mollen and Lord Whitehill using it to greet each other; by the rather vicious undertones, she suspected they felt it was more appropriate to their feeling toward the other house than wishing each other well in any capacity, and as a common greeting, it was an almost Southron means of wishing ill on the other.
Arya put her fingers to her lips and let out a complex whistle in the same pattern as the horn calls for 'Prepare to advance', at which Lord Royce began to make his goodbyes, while atop a different tower a small figure in black strode calmly off the edge of the upper platform, wrapping an arm around a single hanging rope and sliding quickly down, cloak flying out behind her, as smooth as any sailor descending from the crow's nest. Landing solidly on the cleared ground of the camps, she jogged up to the Flint.
"Melaane and Jaycobb; they can plot trajectories," she said, then restated it for those not as familiar with the arcane language of siege engines and master archers, "They could use the setting circles at different ranges even before the Maesters made the more detailed charts."
"Yes! They are very smart; know their numbers, and have fighting instinct too!" said the Flint proudly.
"Send them into Winterfell on the morrow; they will report to Gilly for classes. I want them taught to read and write better, and taught the mathematics to create the setting circles and the charts," said the Scorpion Bear, "We don't have enough Maesters, and every difference in the siege engine or the ammunition needs either a Maester to create a new chart, or someone who knows to work it out on their own."
"I will have them there after they break their fast," said the Flint with a smile. When their clan returned to the mountains, they would be stronger than they left, and smarter, however many fewer they were. War was becoming harder with these new weapons, and the clan would rise to the challenge. They were Flints! But... that was not enough, not anymore. These new weapons were wondrous and terrible for those with the skills to use them, but there was more to a clan than that, "Maesters study many things; will they teach more, too? Healing? Building?"
After the details were quickly worked out, Sansa presented Lord Flint with the leather breastplate she'd made in recognition of his and his clan's efforts and loyalty, then mounted her horse and trotted over the narrow strip of land between the radial division moat and the ring moats.
************************
Sansa murmured quietly, so only their immediate party could hear, "I hear the Night's Watch is to hold elections tonight, after they swear in their new recruits. Strange that the endless jobs and training you've been scheduling for them suddenly had a break in it."
Arya murmured back, "It's not strange; we had work that needed doing. Now we have less, and Edd's been moaning about not wanting to be Acting Lord Commander ever since he got here. Pure happenstance."
"Mmm," was Sansa's reply, barely audible over Kitty's quiet giggle.
Arya stood on Sansa's right, hands behind her back, hidden under her cloak, throwing knife half out of its sheath in one hand, blowgun likewise in the other, both Valyrian. Their best intelligence reports all said that the newest arrivals were entirely genuine, but even the best information could be flawed. That intelligence, after all, only reflect what people, warged animals, and Three-Eyed Ravens saw, so a diligent person could fool them all simply by never taking off their false face of helpfulness.
No Faceless Man using a face from the Hall of Faces would be caught by anything they could do, since a Faceless man wouldn't take their face off, either the magic or the mental face. A glamoured face depending on the magical skill of the person, of course, while mummery needed to be touched up quite often; Bran would have seen that easily enough.
She could hear the unusual quiet in the courtyard; the archers on the walls the normal crews - the wall was reserved for their best sharpshooters, and Meera herself was looking down, bow in hand, Valyrian plate cutter arrow nocked. The towers that could see into the courtyard likewise - their crossbowmen on the platforms below the siege engines were always among the best. The ballista crews, though, had been supplemented by Lyanna on the left-hand gatehouse and Fjornel on the inner scorpion with a courtyard view to the rear and on the right.
Hidden, of course, were additional units of the best archers and spearmen they had, though Arya doubted that any treachery would require them. The siege engines were very accurate indeed, and even normal crossbows and warbows with the right arrows could punch through armor often enough at this range. Their best archers, and Fjornel, weren't using normal plate cutters, though; the ancestral Valyrian bolts and arrows of the Starks had been distributed already.
Patrek Mallister approached first, the others waiting at the gates. When he'd left, he'd thought Seagard to be a well defended castle. They had the normal moat by the walls and one additional moat with a wooden palisade behind it, and had constructed four ballista and five scorpions for the towers and gatehouses of their castle, but this, this was another level entirely, as Moat Cailin had been, and there were people everywhere logging and working and training, smallfolk and highborn alike.
