Lady Winter and the Red Wolf (GoT/ASOIAF)

[Epic Reader]

Wylla led Lord Woolfield and the cleanup and dragonglass-scavenging party through the streets, her own dragonglass-head spear held tiredly at rest, her green hair dusty, tangled, and matted under her helmet. She'd been awake and active since long before the wights attacked, and it was wearing on her. Tired or not, she gave a bright smile and raised her spear to another group of workers dragging wight corpses into the burning pile already in the middle of the street, guards pulling the flakes of dragonglass out just before they tossed the bodies on the fire.

Wights had boiled up all over the town, some inside houses and in the old cellars; there had apparently been a long-forgotten lichyard that had been built over, and hundreds of wights had arisen. There were a few reports of the sounds of fighting from nowhere in the oldest parts of town, but... sometimes the wights were there, and sometimes no one had seen anything, either, and she was reminded of the materials her mother had had 'stored', never to be seen again, at Arya Stark's command - materials to build with, to defend with.

"Good work!" she exclaimed, watching them straighten as she and her military commander stepped out of the way of the wheelbarrows of reclaimed or repairable dragonglass weapons and missiles, the work crew seeing them with their rich armor showing signs of hard use, her own dragonglass head still bearing wight gore, one side now narrower than the other as it had caught on a wight's crowbar, "Is everything under control? Is there anything you need?"

"Thank you, m'lady," replied an old man, an equally old woman beside him as they approached, "The boys and girls have this all sorted out. Lost Matilda, probl'y lose Jonaasen as well, and Big Mathias won't be walkin' for months, but wes got 'em all. Thems wights surprised 'em as 'ey opened a door; weren't no sign o' wights before, then... lots o' em, in the root cellar, deep down. Not hammerin' and chargin', just waitin' like. We sent a boy off to tell a page; then a minute later we's gots another page tellin' us 'bout it. Too late for Matilda, buts probl'y help'd some other poor bastr'd," said the old man, trailing off at the end.

Wylla and Lord Woolfield bowed their heads to the elder couple for a moment, recognizing the dead - her people's dead, killed while defending their city from the enemy. She then raised her head and asked again, gently, "You and your boys and girls fought bravely and well; the Starks themselves would be as pleased as I am. Is there anything you need?"

"No, m'lady," said the old woman, "Youse gots no need ta linger; we gots what we needed before the dead came, as best anyone could. We be thankin' the Warrior for the trainin' and the Smith for the dragonglass. If'n not for that, we'd all be wights."

"Very well; you are all a credit to the North!" said Wylla, raising her voice for all to hear, "Biancae, stay a moment and take notes on Matilda for the Maesters to record; her name and deeds during the Second Long Night will live on in the histories the Maesters are compiling of those who dies. Jonaasen as well, and any others who distinguished themselves with exceptional service. By the Seven, they will not be forgotten; they served the Stranger's will upon the captive dead!"

As they walked on, one page remaining to record the stories of the smallfolk, Wylla asked quietly, trying to imitate how Arya Stark had spoken when she wanted to be quiet, "Lord Mitchar; you had doubts about training the smallfolk, about all the work put into the fieldworks and preparing the city and the harbor, didn't you?"

He took a half-step closer, speaking in barely audibly over the clanking of his plate armor, "I was... concerned about the training when King Jon ordered it, yes, but it seemed then to be easily enough complied with; a little training by a guardsman every day. Then Lady Winter gave her own decrees, and it was a huge undertaking that took enormous amounts of time and effort, land and materials, rebuilding parts of the walls and city, work parties of tens of thousands. Women fighting, women digging! Grant me the Mother's mercy, my Lady, but for an old man like me, it was a bit of a shock to see maidens train like warriors - truly train, be injured and bruised, to break bones and gain scars, and a few be crippled or killed in accidents. But..."

"But?" she asked, turning with him into one of the poorest sections of the city; it was away from the palace... and towards one of the areas with the most rumors of smugglers and tunnels. She had a suspicion they were actually going to meet the smugglers her mother dealt with!

"But now we've seen dragons overhead and in our fields, Unsullied and Dothraki on the streets of our city, wights and White Walkers. Without King Jon's orders, we would never have started training; without Lady Winter's commands, the training would not have been sufficient and the people would not have been armed; when the White Walkers made that circle and line symbol outside ring five, and the wights raised inside, it would have ended us. Had Lady Winter not designed and insisted on the fieldworks and siege engines, insisted on dishonorable weapons like crossbows being produced in the thousands, on everyone who could wield a bow well being trained for it, the wights would have overrun the walls entirely. Without Queen Sansa's handling the politics and managing the lords of not only the North but also the Vale, and reaching out across the Narrow Sea, we would not be supplied, not after the War of Five Kings and Cersei. It is their foresight that has saved us," he said, continuing somberly, "It is the Second Age of Heroes come again... and the only time that requires an Age of Heroes is when things are darkest. You, Lady Wylla, are part of that, with your sister and mother too, and Lady Mormont and Skamund and his sister, the fleet commanders from Braavos, and many others. I never thought to see such wonders; but for every wonder there is a horror."

Wylla nodded, then thought briefly that Wynafryd would say something to soften her words, and replied, "Thank you, Lord Woolfield. I understand your earlier doubts, but you should have had more faith in our liege lords, the Starks."

They turned a corner and saw a small fire, with several beggars in a circle around it, warming their hands, primitive spears to hand as they each watched ahead of themselves and to the right. As the green-haired woman looked closer, she saw they were actually warming themselves on a pair of merrily crackling wight corpses, one large bowl set next to the fire, a few small coins in it already.

"M'lady," called out one elderly, crippled beggar loudly, bowing as best he could, "M'lord!"

"You killed these wights?" asked Lady Wylla, "Was anyone injured?"

"Aye, we did, m'lady!" said a much younger beggar, exuberately brandishing a shorter than normal spear with not even a flake of dragonglass left on the end, just shattered, half-rotten wood, "Them stones din' do nuthin', but one poke with m'spear here and it wen' righ' down! Crazy Kaatie 'ere done fer t'other one - they din' git close 'nough to touch us even! Nows we keepin' warm and keepin' watch! We din' een' need ta call fer..."

The boy cut off at a sharp look from the elderly beggar, returning to warming his hands by the fire as his face reddened.

"Underfoot'd like us keepin' watch," said another begger, which resulted in a round of nods, and Wylla remembering again the name many of the senior servants and guards had called Arya Stark as a child. Curious, to hear it now, and from a beggar, of all people. She narrowed her eyes, looking at the other beggars; those nods had been very like what a high lord or lady would receive. She'd find out what was going on there, she would, but Wynafryd would certainly tell her this was not the time.

"You have all done good work defending our city, and I thank you for it," Wylla said, seeing that Kaatie also had a severely damaged spear, then turned and walked back to a wheelbarrow, selecting two damaged but still functional spears, each with several flakes of dragonglass fixed to the ends, speaking as she returned to them, offering the replacement spears herself, taking their old ones to put back in the wheelbarrow and dropping five silver stags into the bowl, "There may be more to come; Lady Winter would want us all to be both watchful and armed properly. Please share this will the others like you who have fought today; you have all done White Harbor proud. I will send messengers to make sure hot soup and fresh bread is brought out to here tonight, just as it is being brought to all who fought the dead."

She saw their eyes grow wide at the equivalent of eighty and two hundred copper pennies was placed in their bowls, and a marked straightening of their postures as she praised them.

The elderly beggar spoke quietly, "Pardon, m'lady; we 'eard we's inna siege? We's gonna 'ave 'nogh to eat? We canna' pay fer food if'n it git ta cost ta much."

Lord Woolfield exchanged a glance with Lady Wylla, then spoke, his voice confident, speaking a little louder as a nearby tower reported its ammunition status by gong, "We are under siege by the army of the dead, but they are being held off past the fifth ring, out at the edge of flight arrow range. They pressed us hard, but by the Warrior's strength, we held them off outside while the town guard and those brave souls like you held them off inside, and they have retreated."

Wylla took up the conversation without pause, "The harbor is open and active; three more ships came in to dock, two laden with barley even as the battle was fought, and our fishing fleet is working as hard as they can, spending long, cold nights on the water to gather more fish for White Harbor. Even without that, we have stores to keep us for years, even with all those from the rest of the North who have gathered here, and those from other kingdoms, too."

Her voice hardened, "My mother, the Lady Leona, has also decreed that there shall be no price increases for rationed and basic food, nor for fresh water, nor for firewood or simple clothes and blankets. If anyone tries to do that, report them to a guard, or send someone to come and find me at the harbormaster's office, or Lord Woolfield at the military command post. You are men and women of White Harbor, and White Harbor will not stand for your starving or freezing because of price gouging."

With that, she gave them a nod, received a set of bows and relieved expressions, and continued on, men and full wheelbarrows following behind as Lord Woolfield led them deeper into the warren, speaking with each group they found, sending some to the harbor to see a Maester for injuries received in battling wights. Those sheltering in doorways and alleys and around fires - whether fueled by wood or wight - suddenly were generally stronger-looking, and much more dangerous-looking.

Wylla had been around warriors her whole life, and the last months of hard training had enhanced her appreciation of the difference between strength and true deadliness, like Arya Stark. Arya wasn't what she would have thought of as a strong warrior, before; but now, she could recognize that the younger woman was the deadliest warrior she'd ever met. These men and women - even whores - weren't like a Faceless Man, but they were obviously experienced to her trained eyes. A large group of these more dangerous smallfolk was outside a dirty, ramshackle building with a brand new ironwood door, the glint of bronze visible in a small gap between thick planks.

"M'lady Manderly, M'lord Woolfield, ye honor us, comin' down here!" exclaimed a sturdy, middle-aged man in dark clothing.

The harbormaster saw he had a simple goat's-foot crossbow, all sharp, unfinished edges except for the smoothed out handholds, in his hands, dragonglass-tipped bolt held in place casually by his thumb; none of the few crossbows she'd seen in these warrens had the fancy spring to keep a bolt in when the weapon was being handled - they were rare, and of simple but effective make, striding forward. As he did, his head moved back and forth, eyes moving left and right, up and down, but not like a soldier's... shiftier, somehow.

"Piter, I see you made it through uninjured. I find myself most unreasonably glad the Mother showed you her mercy," replied Lord Mitchar, "My lady Wylla, this is Piter; he's spent some time, now and again, in our cells for possession of stolen goods."

"I ain't no thief!"

"I never said you were," replied Lord Woolfield, taking the man's hand and giving it a hearty shake, "But you did have stolen goods... and I am glad you are alive. Would you have a little water to share? I find myself a mite parched."

Mitchar glanced back at the wheelbarrows, then pointed at the one in front, with a pile of broken pieces of the poorest of the spears, staves, and knives that had been handed out, the ones Lady Wylla had replaced on their journey so far, piled atop the rest of what had been gathered from the battlefield, now mostly smaller pieces of dragonglass... but still very worth turning into new weapons with the addition of some wood.

"You men, stay with us; come over, have a drink. With you and Lady Wylla's guards, I'm sure we can fight off any wights that might appear. The rest of you, get a move on - the faster you get to New Castle and drop that off with the craftsmen, the faster you can warm yourselves and fill your bellies! Pass on Lady Wylla's instructions to have food brought out here for the people who helped defend the city, and leave some at the castle for the rest of us! I'm sure we'll be some time."