He could barely imagine the entirety of the undertaking. They'd needed thousands of men working for weeks to dig Seagard's second moat, to build their palisade, and it was a far cry from the fieldworks he saw here. Feeding the workers, too, had been challenging, and they'd had to deal with dysentery in the workforce and the soldiers alike.
Then, Patrek thought, there was the welcoming party. Lady Stark was in what he thought was armor like the Blackfish had worn, but in the shape of a ladies gown, with a fine boiled leather helmet in place of a fur hat. She was accompanied by a young woman with the Stark look, wearing a ridiculous number of blades. He didn't know why - maybe she was like he'd heard some of the Northern women were like, or the Dornish, and was showing she thought she could fight. Throwing knives wasn't honorable; no true man would fight like that! And... well, he'd tried as a boy, and it wasn't anything you could use for real, either.
Sansa watched him approach, offering him bread and salt as Kitty again offered wine, Leriah on Kitty's other side, Lady Keath behind her, as Korb and Connas were behind Arya and herself, just in case.
Should Jamie or the Freys prove false, her own job was to hold the large, heavy platter in front of her face and neck while moving backwards to the gatehouse as fast as possible. The platter was quite heavy - castle-forged steel, direwolves running around the rim, with a thin layer of silver disguising what was really a small steel shield as a decorated serving dish. She wore only a thin cloak, the thick padded backing to her armored dress keeping her warm enough while she was sheltered from the winds. It certainly impressed some of the men, too - either the thinness of the cloak, or her wearing true armor, the same as they were.
"Welcome to Winterfell, Lord Patrek. The stories of the brave men and women of Seagard defying Walder Frey and Cersei Baratheon have reached the North. Please have bread and salt, and be our guest," said Sansa with her best courtly smile as she curtsied, offering the platter steadily. Heavy for its size it might be, she'd been training with much larger shields for long enough to grow used to them.
"Thank you, my Lady. I bring one hundred barrels of wheat, and one hundred more of salt beef. Were we not prepared for siege ourselves, we would have sent more food and men besides, but we're barely seventy miles from the Lannister forces at the Twins, and must defend our home," replied the heir to Seagard as he took a small piece of bread, rubbing it into the salt and eating. He hadn't really seen guest rights taken quite so seriously as they were in the North, though with the rumors he'd heard in Seagard, and worse, what he'd heard from his traveling companions, he supposed he could understand taking such things seriously. No one wanted Lady Winter coming for their house, whoever or whatever that was. Every Frey who'd participated in the Red Wedding, dead in a single night, no one knowing how. The why was obvious, of course - the North remembers. Well, that was why he was here - the North did remember, so answering the raven they'd received would be remembered, too.
"I thank you for your generous gift, Lord Patrek. This is my sister Arya. She's quite adamant about not wanting or liking to be called Lady Stark or Lady Arya, so you may address her as Lady Winter," said Sansa in a carrying voice, gesturing to Arya, who gave a small nod as not only Patrek but also the Freys froze for a moment, their eyes drawn to the small Stark. Jamie, too, was looking at Arya, but with more interest than fear.
Patrek looked at the short young woman; he'd thought the armguards, the bow, the thin sword and the many knives to be an affectation, but now, looking into her cold, amused eyes, he thought he could imagine her carving through more than two score men. Probably while she smiled. Well... good riddance to bad Freys, and a curse upon them for all they'd done, and all they'd failed to do. He wouldn't want to marry the girl, certainly... but that was his father's decision, not his, and he'd do as he was bid.
With a deep nod, he spoke, "It is an honor to meet you, Lady Winter. You have done the Riverlands a great service, one which can never be truly repaid, by removing the Late Walder Frey and the men he raised to follow in his dishonor. You've done Seagard a great service with that same act; with the Lannisters needing to garrison the Twins, and the Frey armies vanishing as far as the Lannisters know, well, other than Lord Jamie, Seagard has gained a reprieve."
Gesturing to her left, Sansa continued the introductions, "You know of our sister by choice, the Lady of the Crossing, of course."
He accepted a sip of wine from Lady Frey, "A pleasure to meet you, Lady Frey. I'm glad to see you've prospered in the North."
Sansa gestured to the castle, "You're welcome to take a meal in the Great Hall; I would be pleased to meet with you in my solar after dinner and learn what brought you so far from Seagard at this critical time."
"Thank you, my Lady," said Lord Patrek with a deep bow, heading in as she'd indicated, a messenger girl rushing to intercept and lead him.
Too deep, Sansa thought, for the circumstances as she knew them. Something more was happening with the Mallisters. Well, she'd find out soon enough, one way or another.
Jamie Lannister approached next, with the sign for you from Sansa, Arya strode forward as they'd planned, intercepting him before he got within lunging range of Sansa. He wasn't nearly as dangerous with one hand as he'd once been with both, but he was still a dangerous opponent, and losing his overconfidence had reduced one of his main weaknesses.
"Jamie Lannister, thank you for coming North as you said you would. What are your intentions here?" asked Arya, her voice flat.
"To fight for the living," says Jamie immediately, then looked back at the Riverlanders he'd traveled with. He'd had ample time to listen to them on the big dogsled they'd been put on, and what they'd said and planned had made him think, too, of his own honor, of what Brienne saw in him, and of what he admired in her. Returning his gaze to the Stark that got away, the one who'd approached with her hands behind her back, and excellent footwork. Braavosi footwork, quick and precise. None of the Freys were good soldiers, and most of them had been old by any standard but Walder's and Olenna's, but still, to kill them all in one night was a feat. One Cersei would have loved to perform herself, once upon a time.
Arya waited, still and quiet, simply assessing the man with every measure of her skill. He had more to say, more he wanted to say, and she'd make sure he said it.
"And to return what is yours," continued the Kingslayer, unbuckling his swordbelt and offering Widow's Wail to the warrior woman before him, holding only the sheath in his left hand. After coming all this way, he'd rather not be shot by some skittish guardsman mistaking his gesture as an attack. Guardsmen who hated him for what he'd done, for what Cersei had done, well, nothing he could do about that.
With a lightning quick step, she'd taken the blade from him by the sheath with her right hand, holding it out as a boy ran up, taking the sword and darting off deeper into the castle. Still, she said nothing, waiting without interrupting him, without prompting him. Brienne had been eloquent in her praise, and she'd make sure all those listening would hear what he said of his own free will.
He looked down for a moment, then at Sansa's cold gaze, and Arya's colder one. He knew what Brienne would say to him, had heard it in his head the entire trip up. Well, if he was to die for it, at least he'd die with some honor, tarnished may it be, "And to apologize for pushing your brother out the window, for crippling him."
Arya spoke, her voice without inflection, without warmth or feeling of any kind, "Bran forgave you."
Jamie looked down at his golden right hand for a second, "He's a better man than I am. I'm glad he lived. Am I to die, now? If so, let's just get on with it."
"What will you do if you are not?" asked Arya, betraying nothing.
With a deep breath, Jamie straightened up fully, pride in his posture again, though without the arrogance that had once been so obvious. He'd come to this conclusion days ago, and now, prepared to say it out loud, not knowing if he'll live or die... well, at least he'd regain some portion of his honor.
"I will join the Night's Watch, and fight for the living," said Jamie Lannister.
"And what can a right-handed man without a right hand offer them?" asked Lady Winter.
"My life. A poor left-handed swordsman, now without a sword. My father did try to teach me war, you know, so there's that. Well, he tried to teach me a lot of things, but war was the only one I really learned."
"Oh? Then why did you have nothing but a shield-wall only one line deep, a single line of spearmen, and a single line of archers when the Dothraki charged?" asked Arya without inflection.
"My orders were to get the gold to King's Landing as fast as possible. The food was... not very important to my sister. The best troops, the best scouts all went ahead with the gold. The food column was a lot longer, and with green troops, stretched out. To keep it tighter would have meant halting the lead elements, or letting Randall whip everyone. The gold made it. I fulfilled my orders."
"And after your lines were breaking, why did you gather archers and lead them to fire on the dragon, causing it to abort its attack run because Queen Daenerys didn't want to be pierced?"
"Because I'd forgotten we had the scorpion until after," said Jamie, pointedly looking up at the gatehouses and towers around him, "Which I can see was a mistake. You really have been busy."
"True, but I meant you'd already seen the dragon burn your men alive, less than a hundred yards from you. Why were you still fighting instead of running? You had a horse; you had a better chance at escaping than nearly any of your men," continued Arya, giving no hint of her feelings on the matter. The audience needed to hear this, needed to know that he really did face a dragon with nothing but a few archers, instead of running. Those rumors would spread, would let him be effective, as she needed him to be.
"I won't abandon my army. I gave the orders, it was my responsibility," said Jamie, remembering the screams of men as they burned to death; something he'd hoped not to hear again after he killed the Mad King. All fire burned the same, it seemed.