With that, most of the party disappeared quickly down the road, and of those that were left, Wylla saw that Lord Woolfield gently guided them all to one side of the remaining wheelbarrow, even as a troupe of dirty, tired smallfolk emerged from the ramshackle building. Very dirty, even - some were near-covered in mud, the smell of the sea strong on them, she noticed, narrowing her eyes... they really weren't that close to the harbor or the shore, not by the roads, at least - these men and women might be smugglers, from the tunnels!

"Did you see battle, Piter?" asked Lord Woolfield.

"Aye. Them's dead folk came swarmin' up in the... came swarmin' up. Theys was dead all o'er, looks like. Most o 'em are dead again, now, warmin' us up as 'ey burn. Some o 'em ain't cleared out; we's still workin' on that."

"I'll send some guardsmen to deal with them," said Wylla, "You've fought bravely for White Harbor, and I thank you for it; the army can take over now. The wights have stopped, outside, and most inside are already being burned."

"We's gots it!" exclaimed Piter at the idea of guardsmen wandering through the heart of the thieves tunnels, then recovered quickly, ducking his head, "We's got them wights licked, m'Lady. Youse warriors, they's can fight them other wights. Here, m'Lady, youse water!"

Wylla took her drink gracefully, their party lined up with their backs to the frigid northerly wind as had become normal, a lesson they'd all learned from the Free Folk running dogsleds and teaching them. Now, though, with wights still around, it seemed strange that Mitchar had placed them like this - and to leave their backs to the wheelbarrow while they drank, the smallfolk around them breaking out into loud conversations? She started to turn to take a look, stopping at an upraised hand from Lord Woolfield, the battle sign to wait, so she turned back, drinking nearly ice-cold water from a rough wooden mug as smallfolk walked to and fro, many carrying packs or small bags from one building to another.

Lord Woolfield drained his mug, asking quietly, "Thank you, Piter. I needed that. Can we give you anything to help with the wights? Weapons? Dragonglass? Pitch and tar?"

Piter sneered briefly before realizing who he was doing so in front of, responding sharply, "We ain't no beggars! Them's over here. We's works for what we got! Youse bein' kind, but we don' need charity."

Behind them came a single sharp banging sound, at which Piter winced, eyes glancing around even more rapidly than usual for a moment.

"WHAT'S GOING ON?" shouted Lord Woolfield as he spun around.

Wylla spun as well; there were a few smallfolk standing what seemed a little too near the wheelbarrow; three had both hands behind their back. The last had a broken off spearhead with a good dragonglass head at his feet, his other hand full of shining black shards as he gaped at them, frozen. The wheelbarrow itself no longer had a mound of recovered dragonglass and some beggar's broken weapons atop it; the mound was considerably smaller now.

"Seize him!" commanded Lord Mitchar, pointing at the one thief who had dragonglass in his hands, "That man is a thief!"

The green-haired woman saw the other smallfolk respectfully backed off, their faces after after either flashes of disdain or fear... keeping their hands out of sight the entire time. The entire group, she thought, was probably thieves! But thieves who had fought the dead. She could see the gore and smudges, and imagined that if her nose still worked and she didn't smell of the same thing, she'd recognize their smell, too... and they'd refused an offer of weapons. Thieves and smugglers they may be, but ones with pride, and, she thought, honor, since her mother had continued to do business with them. They'd chosen to defend White Harbor instead of running or hiding, even if they did break the law, even if they did steal. Arya Stark, too, They wouldn't take an outright gift, she thought, looking at the half-full wheelbarrow, but they'd happily steal one... just as they'd steal the ancient, maggot-infested grains her mother had stored not far from here on the Stark's orders, with naught but a couple of ancient, slovenly guards to watch over them.

She'd been willing to give them the dragonglass; the wights needed to be killed, and without losing more of her people - any of her people, so letting them steal it was truly Crone's wisdom! She could consider it a gift, and be glad that her people fighting the dead had what was required - and from salvaged fragments of weapons from the battle, of no use on the front lines for quite some time. They could consider it as having been 'worked for', and maintain their self-respect. And, as Wynafryd would say, as long as no one looked too hard at it, everyone was happy... and everyone wanted to stay happy, so no one would look too hard.

Politics was messy, she thought. She'd see what Mitchar's plan was; she'd worked very closely with him, for a long time, and he always had a plan.

"Piter! Who is this man?" demanded Lord Woolfield, looking somewhat shocked and outraged, and somewhat resigned, as two soldiers seized the man they'd caught red-handed, "Why is there a thief here, stealing from Lady Wylla's military supplies?"

"Them's Jory, m'Lord, third cousin twice removed on my mother's side's roommate's second cousin's husband's friend's son," Piter replied conversationally, before his voice strengthened and hardened, taking on a tone of command, "E's a clumsy wretch, and ere's no 'elpin im now! Ain't no help for them's get caught stealin'! Them's caught, they's face the Father's justice; Underfoot won't 'ave no truck with them's too clumsy or stupid to take care of 'emselves all proper-like!"

Piter then turned to give the poor thief a very direct, very hard look, "E's a screamer, Jory is. Real loud like."

"My lady, what is your judgement of this man?" asked Lord Woolfield.

Wylla thought hard about what she'd just heard. She rather thought that 'proper-like' meant not getting caught, rather than not actually doing something wrong in the first place... or at least something against the rules. Was it wrong to steal food for a starving family? That seemed cruel, but what if it was stolen from another starving family? Hmmm... well, these supplies had been to fight the dead, and that's what they'd be used for.

"Piter," asked Lady Wylla, "Do you, or anyone else here, have anything to say in defense of Jory?"

"E's a good lad, m'Lady... e's just stupid an' clumsy. Ye sees 'is leg? E' fell when fightin' wights, hit 'isself onna rock. 'Ats why e's limpin'."

"Very well. Jory, you have committed the crime of theft of your liege lord's property; stealing military supplies in time of war. In light of your service fighting wights, and the fact that you were stealing only scraps, you will be fined eight copper groats," said Lady Wylla, looking out over the others. Piter had told them he was a screamer... or, she thought, in those twisty ways her sister thought, he told Jory he was to scream. Arya Stark was even twistier than that - she had to be this 'Underfoot' they spoke of, and Piter had especially emphasized 'caught', just as Lady Arya had instructed the Manderlies to treat crimes as they always had... and the Stark had known far more about the underbelly of White Harbor than she could have learned from whispers and rumors in just a night.

Wylla continued, noticing a post holding up a ratty blanket to give shelter to a hovel across the way, next to a fire that would help Jory avoid frostbite during his lashing, "Due to the insulting and disrespectful nature of stealing right in front of your liege lord's family, you could be beheaded. For the theft, you could lose a hand. However, the Mother's mercy will stay the Father's harsh justice, for you have served the Warrior and the Stranger, fighting the wights, and your theft was intended to also fight wights. You will be given ten lashes, right there."

Lord Woolfield immediately gave orders as Wylla pointed to the post she's selected, and those with the Manderly party took the man over immediately, again putting their backs to the wheelbarrow as the man took his lashes. True to Piter's word, he screamed loud and long, and when Wylla turned back after it was done, the wheelbarrow contained nothing but the worthless scraps they'd taken from beggars when giving them better.

Someday, she thought, she'd be able to see the tunnels. Now, she'd given dragonglass to those fighting the dead, learned a little more about the people of her city, and it was time to go home. There was another set of merchant ships that would make the harbor in a few hours, and she wanted to be there; new ships docking at night was always delicate, and if the wights attacked again, or the wight dragon appeared, she'd need to be there.

************************

Sansa entered her chambers, petting the large pups as they nuzzled up to her and patiently waiting until her sister shut, barred, and furred the door, then sat down heavily, tired from the long day. She accepted the tall mug of water Arya handed her as her sister started unfastening her armor, drinking silently, the two of them alone in her chambers, leaning forward and breathing deeply as she finally let herself remember the feeling of actually fighting for her life, remembered the child-wight's knife that she'd blocked while she was stabbing a bigger wight that was assaulting the rank before her. That move had opened up her right side to another wight wielding an entire carriage axle, which the guard on her right had had to block.

"That was your first real fight; I heard you did well, Sansa," said Arya softly as she untied the fastenings of Sansa's armor, checking it over carefully; nearly all the damage was near the hem, but she wouldn't miss anything that might lead to her sister being killed later because of carelessness; she'd learned that lesson, and would carry the scars from it for the rest of her life. Now, they were all learning that wights and even pieces of wights were even more dangerous near feet and ankles than she'd thought.

"I wasn't even in the front," replied the Queen in the North quietly, her voice trembling slightly without her controlling herself fully. She set the empty mug down, letting Arya help her, care for her as she reminisced. She'd been in the second rank, had struck at wight after wight with her dragonglass-head spear, but they'd thrown themselves through the double doors recklessly; the front rank had guards hand-picked by Arya, and they'd all survived the attack with only minor wounds, despite being hit more heavily than any other brothel entrance.

"And do you think the fighters in the front would have it easier without fighters behind them? The shield-wall was made for you, Sansa - everyone fighting together. You killed some, didn't you? Protected your fellow soldiers with your spear, your shield, and your skills?"

"I didn't kill that many; everyone fought together just like we trained; the guards are very good, and even the whores and maids stood their ground," Sansa replied with a slight smile, remembering the feeling of standing side by side with others, the shield on her right protecting her, while her shield protected the spear on her left, her spear striking at openings in front and on the right, while the spear on her left struck at the openings she created with her shield. Sansa let the smile drop off her face, remembering how much better her guards were, and continued, "I didn't do much - I'm just not fast enough. What do you mean, my fellow soldier? I'm not a soldier."

"Yes, you are, Sansa - you've trained as a soldier trains, and now you've fought as a soldier fights, killed as a soldier kills - never let anyone tell you different! You fought more of them than me, you know - I didn't get to fight any, and I envy you that. Watch how people react to you now, sister; you'll see. You could have stayed inside, away from the doors, but you didn't. You chose to fight, to put your life on the line, like Robb did, like Father did in Robert's Rebellion. Everyone knows how hard you train - now they can see that you fight, too - not when the enemy leaves you no choice, but when the enemy is there, you step forward, as Starks have always done," said Arya, squeezing Sansa's shoulders.

She did want to test herself and her skills against the White Walkers, to ride out and face their ice weapons herself, but that wasn't her duty. Her duty as No One was ending the blasphemy as a whole, her duty as Lady Winter, commander of all the armies of her sister was protecting her people from unjust attacks, and her duty as Arya was to kill what had hurt and betrayed her family and friends. The Night King was on her list... but he wasn't someone she could just assassinate, either, so she'd leave him to others, who would follow the plans she'd made.

"I was afraid, Arya," said Sansa, her voice small, feeling the fear she'd felt then rising up and letting it wash over her. She had been terrified as the first wights had charged, even as she'd watched and struck and blocked as fast as she could, surprised by the sudden calls of 'wights inside' coming from the brothel, where she hadn't expected a large group of wights. She was still just a stupid little girl, after all, surprised at monsters coming to kill her and worse.