"And after Bronn grounded Drogon, why did you mount a horse and charge its rider with a spear?"
Jamie held his golden hand up, smiling wryly, "Because it's hard to shoot a bow with only one hand."
At Arya's sign for you, Sansa spoke, "After our mother captured Tyrion Lannister, you attacked our father. Killed Jory in combat, fought our father in single combat until one of your guards speared him from behind. Why didn't you finish our father off then?"
"It wouldn't have been clean," said Jamie, looking down for a moment, then up into Sansa's eyes, "I wanted to fight him, man to man. It wouldn't have been honorable after he was wounded by a soldier who disobeyed his orders."
"Yes, you struck your soldier to chastise him, after. You weren't wearing your plate armor when you fought our father, either. Why not?" asked the eldest Stark.
Jamie cocked his head, a little puzzled by the way the questioning had gone. He'd imagined far worse on the long ride north, "Lord Stark didn't go around the city wearing armor. It wouldn't have been clean if I was the only one in full armor. Your father was an honorable warrior; he deserved an honorable battle. I suppose, too, I was fighting because my brother had been taken, so wearing the King's armor seemed... wrong."
Looking around the courtyard, at the men and women watching, Sansa saw what she'd expected. As much as the Northerners and many of the Vale loved her father, fighting man to man was a long tradition; it was the old way, as Jon had said when he offered single combat to Ramsay. For Jamie to offer single combat in return for her mother's taking his brother... that was different than an ambush.
Arya held out her right hand casually, at which sign a page rushed out to place a sword-belt in it with a sword in a plain black scabbard on the right, and a wooden dagger with dragonglass shards on the left. She held it out to him; the sword had a simple, functional hilt. The blade itself was castle-forged steel, a copy of the blade of Widow's Wail made by Gendry based on Bran's drawing.
Arya spoke, her voice warmer, now, welcoming, "You'll need the dagger, if you're to join the Night's Watch. Don't bother with the sword against wights or White Walkers, it'll be no good. You'll need the sword, though, if you're ever to fight a duel. Try not to lose; left-handed swordfighters don't need that kind of stain on their reputation."
She returned to her sister's side, and Sansa now held out the platter of bread to Jamie Lannister with a small nod, "Have bread and salt, and be welcome in our home, Ser Jamie Lannister. Hurry; Micah here will take you to the Night's Watch. They're gathering in the Godswood, and Lady Meera will need it back for archery training soon enough."
Jamie put on the sword-belt, then took and ate a piece of bread with salt, took a large drink of wine, turned to leave, then turned back for just a moment, to say, "I'm sorry."
As Jamie broke into a jog of his own as the boy ran off towards where the Night's Watch was about to induct new members before the election, the last group approached, the smallfolk from the northern Riverlands, lands which had been under the control of the Twins.
Kitty Frey strode forward, weirwood crossbow on her back, smiling widely, "Welcome to Winterfell. On behalf of Lady Stark, the Red Wolf, thank you for answering my ravens, for coming north, for bringing men and provisions. Please, come and have bread and salt and be guests of the Lady of Winterfell; Leriah will take you to the Night's Watch after you've accepted guest right."
They still looked scared, but approached slowly, keeping their heads down and bowing before they started moving, glancing up at Sansa, who gave a small welcoming smile, and especially looking at Arya, who simply nodded and gestured them forward.
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Two days later, they'd already long passed a fork in the river that Jon had said led to the Lonely Hills. Daenerys looked up as she bounced along as the dogsled she was riding on once again swerved suddenly. She was tired, not having slept well in the cold, heavy air of their campsite, and now the winds were even higher than they'd been before. They'd endured the old man's angry tirade at how slow they were to pack up her tent; as a result, they were at the very end of the caravan today, having had to catch up. The main caravan had left without her!
On the other hand, their new rear position was quite far from the wildfire. She shuddered a little. Hearing about that hellish substance had been an unpleasant revelation! She hoped they wouldn't have to use it; her children were far less likely to suddenly burn everything in sight! Yes, her children were much safer. They didn't have to be treated so gently, be kept far from heat and flame.
She turned to look at Jon, who was pensively looking up into the low clouds moving quickly above them, "Jon? Did you see Drogon or Rhaegal?"
"Aye; they flew west a few minutes ago, and I think they landed on that hill over there."
"That's a hill? It looks like a mound of snow. Everything here looks like a mound of snow," complained Daenerys.