She'd taken the brothel from Littlefinger with her own actions and those of her sister, and her new sister Kitty had made it her own as well. She came regularly, knew her employees from Kiyana down to Klovis in the stables and Yaslana, the newest whore Kiyana had employed. It was far from the walls, deep in Winter Town, and still the dead had come boiling up. She'd heard the alarm sound, switched spears with the designated guard and dashed to the back door where the outer perimeter of guards were already holding the dead off in a single rank. She had taken her position just behind the center man of the three in front even as Kitty'd gone into the room to the left to fight the dead coming in through the large window.

"Of course you were. So is nearly everyone who fights in a battle like that. So is almost everyone who is surprised and survives it. Father always said that the only time a man can be brave is when he is afraid. Never doubt that you were brave, Sansa. You went towards the fight, not away, and you stood against the dead without fleeing, no matter what you felt. Did you freeze for a moment? A lot of people freeze their first real fight; the Many-Faced God collects plenty of them. That's one of the differences between a real warrior, a blooded veteran, and new recruits. Hard training helps, but only so much. Battle is different; you know that, now, more than me, even!"

"No, I didn't freeze. I wanted to, and I wasn't thinking at first, but I didn't. I just did what Chella taught me. It was... almost natural, in a way, after we killed the first wights and it became routine, like in the training yard," said Sansa, wrapping her arms around her sister. She let the feelings of the battle rise up in her, feeling them fully. She's pushed them down at the time, but now she had the time. The puppies whined a little as she let herself feel her terror, and knew that she'd acted despite her fear, which she now let fall away. Beneath the fear, she had anger, and after that had been triumph when the wights ceased coming; not just her own, but a feeling shared by all she'd stood and fought with.

She hadn't sat back and let others fight for her; so had her guards, so had those who worked in the brothel. Those songs she'd so enjoyed as a child had often sang of the comradeship of men who had fought together, had bled together, had won battles together. She felt that herself, now; she knew that she they would have her back when she needed it, and she would have theirs.

On a larger scale, she knew, that feeling would be shared by many more. This was the only battle she'd heard of where different forces had intermingled like theirs. Normally, the banners of each house stayed together, and the forces of each kingdom stayed together. Here the knights of the Vale rode with the heavy cavalry of the Manderlies, the spearmen of the mountain clans - Vale and Northern both - fought with the spearmen of the fields and cities and the lands north of the Wall, and units of archers were well and truly mixed. That, she mused, would help keep her kingdoms together once the immediate threats of the Night King, of Cersei and Euron, were dealt with, once the winter and the Second Long Night was truly upon them, and she would have to ensure they all starved equally. Once past that, the summer after would be easy enough if the Southrons could be kept in the South... or chose to stay in the South on their own.

"You did well, Sansa. You and Meera are the only Starks alive who've fought in a shield-wall like that, you know - Jon's fights as a solider in a melee, hacking and hammering by himself or near a partner, Bran doesn't fight, and I haven't had a chance to fight like that. You've fought the way our soldiers fight - you know what it's like, they know you know, and nobody can ever take that away from you. I'm proud of you, Sansa. You're a fighting Queen now, like Robb and the Kings in the North of old, or Queen Nymeria" replied Arya, squeezing Sansa tight, ignoring the thick patterns of scars over Sansa's skin as she pulled Sansa's head into her shoulder; something made possible only by Sansa sitting while Arya was standing.

"You really do envy me. You are very strange, you know that?" said Sansa into Arya's shoulder teasingly, idly scritching the puppies on either side of her, feeling their thick, soft fur through her fingers. They weren't Lady... but they were Lady's nieces, her family.

"I've heard that I'm both strange and annoying," japed Arya, "I don't see it, myself. I think I'm a perfectly normal assassin-commander-priest. I'm exactly like every other assassin-commander-priest I've ever met, after all! And of course I envy you - you got to fight them, got to experience battle the way our father did. Meera even got to fight them by the heart tree! I could have slid down a rope, but... I had other duties, and you and everyone trusted me to do them. You delegate lots of things to spend your time on the things that are necessary that can't be done by others... and I must do the same. Others can ensure the enemy is killed, but seeing the entire battle, directing it? That's not something anyone else can do. Soon, but not yet."

"You're the only assassin-commander-priest anyone's ever met, Arya. That makes you very strange, among any peoples anywhere! But not annoying," said Sansa warmly, then gave a nearly-hidden smile as she made the sign for truth and continued, "For the moment."

Arya poked Sansa in the side, then opened her arms and watched as Sansa straightened up, fully in control again, and Arya started unfastening her own equipment with Sansa's help. Sansa recovered faster now than when Arya had first returned, but she was still more fragile than she had been, and Arya knew a distraction would help her sister; and perhaps help herself too.

"Sometimes I think that's what the Many-Faced God took from me as payment, you know," said Arya, her voice turning serious as she also make the sign for truth, "My freedom. I have so many responsibilities, now; to the Many-Faced God and the House of Black and White in Westeros, to you and your kingdoms and our people. To my students and to Syrio, to my commanders and soldiers."

Sansa gave Arya a hug, then made the sign for jape as she said, "Oh? Is that what you think of me, your only sister? A terrible responsibility that keeps you from what, traveling the world like some kind of sellsword whoremonger? Do you dream the same dream Robert once did, when he wished to be the Sellsword King?"

Arya narrowed her eyes, glaring up at her sister, returning the sign for jape, "You are indeed a terrible responsibility, like a mammoth around my neck, weighing me down. I could sail west of Westeros, see things no one has ever seen; but no, I'm stuck here, cleaning up your mess for the rest of my life!"

"My mess? My mess! The Night King isn't my mess! I had nothing to do with him!"

"Of course he is; you're the eldest living trueborn child of Bran the Builder, who failed to actually finish the job in the first place; that makes it your mess! You're the heir; you inherit the debts as well as the lands. Never mind your kingdoms and you personally dragging Littlefinger up here!" exclaimed Arya, the accusation heavy in her voice and on her face.

"Well I never!" said Sansa archly, glaring down at Arya, "And aren't you the slightest bit thankful that Winter Town boasts the best brothel in all of Westeros, so you can at least get a taste of the world beyond the little ditch that separates us from the wide world?"

"No, I am not the slightest bit thankful," retorted Arya, returning the glare with interest, "I don't need Winter Town's whores or Winter Town's cooks for that!"

They continued the facade for another few seconds, then broke down laughing at the same time, "Sansa! You've been spending too much time with the working girls at the brothel."

"Well, I should hope so," replied the elder sister, her laughter fading as her voice turned serious, "They formed shield-wall against the wights too; they blocked off every window and door. Not one ran, and not one hid, Arya. They all fought. Not just them; the smallfolk in the streets; bakers, washers, builders, everyone. It wasn't anything like King's Landing."

"Of course they did, Sansa. We grow them tough, up here, and they've seen what happens when they don't fight. You and Meera fighting doesn't hurt, of course, since they can see their leaders fighting, just as Daenerys fighting is necessary to her leading the Dothraki, just as Sarella fighting will remind her people she is a warrior too, but more than that, they're fighting for themselves, for their own families and friends and comrades. They fight for what they want the North to be - fierce and independent. If they want that, they too must be fierce and independent. Those of the Vale will do the same, if it comes to that. Farther south... well, that will be different."

"Your training makes a big difference, too - I can see how much more confident they all are, Arya."

"Westeros is strange now, you know. It's almost always been ruled by Kings; we've had a few fighting Queens along the way, like Nymeria and Visenya, but now? Now nearly every ruler and contender south of the Wall is a woman. You, Sarella, Daenerys, Yara, Cersei; even your heir is Meera. Do you see what I see?" said Arya.

"Probably not," smirked Sansa, "Since I can, after all, see over the chair backs without having to get up on my tiptoes."

"Low blow, Sansa."

"Only to you, Arya. So... other than furniture, what do you see?"

"Of all the past rulers, nearly all had fought. Of all the current leaders, all but Cersei has fought - every single one, now that you've been in battle. And all of those Southron rulers and contenders agree that Cersei has to go... and that the Night King must be destroyed."

"Cersei wanted to fight, to go off to battle, too, you know," said Sansa, her eyes distant as she remembered the golden-haired Queen of Westeros talking to her. Amidst the insults, the barbs, and the constant reminders of Lannister superiority, Sansa had learned not just politics and even noticed some of the subtle hints of espionage, but also quite a bit about what it had been like to grow up with Tywin as a father.

Arya thought for awhile, remembering the expression on Cersei's face as she she sentenced Lady to die, how she'd held herself there, and replied thoughtfully, her voice turning sad, "I can see that; she approached politics like it was a duel... and she understood that it was always about death in the end, in a way that Father never did."

"Are you leaving? To kill her?"

"Not just yet, but soon. Probably after the caravans arrive and we see the Night King's next move. Right now he's just waiting, but he doesn't know if we'll be able to get supplies in, or if he can keep them out and just wait for us to starve to death. I need to be here when the sorcerers and Red Priests arrive, too. There's No One else with experience with magic, and I don't trust either one. Sorcerers rarely work in groups, and the Red God's face is selfish, giving vague visions prone to be interpreted badly by the priest, both deliberately and not, and desiring that all serve the Red God's face," replied Arya, pulling a large cork out of a small bottle and rubbing the contents into the boiled leather of armor, setting the bottle on a table between them so Sansa could use it after cleaning off her own armored dress.

Arya knew the names of many of the Red God's servants who had been assassinated in the past centuries; time after time they'd burned people alive, and time after time survivors with nothing left to live for had come to the House and offered up a name to the Many-Faced God, and their life as payment. Some of those servants were powerful, in their own ways - not just the well known powers of the Red God, but some priests and priestesses had their own magic, too. The Red Woman, she now knew, was also a Shadowbinder of Asshai in addition to being an ancient priestess; there would be others like her, too.

Sansa scrubbed at her dress carefully, then picked up a pair of cutters and started snipping off the damaged scales from the bottom, replacing them one by one with undamaged ones. That was one of the reasons she'd chosen this pattern; repair was very easy and extremely frugal; only small sections were damaged at a time. Other reasons were that it was more than flexible enough to fight in even as a dress, that it had a nice swish to it if she moved with confidence, that it spoke to her Tully heritage and her lost uncle the Blackfish, that she was extremely used to moving in dresses, that it was less offensive to those who felt highborn women shouldn't wear trousers, and that Arya said it was, properly sewn, very effective armor. Well, she was confident in her sewing skills, and in her sister's assessment... and she was uninjured because of it.

"You know what else I see about the rulers and contenders, as you put it, Arya?" asked Sansa after her short silence.

"That you're one of them?" japed Arya with a poke at her sister.

"Well, yes. But I also see that everyone except Cersei is working together - all of Westeros outside of the rule of the Iron Throne, and more and more of Essos. Perhaps we'll be able to keep working together at least through the winter, after you kill Cersei and the dead have been defeated," said Sansa, the undertones of her voice strange to Arya's ears as the redhead spoke of the most powerful Queen in Westeros today.

"You sound like you don't just hate and respect her; there's something more, isn't there, Sansa?"

With a sigh, Sansa throws a small cushion at her sister, which is promptly caught and used to prop up the piece Arya's working on.

"I also pity her, just a little. She's lost everything she loved except her power; all three of her children, her father and mother, her lover and brother. She's done horrible things... but she took the time to teach me in her own terrible way. Without her lessons, I'd never have been able to learn from Littlefinger, never have known what to look for, what levers to push; how to see what he wanted and manipulate him. She's an evil woman, but she also succeeded in killing everyone who ever crossed her; everyone except us, even after she made stupid mistakes," said Sansa.

"Would you like me to tell her anything before I give her the gift?" asked Arya. She'd never really dealt with the Queen after she'd had to send Nymeria away and Cersei had had Lady killed, but if her sister wanted her to pass on a message, that was something she could do easily. It'd probably be fun, too, seeing Cersei's face when she understood who had come for her.

"Tell her I thank her for her many lessons, and that I will never forget them."

Arya smirked, "The same thing you told Baelish, then. I can do that. Are you feeling better now?"

"A little," responded Sansa, looking up from her leatherwork to meet her sister's gaze, "Stay with me tonight?"

"Of course. May I humbly beg Her Grace the Queen's thoughts on a small matter?" asked Arya tremulously, ducking her head down, staring at her sister's feet and shuffling around as if awestruck to be in a famous person's presence, glancing up at her sister through her hair as she heard Sansa shift her head.

Sansa raised her chin, looking down her nose at her sister, "Only on account that my wisdom might, mayhaps, break through the thick shell of foolishness that surrounds you, and thus make you marginally less abrasive to be around."

"During the second attack, some of the White Walkers started retreating, one by one, and then all the rest turned to retreat at once. When the turned back to keep pressure on the northern camps, first those who retreated last attacked again, all at once, then the rest turned rejoined the attack, but raggedly. There was no pattern to which ones were which that any of us saw; it wasn't those closest or farthest, or all those near each other. You're one of the best politicians alive today; why do you think they would have acted like that?" asked Arya. She'd already gone over this with both her military staff and the other priests of the Many-Faced God, but the Night King was magic none of them were familiar with, and so she would ask who she could; her sister now, the sorcerers and the Red Priests when they arrived.

"You've already considered this, haven't you?" asked Sansa.

"Naturally. They could be the least brave, first to flee and last to return. So many of them acting all at once, but not all of them, though; that's odd. They could be the youngest and least trained, too. Men can do that if they all hear the same command at the same time - the Unsullied are amazing, for example, but few other people can match that. If it had to do with how easily they could 'hear' the command to retreat, there shouldn't have been one set doing it all at once... unless the Night King tried talking first and then 'shouted' second both times, which seems unlikely."

"All at once, you said? Like a line of puppets in a puppet show with a lone puppetmaster? Or it could be that they all can be perfectly disciplined... but some of them aren't loyal enough to obey orders to go to their deaths as easily as others. Waiting thousands of years after losing a war only to get stopped cold at the first real opposition south of the Wall isn't very inspirational, after all," replied Sansa with a smirk, then climbed into bed, lifting the thin furs for Arya, who joined her.

Once they were in, Sansa called out, "Up," at which the dogs all jumped up on the bed, padding up and starting to lay down around the sisters. Sansa continued, "You have new bruises."

"I do?" asked Arya blandly.

"You do. Even makeup as rare and expensive as yours can't handle the way you train... but you didn't get those bruises in the training yard; I'd have heard of it," replied Sansa quietly.

"Not all training happens in the yard," murmured Arya near-silently, reaching out to clasp hands with Sansa. Matters of the House were not for anyone else, but that she was indeed bruised was impossible to hide from her sister while still being her sister. Impossible now, at least, and she would not lose that closeness, not after all they'd suffered apart... and her sister could keep secrets as well as anyone else still alive.

Still, that was no reason to divulge more than necessary; it wouldn't help her sister to know that the other priests Jaqen had brought were still regularly beating her with their own favored weapons, or weapons they didn't favor that she had even less experience with, or when they had the use of all their limbs and senses, and she did not, or when she tried to use glamour and it affected her fighting. She'd left Braavos as No One, but before completing her training. Just because a soldier was a veteran didn't mean they'd learned all there was to learn, or even all they would learn in their lifetime; she still had much to learn and more to improve.

"Mmmm... were you anyone else, I would wonder more," said Sansa, squeezing her sister's hand, then closed her eyes, "I'm glad you came back, even if you'll leave soon, Arya."

"So am I, Sansa. Your puppies are very well behaved; like Lady was. When I was with the ice-river clan, we'd sleep in a pile with the dogs at night, too, in snow caves, as small as we could make them; tight confines and the dogs kept us warm, the snow kept the wind out. It was quiet and peaceful, but we still had to be on guard; I don't think we'll ever not need to be on guard again, but the peacefulness, that may come again," said Arya, "What names did you give them?"

Sansa stretched her right arm out atop the covers, scritching one dog after another, Arya doing the same with her left hand as Sansa spoke quietly.

"This is Alayne; the blanket hog is Jeyne, and that one's Beth. They've taken something of a shine to me, and are well behaved."

"By that you mean perfectly behaved, don't you. Did I ever tell you the story of when Jon gave me Needle? I was packing for the trip to King's Landing, and when Jon came in, I told Nymerica 'gloves'; I thought I'd been teaching her to fetch my gloves. She just cocked her head and looked at me; she wasn't meant to be for a girl showing off; wasn't meant to be obedient."

"The puppies like you, Arya; why don't you keep one or two with you, instead of spending a little time with each of them?"

"They're just... they're not me. They're not meant to be mine, to share my life; they're just... they're not Nymeria, and she's still alive, leading her own pack. These are Ghost's get. He was always quiet, and the Frozen Shores bitches who whelped them bigger than even Nymeria, but they're still too well behaved for me."

Sansa rolls her eyes, petting Jeyne, who put her enormous furry head on Sansa's belly, "Only you would think the rest of that lot were too well behaved. Eight of them got into the kitchens yesterday, running around under the baking tables until Donovar lured them out with some drippings. The kennelmaster swears they're the unruliest bunch of dogs he's ever seen... I may talk to Meera about appointing a new kennelmaster for the castle. Could you find someone?"

"I'll talk to Skamund and see who from the ice-river clans might want to, and Tormund to see about the Frozen Shores clans. That's probably a good idea, too - you won't let me go South without the troupe, so you won't have Donovar to oversee things anymore," said Arya contemplatively, scritching under Alayne's chin as the puppy whined softly.

Then the small Stark let out a sudden huff as the third puppy flounced atop Arya, driving the air out of her to shove her nose under Sansa's hand, "Beth! Get off! Jump on the Hound if you want jump on someone, you great bitch!"

Giggling, Sansa guided Beth down to lay across their feet, wiggling her toes to rub the poor lonely puppy's belly.

************************

Daenerys looked around the room deep in the First Keep at her advisors, "Grey Worm? What is the military situation here?"

"They stop attack. We defend. Now they wait, we not attack. More than two, maybe three hundred thousand. Defenses good; Unsullied can use, can fight behind. Need many spears; dragon-glass break easy," replied Grey Worm.

"Qhono?"

"Need khalasar. Good archers move fast on horse, over bridge. Need many bridge, not leave bridge behind when retreat. Kill many wight. Iron, steel, bronze no good. Arakh no good. Bows good. Need many many many dragon glass arrow. Good arrow, fly very far, straight."

"Lord Tyrion, the political situation?"

"Well, I don't think there's much chance of the North or the Vale deciding to join you, my Queen. I have heard that the Princess of Dorne is here; she attended the coronation of Queen Sansa Stark the day we arrived, though I haven't seen anyone Dornish beyond Acolyte Alleras and... his... guards. Princess Sarella Sand is said to be a ruling princess," replied Tyrion, expounding a little as he noted Daenerys watching him without speaking, "Dorne follows the Rhoynish customs; they are always ruled by a Prince or Princess, never a King or Queen, and your ancestors, my Queen, allowed them to keep those titles."

Daenerys simply continued watching him for a long moment, expression neutral.

"And Alleras is a woman," continued Tyrion, a little uncomfortable as the silence stretched longer.

"And the rest of my territories?" asked Daenerys dryly. Who her advisor had noticed was and was not a woman was not what she and her other advisors needed to hear, and would not help her, though she decided that she would at least like to meet another strong woman like the master archer she'd heard about.

"Ah, yes, of course! Dragonstone is stable, the Unsullied and Dothraki are holding it without issue. I've heard no indications of trouble from Dragon's Bay," said Tyrion quickly.

Daenerys watched him for a moment. She'd follow up with him later, in private - that answer hadn't actually been much of an answer.

"Lord Varys?"

"Lord Patrek Mallister is also present, as you know, and was at the coronation. Further, I have heard whispers that his father has offered his hand to Arya Stark. Combined with Lady Frey's close company with Queen Sansa, I believe the northern Riverlands may also be under the sway of the North. A few little birds whisper that Princess Sarella of Dorne will declare for neither you nor for Queen Sansa; Dorne will be independent. There is general support for Queen Sansa; the soldiers are loyal to the Starks - mostly to Lady Winter, as are the lords and ladies to Queen Sansa and the smallfolk to one or the other; it varies, peasant to peasant. You, my Queen, have improved your standing; the soldiers and those in the camps behind them who you protected with dragonfire are grateful, and your dedication in clearing the defenses for so long after the battle is also appreciated."

"Varys, you said the northern Riverlands. That implies only part of the Riverlands; what about the Southron Riverlands?" asked Tyrion.

"No whispers at all, I'm afraid, though I have not seen any evidence of supplies or men from Riverrun," said Varys.

"Missandei? What have you heard?"

"The people are proud to have won against the dead, my Queen. They are relieved that the wights inside the town and castle were easily destroyed, and proud not only that their own training let them destroy those wights, but also that their work digging and building was an important part of their survival, and that work is acknowledged by those who fight and those who lead. It is strange, your Grace."

"How is it strange, Missandei?" asked Queen Daenerys.

"When you came to Astapor, you burned my Master with your dragon's fire, you set the Unsullied and other slaves free. When you came to Yunkai, Grey Worm and the others opened the gates from the inside, and you set the slaves free. When you came to Meereen, you asked the slaves to rebel, and they did, and opened the city to you. Here, it is like Meereen; the people part of what is happening, and they take pride in that. They know you came to fight the dead, that you provided dragonglass, and they are grateful for that, but they do not look on you as a savior, even as they know your children burned the dead by the hundreds or thousands. While they are grateful for the dragonglass that you have given them, they are also aware that the 'better' dragonglass was bought from Essos," said Missandei.

Grey Worm took up the report, a bit disgruntled at how the people he'd been observing weren't following his Queen as he had expected, "Soldiers, they see dragon fire. They use fire, green fire, dragonglass weapons. Soldiers think dragon fire like green fire; is good weapon, but not special - soldiers also think fire good, siege engines good, arrows good, food good. My Queen not just give weapons, but also fights; soldiers approve, but only follow own leaders, who also fight. Is not like Essos, not like Masters who too scared to fight. Here no leaders scared to fight."

"Jon?" asked Daenerys softly.

"The defenses don't stop the dead, but Arya uses them to trap the wights and destroy them; even the white walkers, here and in White Harbor both. She costs the Night King more than he gains every time he attacks; even with half a million wights in the North, he's obviously scared of Arya. She's fighting the Night King, and Sansa opened up another glass garden while we were burning the dead," said Jon ruefully. His little sisters were doing the job he thought he'd have been doing.