"Aye, but that's a hill" chuckled Jon, then pointing to another mound of snow, "Over there, that's a snowdrift."
Dany gave a huff, then smiled, "You're feeling better? You looked... lost in thought."
"Not really. I was just thinking that it smells like snow."
"Of course it smells like snow, Jon. There's snow everywhere!"
"No, I mean it smells like it's going to snow. You know, like you can smell when a storm's coming? Like that."
"A snow storm?" asked the silver-haired woman.
"Aye. We could end up buried in snow, you know," replied Jon, grinning, "Old Nan said there were snows more than a hundred feet deep, in winter, you know. Even Drogon could be buried so deep he had to dig his way out!"
"That sounds awful," replied Dany, giggling at the thought of a sour-faced Drogon emerging from a white landscape, shaking himself like a horse, snow flying everywhere like water off a horse's mane after fording a deep river, "How do you Northerners survive weather like that?"
"It's actually quite cozy, if you have decent shelter first," he said.
"And if you don't?" she asked. She expected she knew the answer - it'd be no different than getting caught in a sandstorm in the Red Wastes. The lands here were just as barren - she'd seen some of the Free Folk chopping through the ice to set fishing lines, just as a few of the Dothraki with desert experience had been able to catch a lizard here or there, or find a plant to eat and get juice from.
"Then you freeze to death," Jon answered seriously, confirming her expectation.
"Ah," she said quietly, then changed the subject entirely. Death by cold, being kept away from the warmth of life, that sounded like the worst possible way to die to her, "Are you all right, after hearing about Arya?"
"It was a bit of a shock, I'll admit. Not the duels themselves; she'd talked about fighting in a tourney, so that's no surprise. Her killing someone, just like that... that was a shock. I've fought people, killed people, but I never liked it. Never enjoyed it. Never did it for fun," said Jon quietly. He knew he was good at fighting... at killing... but it wasn't what he wanted to do. Arya'd always wanted to learn to fight, and it sounded like their father'd found her a good teacher; a great teacher, even. Though what kind of man was he, if a man had come to Westeros to challenge his sister in a fight to the death over being his student?
Daenerys replied, her voice soft and thoughtful, "I've seen bravos, growing up, you know. Missandei's story is right - they aren't dangerous to anyone but their own, and all over Essos, they follow their own code of honor. I even saw a duel once! Viserys didn't allow me out often, but sometimes, when we were moving between houses, I was able to be outside more. We were in Norvos; I remember because the views of the hills were amazing. I was late getting home, and two bravos met in front of me; one touched his sword, and then they were fighting, right there. Once the one hit the other in the arm, they were done, and they both left. Neither threatened me, nor did any other bravo I ever saw."
"So, they're like knights?" asked Jon.
Daenerys laughed, "No! They don't run around in armor, or fight in big battles, or get anointed by some particular god. They're... bravos, who like to fight."
"I've never been to Essos. The only times I've been south of Winterfell is to see you, or with you, even! You've seen so much; tell me, what were the hills around Norvos like?"
"They were steep and tall; I imagined flying over them on a dragon! Well, I thought I did; actually riding on a dragon is the most amazing feeling, to see the world stretching out below you, the wind on your face, flying through clouds. Or above them, even - they stretch out below you in an unending sea of white," said Daenerys, her voice full of remembered joy.
"You really love flying on Drogon, don't you?"
"I do. Perhaps I'll have to bring you along; you missed the ride to Eastwatch, after all," she said with a teasing smile, then shifted again as the caravan slowed, coming to a halt on the frozen river, between the shelter of two small hills, once again beginning the process of feeding the dogs, small one-man dogsleds getting the first of the food for their dogs, then darting off in pairs to check the area, a considerable distance between the members of each pair.
While most of the dogs were finishing their meals, a high-pitched, staccato drumbeat sounded faintly across the quiet landscape from a hill to the north, followed by two tiny specks descending the hill quickly and a loud shout from the caravan's leader.
"Snostorm inkommande! Full fart mot stenhalan!"
Immediately, more than half the entire caravan started moving out without hesitation, the rest, including their own sled, simply loading the sleds with anything that someone could hold in place by hand. The old man who gave the passengers instructions came to them after they'd started, coming into place besides them.
"Blizzard coming, and fast! We go to Rocky Hollow, wait it out! You dig in, do not use stupid tent! You Night's Watch, yes? Been in North?"
"I was!" said Jon, "To the Fist of the First Men!"