"Excuse me, Lord Snow; what is a glass garden? I thought the formulation in your language was that the product of the garden preceded the word garden, such as a rose garden, or a fruit garden," asked Missandei.

"A glass garden is a garden enclosed in Myrish glass - you can grow plants in it all year round, even those that like it warm. We've had lemon trees from Dorne in one for longer than even Old Nan can remember, so we have lemons and other fruits that ward off the winter sickness grow even deep in the winter," answered Jon.

"Queen Sansa opened up a garden during a battle?" asked Tyrion, "The timing seems rather curious."

"Sansa's always been very concerned with the food stockpiles. We can," said Jon, pausing as he re-thought what he was going to say, given the current situation, "I always thought we could figure out what to eat after we killed the Night King. Since we're surrounded by an army that doesn't need supplies, Sansa may have had more of a point than I'd thought at the time."

"It's worse than that, I'm afraid," said Lord Varys, "Whispers are that the Green Fork and the Blue Fork rivers are both frozen solid south of Fairmarket, with large amounts of ice seen at Lord Harroway's Town. The Riverlands are no longer capable of growing crops, and likely will not be again until spring, however far off that may be. Meereen, like Highgarden, report the shortest days and coldest temperatures in any recordsthe Maesters have, though they are still easily able to grow food - the days, it seems, are still longer to the south."

Daenerys thought for a moment. Every missive from Sansa she'd received or heard about had been concerned with food and cold, with preparing to survive the winter. The winter and the far future was Sansa's concern, she thought, as all fighting was Arya's concern, and the Night King was Jon's. All of them had to be her concern; she didn't have a sister to share them with. Nor, she mused, did she have people to delegate specific concerns to. Well, that was something she could change easily enough, once she knew what concerns were most pressing. Dragons did not hesitate once they decided on a course of action.

"Lord Hand, send word to Daario immediately. Every field is to be put to use growing crops for the winter and the war; every person who wishes to work will be paid a fair wage from my treasury. Every worker who has no field to work is to create new fields to till. The Dothraki are here, with me, so there should be no danger. We will offer excess crops to our neighbors and allies at a low price, to foster goodwill."

"My Queen, that will take a long time to repay the investment, even if there are buyers for the food! Paying that many workers is very expensive," exclaimed Tyrion.

"Exactly how expensive? How much is in the treasury now? Will I need to raise taxes? How much would they need to rise? Do we have enough to not need to do so? What will happen to my people if they do not have work? How will they clothe themselves without being paid" asked Daenerys, looking steadily at Tyrion. She needed more than clever plans and attempted japes from him; she needed him to step up and perform all the duties of the Hand of the Queen. She'd start to address that right now - and both her problems had the same solution.

"I don't have those figures in front of me, your Grace," replied her Hand.

Daenerys bit back her first reaction, to snap at Tyrion for his failure to even know how much money she had, and paused for a moment before responding, just as she'd learned in her staff training; attacking angrily always led to a painful result. She felt herself able to do this more quickly than before, though she could see her advisors had noticed the pause, and kept her voice level despite the irritation from that as well, "Then it's past time to fill out the Small Council. I have a Hand. Lord Varys is Master of Whisperers. Find me suitable candidates for Master of Coin, so that they can take up some of the duties the busy schedule of Hand doesn't leave you time for. Send word to Oldtown that I require a Grand Maester, and Dragonstone, Astapor, Yunkai, and Meereen all require Maesters as well."

Tyrion looked startled for just a moment at her command, then bowed his head, "Of course, your Grace, but the Citadel has never sent Maesters to foreign lands before."

"They're not foreign lands, they are my lands. I am Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Whether I have the North, the Vale, and Dorne or not, I do have Astapor, Yunkai, and Meereen. You may inform the Citadel of that when you request the Maesters," commanded Queen Daenerys.

"Yes, Your Grace. May I respectfully remind you that the customs in Dragon's Bay are somewhat different than those here?"

"Consider me reminded; Dorne has had their own customs, have they not - I believe I've been told they allow the firstborn to inherit, regardless of sex. An enlightened custom, to be sure; I am sure all my kingdoms can manage their own customs as part of the Seven Kingdoms. As to my small council, you will provide me with a list of several candidates for each position," Daenerys said, thinking 'not just one' to herself as she continued, "with specific points in favor of and against each of them for me to consider. We'll start with Master of Coin, and proceed to the other positions after that, since that would seem to be our most pressing need."

She met each of their gazes levelly, trying to see what they were thinking. She wasn't a fool; she knew Varys and Tyrion had their own agendas. Varys claimed it was the 'realm', but he'd originally been backing her craven, cruel brother. Or so it appeared, she thought; precious little in her life had ever been as it appeared, it now seemed, so why would that? Tyrion was obviously concerned for his family. His brother who had killed her father - her evil father, the Mad King - was here, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. His sister was in the Red Keep, which Tyrion was trying his best to keep her dragons away from. Well, she'd deal with that soon. First, she needed to remind them, to make them understand one of their most important duties, so she spoke, voice intense with her earnestness and sincerity.

"Lord Varys, after we took Dragonstone, I told you that if you ever think I'm failing the people, you should look me in the eye and tell me so. I command each of you to do so! I have freed people from slavery, I intend to free those under Cersei's tyranny, and I intend to leave things better than I found them. If I am failing to do those things, if I am failing the people, you must look me in the eye and tell me how I'm failing them."

After receiving a round of solemn nods, she continued, "These glass gardens; will we need them if the Long Night continues? Arya told me that during the first Long Night, rivers froze as far south as Highgarden, well into the Reach. I will not have my people starve to death in the winter! We're already short on food, and the cargo ships had to take the long way around to avoid Euron's fleet."

Starting to think, Tyrion answered slowly, "The glass gardens here trap the heat from the hot springs and from the sun. The days are growing shorter, so it is safe to assume that we can only depend on the hot springs. There aren't enough hot springs in the world to feed all the people, even with plants that can grow without much sun - plants that normally grow well in shade, like mint and rhubarb, or even lettuce, spinach, broccoli, carrots, potatoes, peas, some kinds of beans, and so on. None of those grow in frozen soil with frost on their leaves."

Daenerys thought; she had never heard of hot springs in Dragon's Bay, though it was far to the south... but they were still only three cities, and her flights across Westeros had showed her it was a vast land; she needed to feed all her people, in Essos and Westeros both. Dorne would probably be an important source of food as well; she'd have to find this Princess Sarella and speak with her. What else could she do? She had two children left, but they couldn't just breathe fire and grow enough food to feed even themselves. She was of the blood of Old Valyria, but their magics were lost to... wait. Not all the magic was gone.

"Old Valyria still burns, does it not, Lord Tyrion?" asked Daenerys Targaryen, heir to Old Valyria.

"Yes, it does, your Grace. The Fourteen Fires scorch the air and boil the water for... I see. You want to start farming in Old Valyria? Build glass gardens there... too close and they burn, too far away and you have to bring the heat in," mused Tyrion, leaning his head back on the stone wall, feeling how it wasn't as cold as it should be, and snapped his eyes open widely, "You can pipe the heat in! Pipe the boiling water through the glass gardens, and out again. Even if water from the Fires is poisonous, which it might be, if the pipes are closed, it doesn't matter! Other pipes can bring in fresh water for the crops. We'll have to find a way to deal with the stone men, but they can't be harder to deal with than the wights; expeditions to loot Valyria are common enough."

Daenerys smiles, "Very good, Lord Hand. I leave this project in your capable hands. See to it that it proceeds quickly."

"Yes, my Queen; I'll contact a Myrish glassblower at once. I'm sure I can find a friendly one at a tavern."

"Anything else for the war or the Long Night?" asked Daenerys, then continued at the lack of response, "What of Dragon's Bay?"

"I have only a few whispers, though if we remain here for a time I will have more for you. Daario has executed several Masters after the Sons of the Harpy reappeared several weeks ago, though Meereen is stable now. The councils in Astapor and Yunkai were experiencing rather more difficulty, but the news of the army of the dead, and of your fighting them, has been something of a stabilizing influence," replied Varys.

"The Sons of the Harpy need to be stopped. Lord Varys, find out who is behind it, why they're behind it, and what else they might want," said Daenerys, thinking back to the fitting and the points Arya and Sansa had made to her; she felt her anger at how they'd done that rise, then fall as she pushed it down and started thinking more carefully, "We'll meet again tomorrow on this; I want specific options from each of you. What else is happening in the world, Lord Varys?"

"Queen Yara is sailing for Essos as you requested. The wights that were shipped out as evidence are causing quite a lot of concern; in concert with the ravens that have already been sent and their observations of the Long Night, more kingdoms and Free Cities are making preparations, including Dragon's Bay. I will send a raven at once to inform them of your orders, naturally."

Daenerys nodded, "What else?"

"Your Grace, this came for you," said Missandei, handing her Queen an envelope of thick, fine parchment; the sigil of House Stark plain on the unbroken wax seal.

Daenerys cracked the seal and opened it, withdrawing another fine parchment covered in elegant calligraphy, inviting Queen Daenerys and one advisor to a meeting of the leaders of the North, the Vale, Dorne, the Twins, and Seagard; the Iron Bank representative was also listed as being present, as was Arya Stark by name. The purpose, it was written, was to discuss the war against the dead and the Long Night both.

"It appears I and an advisor have been invited to a meeting of the leaders of Westeros. I intend to make sure this one will be more profitable than the meeting with Cersei. Missandei, you are both intelligent and are not a political liability, so it is you who will accompany me," said the Queen sternly, looking at her Hand and Lord Varys before they could speak. They were on notice for their many failures, she needed unbiased advice badly... and her excuse was also true. Lord Varys was an incredible liability, here, looked down on blatantly by all. Tyrion was looked down on as a kinslayer as well as a Lannister and a dwarf, though that disdain was at least somewhat more hidden.

"Cersei is next, then. I am ending the siege immediately," continued Daenerys.

"Your Grace, we've been over this. You don't want to be Queen of the Ashes," said Lord Tyrion, soothingly.

"And I will not be," snapped the Queen, "Nor will I wait for a siege to starve the very people we just spoke of feeding. Send word to Dragonstone immediately; shipments of food and warm clothing are to be allowed to pass into King's Landing untouched, but no luxuries. No silks, no good wines, nothing for Cersei and her Lords and Ladies to enjoy, but the smallfolk should not suffer for the trespasses of those above them."

Daenerys suppressed a smirk as Varys cut off Tyrion before her Hand could quite begin to speak again. Tyrion wouldn't like this, but he knew what he was signing up for when he agrees to advise her.

"Your Grace, I take it you have a new plan?" asked Lord Varys with apparent interest.

"I do. I will not burn the city. I will not burn even the Red Keep with all its servants and prisoners. I have instead hired a professional; Cersei will be handled properly," replied Daenerys. She'd had the time during her training with Arya to bring up the contract she had been, she now knew, tricked into signing. Her arms teacher, it seemed, approved of her having a cool conversation while training, though she took a hard hit every time she showed a hint of temper. Harsh training, but she could feel she was the better for it; she would not be an uncontrolled berserker on the battlefield or on the throne. She wondered if her brother could have been a different person with training like that; if he'd been destined for madness, or if it could have been avoided. If she could have had a loving family.

As for the contract, tricked or not, she had signed it. Jon's sister had been quick to correct her; she had not hired the House of Black and White, not hired the Faceless Men, so the kill was not truly certain, not guaranteed by the young Stark's god of death... and yet she was quite certain that Cersei would never survive who came for her. Equally, she was certain that while the North and the Vale were lost to her, they had no designs on the Crownlands, the Reach, the Westerlands, and so on. The Riverlands... those were yet to be decided, she thought.

"Mercenaries?" asked Tyrion, "There are a few very good ones, like Bronn, who might be able to do it, but he wouldn't be able to get in, not after my sister closed the Red Keep off entirely. She wouldn't have forgotten about the tunnels."

"No, I hired Jon's sister, Arya Stark," said Daenerys, then smiled narrowly, "I hired a woman with the skills of a Faceless Man. I am quite sure she is capable of something less destructive than burning the Red Keep to the ground, given that she removed the Freys without hurting innocents... and yet Cersei herself will die. That much is certain."

"Your Grace, while I applaud finding a solution that will not harm the people, are you fully aware of the cost of hiring a Faceless Man?" asked Lord Varys carefully, disgust edging into his tone at the end.

************************

Qhono looked out from atop the wall at the walled town before him, the camps alight in the setting sun past the wall, defenders sitting in ordered ranks on the ramparts beyond, resting and eating after they'd practiced, and the dead far beyond that, cut in half by the line of shade and light. Insulting the Night King, those city soldiers were, showing neither fear nor respect for the army outside their gates; the largest army in the world, the enemy had, and this was only one in two. Two days had come and gone since the attacks, and the city dwellers here had sent a force out to the edge of the ditch inside the farthest ditch, and then showed the enemy exactly how they would defeat them, as if it would make no difference.

Strange, it was, to be on this side, atop thick city walls, behind trenches and other armies. It was not the Dothraki way, to hide like this, to cower behind trenches in the dirt rather than the glory of a pure attack, breaking their enemies before them, slaughtering and taking as they wished. The enemy, however, would not break; he had seen that. It could be forced back, but only just out of range of those monster arrows from the giant machines, and no more.

These city dwellers, too, did not break. It is known that city dwellers when faced with a great horde would cower behind their high walls, and that was true. But these would stop behind their walls and ditches and cower no farther, grant no glorious fights... and force back a force larger and more frightening than any khalasar could ever hope to be. When they sent their forces out to the ditch, they moved many different kinds of fighters together.

A Khalasar had those who liked the arakh and those who liked the bow, and while they rode all together, each fought on their own, proved their own strength to all who could see. It is known that the man who broke the enemy first should be followed, and a strong khalasar would break the enemy in many places; that was how a man could prove to the warriors he was worthy of challenging the Khal for leadership of the khalasar! How else to prove strength, but in battle?

That, he knew now, was a question the Dothraki would have to answer. These strange people in this land of frozen water had food for years in their stone houses. He had seen them cook and fight; he had heard the tones of their voices. They would not buy off a khalasar. They would retreat to their stone houses, like those near the Great Grass Sea would retreat to their cities. Back home, a khalasar would be able to ride around the city they'd chosen, burn the villages and fields, kill the farmers outside the tall walls and take their women and children as slaves. No city could allow that to happen, and so they would either ride out and fight the Dothraki atop the grasslands, or they would pay tribute, for they could not stay forever inside their walls.

Here, he thought they could. They could stay inside their ditches and their walls, eating their plain soup and bitter bread, drinking from the spring their stone house was on top of, and sing songs as they looked out at a khalasar freezing to death, waiting for the city to fall. And, he thought, if they did come out to fight, they would move far faster on the snow than his people - the trip here had been faster than he'd ever gone, the dogs faster than the best horses, day after day. And both dogs and horses pulled those giant bows, bows that shot not just arrows, but also fire. Spearmen like the Unsullied in front, longer spears behind like the spears of some other armies who had fought off hordes, bows behind that, giant bows behind that.

A large group like that could fight any khalasar even without tall walls or big ditches. In the snow, the khalasar couldn't outpace them, couldn't attack and kill and plunder where they liked. And the dead... the dead didn't stop. He'd stabbed one himself with his arakh, seen it keep attacking back at. He'd thought about that a lot, seeing the vast army before him; they could simply grab onto a horse and hold on, and that would let the rest of them easily kill any warrior who charged into them without a metal suit.

Even with the black stone weapons, they needed to change. Now he knew why they had been commanded to bring only archers and Unsullied. The Khaleesi had forbidden them to take slaves and to rape and pillage as they had before; truly, she was a good leader to have foreseen that the ways of their fathers had come to and end before the Dothraki, too, came to an end. Now, they needed to find a new path.

He had seen the little girl called a 'First Sword' show them the new way to fight... he could not use that new way if she could not actually fight. He could not command the khalasar to fight like city people unless the city people were strong! The only way to prove that was through battle - not the battle of the horde, but a man to... warrior... challenge.

"Must fight like them," said Qhono, "Not like did."

"Yes," said Grey Worm, also looking out at the enemy, and at his Queen's allies.

"Men not want fight like them."

"Unsullied follow our Queen's orders."

Qhono scoffed, "You not true warriors! No glory, no show strength! But you fight good. We fight good. Must learn fight same."

"Fight together," replied Grey Worm, "Dothraki and Unsullied. Unsullied in front."

"Khalasar archers behind. Horses move archers fast; always behind. Ride at enemy strength."

"Yes."

"Train morning? You, me. Khalasar, Unsullied here few days," said the blood-rider.

"Yes," replied Grey Worm with a nod, continuing as he saw the commander of the horse cavalry turn towards the steps, "Why you go?"

Qhono reached up to touch the bedraggled purple feather braided in his long hair, then ran his hand down his hair. He was proud of his long hair, proof of his many victories. He could keep it long, he knew - could stay as he was. That First Sword girl was a pretty one, with a tight, strong body. He'd seen women that looked like her before - had the Great Stallion lead them down a different trail, he might have taken her as a slave, broken her, seeded her and had her bear strong sons for him. Breaking a woman like her was as much fun as breaking a great stallion to ride, but it was not to be.

He would do as he must for his people; they must know that these strange new ways came from strength, not from cowardice and weakness. They knew his strength. They knew the strength of the Khaleesi's dragons. They must also know that he followed strength, that the leaders of these strange new ways were strong enough to be worthy to challenge, to fight with, to fight like.

The blood-rider strode quickly towards the First Keep. He would first wash his hair, and then go to the city with the short walls. He would challenge the First Sword, and if the Great Stallion was with him, if he was strong enough, he would emerge with long hair, much glory, and many questions on what trail to follow next. If the Great Stallion was not with him, he would need to ask the dwarf for more coin for another purple feather, and then he would force all who challenged him to cut their own hair when he defeated them in single combat, thus proving his strength forcing them to change their ways! The Khaleesi tried, she did, but it was up to him and her other true blood-riders to ensure the Dothraki would have the strength to survive in this strange new world... even if there weren't quite the Dothraki their ancestors were.

************************

"Are ye sure it's here?"

"Aye, you dumb cunt. We got the right tree, the right stream, the right boulder, all like that raven from Lady Winter said. I've checked it three times. Just keep digging. That's what you're being paid to do, and paid well!"

"We's five foot down like it 'ay an still nothin!"

"Keep diggin' I say! We's bein paid to find it and bring it back."

"Wait! Wait! Look 'ere! We's found 'omethin'!"

"Watch ye'self! Not so 'ast!"

"Aye, aye! Gots it! Lemme wipe 'er off... ooohhh, lookit' 'at! 'Eautiful, it is. Cost a fortune, if'n we sells it."

"Oh? And you think those lords and ladies with enough coin to buy a Valyrian steel longsword like Vigilance kept all that gold by being honest, upright, fair dealing folk?"

"We kin hides it, makes 'em 'ay 'first!"

"And exactly what do you think Lady Winter will do? There's no place in the North, or the South, the East, or the West that the Three-Eyed Raven couldn't find you - by the gods, man, we got a gods be damned map to a damn buried sword that's been lost for hundreds of years! And after he finds you, there's nowhere in Westeros or Essos you could flee to and live long enough to find a buyer, much less spend the coin even if you could magically survive selling it. You'd die, and die slow when Lady Winter finds you. Gods, man, if you're going to betray someone, at least pick an easier pair of cunts than a Faceless Man and the Three-Eyed Raven! Maybe spit in Euron Greyjoy's eye and steal the crown from Cersei Lannister's head at the same damn time! No, this is going straight to Winterfell, and we're going to be well paid and live to enjoy it."

"Ya... I guess ye's gots a 'oint. Ain't no 'ood 'omes from 'ucking with magic 'uckers. 'et's go!"

"Not quite yet. First you need to fill that hole in again and hide that it was disturbed; we're being paid for that, too."

"Gods 'amnit."

************************

"Esinasolat!" called Ser Jorah, as he had every few minutes for days, and watched as the ambling column started rapidly catching up while first one, then another of the Dothraki in the lead fell back into a single file walk, the next group kicking into a canter to replace those breaking the way through the snow at a quick amble, packing the snow down for the long column while the outriders of Northern and Vale cavalry rode easily atop the snow on their snowshoes; some wildling invention, like the scorpion sleds that were there to kill dragons.

Oh, they talked about wight dragons, but he knew the truth; they'd been built to kill his Khaleesi's dragons, and it didn't matter to them whether those dragons were wights or not. Still, his Queen had commanded, and he would obey. She had listened to him and the little man, too, and at least gone to Winterfell as quickly as she could and still have some protection against the Night King and the wight dragon. She had Grey Worm and Qhono with her, at least; they'd protect her on the ground if it came to it, but she'd never faced a dragon in the air; no one had for hundreds of years, and he worried for her when that happened.

He guided his horse into the snow to his right, shoving into it and carving himself and his horse a small niche so the small khalasar could pass him in the narrow trench the horses were packing. Many horses were carrying both a Dothraki and an Unsullied; they rotated between that and riding on sleds. The Unsullied had tried insisting they could just run, but they didn't know the cold, didn't know what would happen when they stopped, soaked in sweat from running through snow. He'd grown up on Bear Island, seen many winters, and he'd still never seen so much snow, felt such cold before. And now here he was, commanding the summer forces his Khaleesi had brought to fight the dead. The Night King and the dead, stories told to frighten children, he'd thought!

That, he could doubt no longer; they'd slaughtered two separate small groups of wights already and avoided four more, each led by a White Walker. None had been too large, but the threat was real; they had to keep moving and make Winterfell before they were swarmed by the full force of the dead. The caravan's wargs had directed them with skill, though they were limited by the speed of the horses and herds they were traveling with. Mounts for men, mounts with full saddlebags, sheep and goats to feed men and dragons, mounts pulling sleds provided by White Harbor, in addition to all those being pulled by the rest of the caravan, up on their snowshoes.

Mounts ridden by idiot horselords who felt they were the best riders in the world. Mounts ridden by men who thought snow was no different than sand, and who had decided to take the 'short way', right over a hidden crevasse under the unbroken topsnow, and who were now floundering in a hole five and ten feet deep.