"Good! This real Northern storm! You dig, dig as small as you fit in, fit very tight together! Use dark man spear for air, four holes, four times each hour, or you die! Use canvas line hole! Small fire only if lots air!"
"Aye," said Jon, watching the small dogsled move off again.
"Jon?" asked Daenerys, worried.
"You know that snowstorm I was worried about? We're getting one, a big one. We'll all have to sleep together for warmth; all of us. He wants us to use Grey Worm's spear to poke air holes and keep them clear," said Jon.
"Air holes?"
"You can't breathe through snow, Dany. We'll need to have someone awake all the time to keep the air holes clear."
"I'm sure we can all stay awake for a few hours, Jon."
Jon chuckled wryly, "I hope it's only a few hours. More like a few days. Could be a few weeks, even, though it seems awful early for that. Winter is here."
"Weeks!"
"That's what Father said, and the men of the Night's Watch. Deep in Winter, the storms last for days and weeks. You didn't think Sansa said carrying at least three months of food was required to leave a city for nothing, did you?" asked Jon, "She's the Lady of Winterfell. It's the Lady's duty to manage the supplies and keep everyone in Winterfell fed and warm for as long as she can in winter, just like it was Lady Catelyn's duty before her. Just like it's Lady Manderly's duty in White Harbor."
As they moved north, the sky before them turned black even as they could still see the sun setting in the west. The caravan split, then, some sleds staying atop the river, while the rest went up a steep hillside on the shore to a very rough plateau, crowned with great boulders and rock formations around what turned out to be a basin, covered in thick snow.
Jon saw an sled pulled by eight dogs moving slowly up the hillside, uncoiling a rope that stretched down to the sleds down on the river, already turned on their sides and partly buried to make a windbreak.
The old man came by again, accompanying a large cargo sled, which dropped off a small pile of wood, a barrel of pitch, a package of dried foods for Jon, and a small kettle. They stuck a stake with a wide, deep set of fins at the end and in the middle deep into the snow, looping the middle of a long rope around it, one knot in the rope on the right of their entrance they'd come from, and two on the left side.
"You Southrons, dig deeper! Pack snow, like this," said Meras as he took up a piece of wood from the pile, showing them briefly how to dig, how to pack the snow on the walls and into large bricks, "Make walls. Make turn at entrance, keep wind out. Put furs or canvas over entrance. Keep warmth in! Air holes here, here, here, here. Bigger! Feel sleepy, put fire out! Angle like this. Use wood when got air, when need to dry. Bring food in. Bring all furs, all cloth in. Sleep in pile, like dogs, stay warm. Stay dry! Keep rope at entrance! Piss, shit on right, one knot, five paces! Keep hand on rope or die! Use kettle, melt snow from left, two knots!"
The old man left them to it.
As the sky darkened quickly above them, all around, Tyrion could see clansmen were digging quickly, much more quickly than their group. Fifteen or so yards away, he saw a small, pinched-faced girl of perhaps three and ten dive into their hole with a flatter piece of wood, followed by a scarred young woman of perhaps one and twenty who started handing snow blocks to a rather hideous, wart-covered middle-aged woman who set them around the entrance.
Tyrion selected a flat, short piece of wood, and said, "I'll go in first and start the hole. Grey Worm, Qhono, if you could come in after me and enlarge the hole? Jon, Lord Varys, pack the snow and make walls. We might be here for some time. At least it'll smell better than the sewers, even if it's smaller."
Daenerys looked up, then smiled as Drogon and Rhaegal came in for a landing next to them, Drogon's tail carefully held inside the boulders that were behind them, one wing stretching over their small party as the wind began to blow snow as well as air.
"Or we could ask my children to help, rather than having to dig so deep," said Daenerys, rubbing Drogon's cheek fondly.
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Theon stepped out of the small boat, followed by his crew. Euron had part of his fleet patrolling the entrance to Blackwater Bay quite vigorously, so he was going to portage around the patrols. They were far enough out he didn't think the Lannisters would have many people here, so he could sneak in to rescue Yara, or die trying. Yara'd come for him, so he was going to come for her... that was the least he could do, after running when Euron boarded their ship.
He jerked, startled, as a whisper cut through the darkness ahead of him, "The lone wolf dies."
"Who's there?" demanded Theon in a harsh whisper as his crew drew their weapons behind him.
"The lone wolf dies," came a repeat of the saying... but with a clear question in the tone, not a threat.