"Fichat fiez!" he called out, riding forward as the Dothraki fetched ropes. There were no trees on this stretch of the journey, and he could see no rocks, so he'd need to beg help from the outriders.

Again.

************************

 

[Epic Reader]

Arya stalked into the Great Hall, letting the barest hint of a smirk play on her face as she used her Littlefinger step. The hall was cold, the candles and torches dark, the fire banked, ash piled over coals after Sansa and Meera had each finished holding their respective conclaves, to preserve the fuel until dinner was held late into the night; there was none to waste, with a long winter ahead, under siege and unable to cut more wood. They had small mountains of firewood, but when those mountains were exhausted, the only places to replenish them were outside, past the army of the dead; they weren't being quite as frugal as the Free Folk, but within the confines of their situation, they were pretty close.

In the deep shadows ahead, illuminated by a line of pale starlight coming through a crack in the wooden shutters over the windows, she approached the Spider. She was sure he'd noticed her coming in, sure at this distance, in the quiet empty hall, he could hear her steps, but he gave no sign. She came to a halt beside him, gazing at the similarly illuminated throne shared by Sansa and Meera; a simple thing, solid and wooden, made of tight-fitted planks rather than carved from a solid tree; the solid trees of that size had been sold to Braavos or used for the construction of tall buildings, not used for frivolity... and the planks hid thick metal armor deep inside, to protect from a bolt through the back, or allow hiding below with protection from attacks from above.

"When you were on the streets, where did you like to sleep? Alleys, culverts, gutters, hovels?" asked Arya quietly, coming to a stop next to him, her arms folded before her, hands completely hidden by folds of her cloak as she deliberately mirrored his posture.

"Abandoned houses, when I could; otherwise, alleys; the back corner, preferably," replied Lord Varys smoothly, as if he had been expecting that very question. She wondered idly how he would fare in the Game of Faces.

"I always liked the culverts. Shelter from the rain, and less competition if you go deep enough; you just have to get out before the tide."

"Mmm... a dangerous choice, if one becomes trapped. Many culverts carry things I wouldn't want to drown in."

"In King's Landing, that was true for me; some of the others blocked off the entrance I used once, so I had to find another. In Braavos, well, I didn't have to worry about that as much, though I didn't have a good friend looking out for me in either place; I imagine that made the alleys rather less dangerous," replied Arya.

"Good friends are always valuable, Lady Winter. My little birds often traveled the culverts, yet you vanished without a trace in King's Landing."

"Did I?" asked Arya innocently, tilting her head at her counterpart as Master of Whisperers. She'd hidden herself from everyone, including other children, each night in the alleys of King's Landing, until her father was killed and she left with Yoren. She hadn't known of his little birds then, but her caution had, she suspected, saved her life. Unlike Sansa, if she'd been captured, she'd never have been able to avoid attacking the Lannisters, and they'd have killed her for it.

Of course, whether children asked to find the daughter of the Lord Paramount of the North, of the Lord Hand, a highborn girl, would have recognized her at all as she hid in the sewers... that would depend very much on whether or not anyone had sent them with a description of a small bravo's blade, seen after she killed the stable boy, perhaps, or deduced from the nature of the injury if anyone found it remarkable when cleaning up the corpses. Or, perhaps, known of after careful and covert searches of her luggage.

She'd been stupid, then, and foolish - she should have found a slender dagger and used that to disguise or explain the stableboy's injury, rather than leave signs that someone not a Stark guard with their larger blades had fought back. Still, she'd made it out indeed, either without the Spider knowing, or with him still playing his own games as always and lying to her skillfully enough she couldn't tell. Were she a priest of the Red God, she'd attribute her escape to some higher plan, but she was not. She was a priest of the Many-Faced God, and his only plan for her was death, and that would only happen in its time.

Not today.

"May I speak more directly, Lady Winter, even if the topic may not please you to speak of with a guest in your home?" asked Lord Varys deferentially, as a man who knows he is a dead man if his very thin welcome as a guest wears out might.

"You may," replied Arya, as graciously as Margaery Tyrell might.

"You did. You showed great talent for subterfuge and an aptitude for caution rare in the highborn, and your skills have only grown since," said the Spider, then changed topics, "You've worked for what you've earned. You've seen more of the world than just our home; you've seen what men desire, and women too. Splitting the kingdoms will always mean there will be those who desire more than they have, and will be willing to go to war over it. Queen Daenerys respects you, and she loves Jon; why not talk to your sister about rejoining the Seven Kingdoms? With the right ruler on the throne, the realm will have peace, and the people will prosper; your people as well."

Arya tilted her head at the door, indicating the army outside the trenches, testing Lord Varys with a comment, "We have bigger concerns to think about right now, I would think."

"Come now, No One, you know better than I that either we will all die here, very soon, or this concern will indeed be one we must think about, and it will be no easier for waiting," Varys said, smiling condescendingly, "Valar Morghulis."

"Valar Dohaeris," replied Arya in perfect seriousness, "Come now, Spider, six Dornish wars, Maegor's rebellion, the Dance of the Dragons, five Blackfyre rebellions; let's not pretend the realms were at peace or the smallfolk prospered when the Targaryens held the Iron Throne."

"Last held," replied Varys calmly.

"Held. Cersei holds the Iron Throne now, not your Queen," said Lady Winter.

"A state of affairs I understand you intend to correct," said Lord Varys, continuing in a faintly sharper tone, "And while that is a laudable goal, and one I share, at what price, I ask myself."

"At the price your Queen agreed to. No more, and no less. You should be glad; your Queen hired a true professional, rather than a bumbling amateur more likely to start a war than stop one."

"I see. I must also offer my belated congratulations, Lady Winter; Littlefinger was a very dangerous man. For him to have met his end here, and in an actual trial, well..." said Lord Varys, inclining his head deeply, "My respects to the Master of Whisperers of... what do you call this country? I've heard many names, but none seemed to have official approval behind them."

Arya returned the nod exactly as deeply as Varys had given it, and replied, "I'm currently trying to get Sansa to declare it the Two and a Bit Kingdoms, but she's still on the fence, I think, and she has the choice; I am but a simple servant of the crown with little power of my own."

"Of course you are."

"Just as you are, is it not so? Power is a curious thing, Spider. Power, political power, resides where men believe it resides. It's a trick, a shadow on the wall. Littlefinger used lies to increase his power... yet what did he have once we exposed his lies? He had only the face of desperation left to him when his lies were abandoned, his money worthless, his blackmail useless, his chaos contained, his ladder broken," said Lady Winter, Master of Whisperers, repeating nearly exactly what Bran had relayed to her when she sought to learn about her Southron counterpart. She could hear his heart beating faster as she spoke, though his breathing remained even, his face showing only a faint, fleeting trace of fear and disgust as she repeated phrases from private conversations he'd had years before.

"Indeed, power is a curious thing. I've heard whispers that Queen Sansa shared the contents of the raven that Cersei made her write when she was first captured with the lords and ladies of the North and the Vale, and even that you, Lady Winter, shared that you had been Lord Tywin's cupbearer at Harrenhal. Using the truth is not something that would have occurred to Lord Baelish, nor to Cersei. Your fooling Lord Tywin was a remarkable feat of acting; he was a very perceptive man. My little birds had told me of this new cupbearer he'd found, the daughter of a stonemason who was literate, as many who make their living off of grave markers and tombs are, but who had also taught his daughter to read, but they never saw through your acting."

"Thank you for the compliment. I learned a lot from Tywin, much of which has become vital to fighting the Night King and his army," replied Arya.

"A vile magic, that, and one so far-reaching that even I would have hesitated to believe before hearing such detailed reports, before seeing it," replied Lord Varys, his hatred clear and genuine in his voice.

"A curious thing, hating magic even while being named Master of Whisperers to a Targaryen Queen and her magical dragons. I feel I must warn you that guests are forbidden from harming each other while under guest right, in addition to guests not harming hosts, and vice versa... no matter how much some may wish to. The Red Priests and Sorcerers will be here soon, and as long as they are here to fight the Night King and his army, they abide by guest right, and they do not practice necromancy or otherwise aid the Night King, they are protected, just as you are," said Arya seriously, letting a hint of warning show on her face and in her voice; she wasn't sure how acute his eyesight was in lighting this dim, and she wanted to be sure he understood fully.

"Naturally, No One. I assure you, my greatest wish is to be a good guest while I am under your roof. You are aware that the true motivations of sorcerers and priests," said Varys, inclining his head towards her with some irony, "Can be difficult to discern, hidden in strange ways... until it is too late?"

With a matching ironic incline of her head, Arya answered, "I am well aware, Spider. You are aware that not all magic is evil in and of itself? However, were you to keep an subtle and limited eye out for any indications of necromancy, that would be little different than two or more kingdoms keeping a subtle and limited eye on the military preparations of their powerful neighboring kingdom or kingdoms; a wise precaution that helps peace continue, as long as it never becomes something that can cause trouble or instability, and when anything... unusual results in a raven or a message, not an attack. As long as that limited eye on the military stays limited, and stays an eye, not a dagger cutting unseen and unfelt."

"I believe we understand each other perfectly," said Lord Varys. He'd have to be very careful, he thought, but he hated sorcerers above all other forms of magic, and if spying on them was all he could do without risking his own death, well; beggars can't be choosers, after all.

"I have also heard whispers; these from across the Narrow Sea, some time ago. Whispers of fresh young dragons, not quite big enough to ride, but near enough; or perhaps already big enough, the whispers vary. They roamed the skies of Essos; one, the largest, roamed much farther than the others; a sight that caused faces of both wonder and fear. Most felt fear, the moreso when hungry dragons burned and ate of their herds, yet some felt wonder. One young man in particular, beardless and blue of hair, showed this wonder so strongly that he approached the black dragon when it landed near him, against the advice of all around him. He reached his hand out to the dragon, and it reared back. The whispers vary on what he did then, but they all agree, the black burned him alive, then stepped on his charred corpse; neither his bravery nor his golden companions kept him alive. Why would a young man think he could approach a dragon like that, do you think, Lord Varys?" asked Arya Stark, listening to another change in the beating of his heart, as well as, this time, a change in his breathing, quickly corrected, though his face showed only a glimpse of something she couldn't place, something complex, including disappointment and something very like regret or remembered failure.

"That is a fascinating whisper; I've heard much the same. A shame, that the boy lost his life. I'm afraid I cannot possibly know what a young man would think when confronted by a dragon in the wild," replied Lord Varys evenly, no trace of actual care for the event on his face or in his voice, no trace except his heart beating faster, his breathing every so slightly quicker, such that only one with the skills of a Faceless Man might notice.

"Of course not; that was years ago and far away, but interesting nonetheless. I'd thought Lady Wylla was one of the few who dyed her hair beyond a few whores and courtesans in the Free Cities and Braavos. Interestingly, most of those who dye their hair odd colors - green, purple, blue - have blonde or silver hair. It's difficult and expensive to get good dyes, dyes that aren't also poisonous, that don't run in sweat and fog and rain. For a dye to work well on hair that was dark colored in the first place, like mine... even more difficult and much more time consuming. Not an easy thing to do out in the wild, you know."