"But the pack survives," whispered Theon, hoping he was right. He'd heard that, often enough growing up... and so he hoped. A man emerged from the darkness before him, striding over the cold ground with a bag on his back, walking very carefully, dressed as a sailor.
"You the Greyjoy? Theon?" asked the man.
"I am. Sansa sent you?" asked Theon.
"No One sent me, but I reckon Lady Stark's the one what wanted you to get some help. Gods, boy, you think carryin' boats ain't gonna be noticed? Put that shite down. Got three boats in a cove, mile down along the coast. Look for a cave near three gnarled trees in a line. Here, take this shite - be careful! You gots some Lannister armor in there, can make as captured spies, if'n you be seen. Here, gots a map - you look at it in the cave, don' be lightin' up in the open. Gots your Uncle's patrols... and his passwords, too. Might change, might not, but good tonight, I 'eard em myself. You Iron Islanders are awful loud, you know. Half of you don't know nuthin', looks like."
Theon took the sealed leather tube the man was offering, while the man took the time to set the bag down carefully, "Thank you, and tell Sansa thank you."
"Ye saved her from the Boltons. She's gots Bran and Arya back, now. I figure she wants you to have your family back, too. You be careful with this bag, you hear! Them bottles, all wrapped up? That's wildfire, that is, ifn' you boys ain't any more quiet than them aboard those ships," said the man, "I gots to go. If'n you get stopped, whichever of yous in the Lannister armor, the Lannister password is 'Mines of Casterly Rock'. Old gods help you."
With that, the man faded back into the darkness, leaving behind the tube of papers and the bag.
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Late at night, Sansa was sewing as Arya strode by Sansa with a feather-duster, saying, "Pardon me, m'lady" as she passed. Once she'd passed Sansa's line of sight, the assassin dropped the duster, reaching up under the thick layers of the dress she was wearing to draw a slender, blunt training knife, striking for Sansa's back and missing as Sansa'd dropped her sewing project and used her long legs to open the distance, keeping the heavy wooden chair between them as she went for the set of emergency gear across the room with a quietly murmured, "Screaming."
Arya stepped over the discarded sewing project and launched herself off the chair towards Sansa, knife leading as Sansa deflected with a steel knitting needle and a push to shove Arya off course; by the time Arya, using a reduced measure of her speed, had come up, Sansa was already jabbing a spear with a blunt training head at her carefully, yanking it back before Arya's left hand could grasp the haft below the blade. A few exchanges later, and Sansa's spearblade poked Arya in the side after Arya 'fell' for her feint.
"Good feint, good use of your precision. You're getting a little quicker, too, sister, and your footwork was solid. Good placement when you threw your sewing down, right where I'd rather have stepped. Why didn't you go for the crossbow? You and Kitty always keep one ready, now, as hard as that is on the string." asked Arya quietly.
"It's only one shot; if I miss, or even hit without doing enough damage, both my hands are occupied; I'm not fast enough to recover from that," replied Sansa easily.
"Good! Your freakish reach is an advantage; using a medium spear like that makes it very hard to close the distance intact, as long as you don't let it get grabbed," smiled Arya, hiking her dress up to replace the blunt.
Sansa struck suddenly, one finger reaching out for Arya's shoulder, and missing as her sister ducked, while they giggled together before settling down on the divan, Arya pulling the dress up again so Sansa could adjust the thigh strap.
"How are the new knitting needles?" asked Arya. She and Gendry knew weapons well enough, but using needles was not her skill, and she was quite sure Gendry had never even tried.
"They're good; they catch less than the wooden ones, though they're a bit heavy. If I hadn't been working on leather armor so much, it might have been harder to use these," said Sansa, steppiung back and spinning the heavy needle through her fingers gracefully before tugging the 'sheath' part of it off, revealing the training blunt inside.
"Well, I'm glad they work for your knitting as well. People will question them less that way, and it's very easy to overlook something used in plain sight, if it's used the way you expect. What did Bran mean earlier, when he said the Manderly ladies liked the gloves?"
"You remember Bessie Flint, the goat? Well, I'd found some wool, almost as soft as hers, but just a bit in mixed colors, so I made up gloves for the Manderly ladies. They've done very well for us, so a bit of personal attention is the least I could do. You met them; what would they want from us?" asked Sansa. She knew very well she needed to pay attention to her bannermen, to all the people in the North and the Vale. She'd learned about fear from Cersei, about uncertainty from Littlefinger, about maneuvering and politics from them and others... but she'd learned about fostering loyalty from her father, and from her mother, and that was a tradition she intended to continue.
Arya considered; she'd spoken with the girls, and heard more about them, both here and on her journey, "More than anything, Wylla and Wynafryd want to make sure White Harbor stays in Manderly hands, and under the Manderly name. They're shrewd, all three of them, in their own ways. Wynafryd's definitely her grandfather's heir, but I don't think she'd mind if it was Wylla who kept the name. They follow the Seven, but only to a point - Wynafryd had a bunch of young men with her when they first met me, and then mostly young women at breakfast when I joined them the next morning! All loyal to House Manderly, of course."
Sansa laughed, nudging her sister, "And did any of them catch your eye, Arya?"
Arya glared at Sansa, "Do you think me an addled idiot? No, I'm not going to respond to bait in a trap like that. Marriage isn't for me; the Many-Faced God is who I've made my commitment to serve, not some man or woman who wants my loyalty given to them."
Sansa held up her hands palms out in mock surrender, "All right, all right, who am I to offend such a dedicated priest, unwilling to even entertain the prospect of marriage. If you're done deflecting..."
Arya smirked, "Drat. Foiled in my cunning plan to distract you from your evil purpose of consolidating all power in your own hands. They'll want to see if Jon's interested in them, of course - a highborn Stark bastard would be exactly what they wanted, letting them keep their own name and rule White Harbor, now that he'd not King anymore. Without him, they'll keep looking, so if you can arrange a match with a good bastard, or a Free Folk or smallfolk man who wants to settle down here in the South. Maybe even a second or third highborn son willing to give up his name, though I suspect they're both too strong-willed for that to work out well."
"So, like Gendry?" mused Sansa.
"Hmm... he might like Wylla. She'd certainly keep him on his toes, and she's got that same simple honor. They aren't ready for the Mormont way"
"Oh? Just don't say anything about the father of their children? Maybe in a few years; for now, they're likely still too invested in the Seven, so they'll want a good marriage."
Arya nodded. Sansa was the Lady in the family, so she'd leave arranging marriages to her, "Well, if you're going to appoint a Master of Ships, once we're ready to run caravans through the army of the dead, we can have Wylla up with a dogsled team along with a Braavosi representative, since the Braavosi are leading the naval side of things. Introduce her to Gendry, see if she catches his interest. Maybe even send the Scorpion Bear back with her to inspect White Harbor's siege engines; I bet they'll get along well."
"Well, we'll see what happens," said Sansa, "We're really ready for the dead? White Harbor's going to start stockpiling now; Jon's the last dogsled caravan in, and there's only the one horse caravan north of Moat Cailin. Gulltown's taking over supply of Moat Cailin and the Vale; they're still far enough from the dead, and Cersei's dealing with the loss of the Reach's food and lords to Daenerys. We've got the herds and flocks in, the hunters have taken anything they can which they can't drive south."
"We are, as much as we can be right now. We've got a solid set of fieldworks, Lyanna's crews can loose even in snow and fog, the archers too. The camps are as good as we can manage; they've got solid walls and roofs to protect against the weather and bolts or arrows that fall short. The animals in the second ring are the most at risk," said Arya, "We can always learn more lessons, but we're as good as we're going to be until we have to deal with untrained new forces, and we've got plans for that."
"The Long Night worries me. We've got as many edible mushrooms and sprouts growing in the crypt tunnels as the Maesters identified and the hunters and foragers could find, but that's not nearly enough to really cut down on the rate we're eating through our supplies," said Sansa with concern. The new glass gardens that were under construction would help, but being under siege, in winter, perhaps without enough sunlight to grow crops anywhere, all for years at a time?
Arya nudged her sister, "Cheer up, Sansa. All the peoples of the world have stories of the Long Night. We may not have the kind of magic they once did other than the Three-Eyed Raven and the wargs, but we do have things they didn't; foreign allies, modern siege engines, wildfire and Valyrian steel and two thirds of the dragons in the world."
Sansa's lips quirked upwards slightly, "Stay with me tonight?"
"Of course," replied Arya. She, too, was concerned about their chances, but they'd done everything they could in the time they had. They would win, or they would die... but they would not die alone, and what they'd set in motion would continue after their deaths, in the North, in the Vale, in Braavos and Dorne and many other great cities and nations across the world, so she was quite comfortable with either outcome. All must die... but she would tell her god not today once again, as best she could, for herself, and her sister, and her family and peoples.
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