Varys showed no other reaction than to tilt his head slightly so the thin line of pale light shone upon the top of his bald pate, "I'm afraid I have little experience with hair dyes, Lady Winter. Did you once try to dye yours as Lady Wylla does? Many young ladies do, at least once or twice."

"I'm not vain enough to try anything like that, I'm afraid, and my little childhood rebellions were more in the line of learning to fight. Still, I fight little outside of duels and the training yard now, and having seen the Riverlands during the War of the Five Kings, I'm glad of it. Not having to fight more wars after the Night King is killed is something I strive for, Lord Varys; I am no seeker after glory on the battlefield."

"No, you're more the knife in the dark, aren't you, No One?"

"Just so, but a knife spends most of its life in the sheath, and many knives spend the rest building and creating things - whether cutting dinner, stripping bark for building materials or tinder, or skinning game for the kitchens or fire," said Arya, hearing and seeing his responses, "And it's not like you don't employ knives in the dark, too; dull ones, to be sure, but knives all the same. Had you employed real assassins instead of upjumped thugs and sellswords, you wouldn't have had to try so many times. A real professional would have offered the target's name up to the Many-Faced God the first time."

"Perhaps; we'll never know now," replied Varys, unperturbed.

She sensed nothing clear; Varys had hired cutthroats many times, used his little birds sometimes, and on rare occasion even hired those pathetic Sorrowful Men, but he'd never so much as hinted at wanting to hire the Faceless Men. Perhaps he believed they truly had magic, which he hated... and perhaps he was never willing to pay the price. He clearly had great plans, and like most with great plans they cared about more than anything else, he had been unwilling to give those very plans up. Ironic, she thought, if what she suspected was true.

Arya tilted her head slightly, abandoning the circling wordplay for a linear style, "Whatever reason you may once have had for arranging for Viserys and Daenerys to be fostered is gone, Lord Varys. Only Daenerys is left, and you have failed her as a teacher and as an advisor. The North and the Vale are beyond her reach; there is no military force she can gather greater than the Night King's, no attack by subterfuge she, or you, could long survive trying, and there are no political levers available sufficient to change that. This I believe will be true of her successor, and her successor's successor. The Seven Kingdoms as they were have already been given to the Many-Faced God; what follows is yet to be determined."

"And what would you want in their place, Lady Winter? A weak government, crippled by internal strife, feuds and rebellions year after year? I believe a just monarch, strong enough to cow the lords and wise enough to understand and speak for the people, not ruled by their personal desires is the key to the prospering of the realm."

"Then on behalf of my sister, I thank you for your kind words; she is a just ruler not driven by her own desires, with the political power to cow the lords who walk in the light and me to cow those who skulk in the dark. Her overriding focus since she's returned to Winterfell has been on keeping all the peoples of the North and close allies alive through the winter to come - as many as possible, highborn and smallfolk alike. We want stable and peaceful neighbors to the North and to the South; the lords of the North and the Vale have been learning that trade is a great boon indeed, and trade flourishes in times of peace, when the realms prosper. Daenerys may have the military strength to cow the shattered remnants of the Stormlands and the Reach, and the Crownlands will follow the Red Keep as they have since they were formed by Aegon and his sister-wives, but the Westerlands... those will require more in the way of politics to bow to a despised kinslayer who is also a dwarf. If she lacks the political skill, then I suggest that her advisors begin truly training her for the task," said Arya with the faintest of condescending emphasis on 'advisors'.

"You're quite welcome; I do admire talent that has been put to work when I see it. I thank you for your suggestion, as well. The lords of the Westerlands are always prideful, though should Cersei no longer hold the Red Keep, they may be somewhat more malleable."

"I'm going to kill Cersei, which will stop her from holding anything. That should help Daenerys in her quest... and that will also clean up some of the mess left behind after you allowed Cersei's lies to continue until they killed my father, my mother, my brother Robb, my brother Rickon, my good-sister, my unborn niece or nephew, Lady, Grey Wind, and others. You knew they were illegitimate, you knew it before they were born. You were not the one who killed them, but you could have stopped it much, much earlier. My sister has decided to offer you guest right, so while you are our guest, you are safe. Whatever plans you may once have had, the situation's face has changed entirely. The Seven Kingdoms as they once were are gone. You must choose the face you wish to wear, Lord Varys; mentor, teacher, advisor to Queen Daenerys, a man who left Westeros entirely; you have many choices. Those which do not interfere with lands that are not yours, those which do not plunge realms into war, I care little about. Now, I have an appearance to make as First Sword."

With that, Arya turned and strode nearly silently out of the Great Hall, breaking into her usual much louder jog as she crossed the threshold.

Varys waited several minutes before he left the Great Hall, considering what he had seen and heard. Magic, he hated it; but there was little he could do about it now. For the moment, he could attend the outskirts of the bravo duels, watch from a distance, and listen. Many little birds whispered at tourneys and duels, and perhaps he could hear something about the 'Underfoot' he'd been hearing whispers of there.

************************

Ser Nicholas strode through the gathering crowd, his head held high as he exchanged smiles with the beauteous Rosa, who had agreed to accompany him to the town square tonight. He was but a third son, and with both his brothers still living, not likely to inherit anything soon. Being part of the force Lord Royce had assembled to free Winterfell and the North from the vile Boltons was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

He'd gotten to experience the glory and honor of battle for a righteous cause and a noble lady, he'd trained to defend the living in ways that had never been done before, he'd helped cast down the man who had seduced and ensnared the Lady of the Eyrie, he'd witnessed the coronation of the first ruling Queen of the Mountain and Vale, and he'd stood in line of battle against the most terrifying charge of creatures he could ever have imagined on the very front rank, knights to his left and right, northerners and free folk of great valor behind him. He had never been more than a middling rider, and as much as he'd wanted to, a middling swordsman as well, yet his lancework and spearwork were both excellent. Once he was unhorsed in tourneys, he would either win by the spear, or lose by the sword. Now, though, that very skill with the spear on the ground that had been of limited use before, was now critical; he was one of the best dragoons, riding to travel quickly and then dismounting to fight.

When his father heard, he thought, he would finally be proud of his third son. He'd proven himself a true knight; whatever his fears were, he hadn't faltered in battle. Now, perhaps, his father might find it worthwhile to arrange a betrothal for his wandering third son who'd finally settled down after 'wasting his time' traveling the Free Cities... but until that day, he was a free man, and on his arm was the single greatest gift he'd ever received, the attentions of the most beautiful courtesan in Westeros!

Some of the other knights still called her a whore, but he knew better. She was not just beautiful and wonderful in bed, but also a great dancer, articulate, and so skilled on the high harp that the Queen herself often asked for Rosa when she wanted music while she worked in the brothel's office. Rosa had even been called to play the harp in the castle itself! And she'd discovered a hidden talent when he'd taken her to see the Queen's sister's first bravo duels; Rosa had a keen eye for movement and for judging the outcomes of duels. She was perfect, and until his father arranged a betrothal, she was his as often as he could manage!

One of the other girls from the Mockingbird brothel approached, her own snug furs accenting her chest further, a bowstring running diagonally between her breasts and a quiver at her hip... pretty, he thought, but Rosa was more beautiful still, though she carried only the jeweled dragonglass dagger he'd bought from a Pentoshi merchant and given to her as a surprise gift two weeks ago.

"Lisa, you have my brave Ser Nick's winnings from General Qhono's fight?" asked Rosa sweetly.

"Of course I do," replied Lisa with a broad smile, holding up a large jingling purse and handing it to Rosa ostentatiously, to ensure those around would see, along with a smaller purse for Rosa's own personal winnings, standing up on her tiptoes to press a kiss to the tall woman's cheek, artfully shifting her cloak back to highlight their breasts pressing against each other's, then gave a kiss to Ser Nicholas's cheek as well, sauntering off saucily towards the man who'd been staring the most intently.

Nicholas preened as Rosa gave him a wonderful kiss while she handed him the purse; he could just feel the envy of the other knights. Even those others who had a girl here didn't have anyone half as entrancing as his! What his father might have said, well, what his old man didn't know wouldn't hurt him. His mother, a companion to Lady Waynwood, had sent a private letter warning him that once he was betrothed and married, he'd have to set Rosa aside... and congratulating him on his wisdom in supporting the Lady of Winterfell in court during Lord Baelish's trial. It wasn't exactly an endorsement from his mother, but it was close, and he was sure his mother hadn't mentioned Rosa to his father, and that was good enough for him.

"How'd you know the Dothraki would win, my love? He's obviously no bravo, and the Myrish fighter is a fair hand with a blade," asked Ser Nicholas, leaning over to whisper in her ear.

"I watched how he moves, my Lord," answered the curvy, raven-haired beauty in a sensual murmur, "He moves like a great dancer, supple and flexible, and this is a bravo duel. I also happened to hear that he fought the Tyroshi earlier, and won. The Myrish bravo has been improving, but still isn't used to someone dancing around them rather than coming straight in. General Qhono does like to dance and spin! But the horselord isn't you, my brave knight; worry not for my attentions! You are kind, and gentle, and brave. Tell me again how you fought against the White Walkers!"

Ser Nicholas traces a finger from his eyebrow to his ear, where a splinter from a thrown tree had come in and given him a scar that Rosa had assured him spoke only of his valor, and started telling the story again as the wound throbbed once; a reminder he was still alive, and that he had fought, truly fought, in the great battle.

After he'd finished, he was escorting her in to the Smoking Log when Rosa's hand, tucked through the crook of his elbow tugged him around gently to see the Queen approaching. He immediately swept into a deep bow as Rosa curtsied beside him. Lady Winter may have commanded all formalities be kept off the battlefield and the training yards, but dueling grounds were neither of those.

"Ser Nicholas, Rosa! How wonderful to see you both. Have you seen my sister yet?" asked the Queen.

As he straightened from his bow, he nodded deeply, glad that his Rosa had kept him informed of what was happening around them, "No, your Grace, by all accounts she's still in the training yard, along with Lady Brienne, Lord Jamie, and Lady Chella."

It was still strange, he thought, to be referring to the leader of one of the tribes of the Mountains of the Moon, who traditionally hated and fought with the Houses of the Vale, with true courtesy and honest respect. The Northern mountain clans were different, of course; they'd been petty lords and ladies for thousands of years. The Vale's mountain clas, however, had always been more like he'd heard wildlings were, feuding, letting women fight and rule... he watched Queen Sansa and her party of guards and family members heading up the stairs to watch when Lady Winter started to fight, and, shaking his head with a wry grin, he led Rosa to the bar to collect their ration of wine. He was lucky she was willing to wait until his day for a ration of wine came around to collect her own ration; they could drink together while they watched the duels.

Lady Chella was the Queen's armsmaster, and had commanded the ramparts in front of the Royce camp during both attacks. She, a clanswoman of the mountain tribes, had earned the respect of all men, and women too, of honor in the houses of the great and lesser houses of the Vale with her proven valor and skill. Truly these were strange times, that the tribeswomen would have defended the camps of the highest nobility of the Vale, would have commanded noble sons of the great houses. Stranger and more wondrous still was that Bronze Yohn himself had requested she do so for the first attack, and for the second attack Lord Royce had merely rode past his own camps at a canter, raising his lance to the Black Ear, to Lady Chella, as he took command of the Manderly ramparts just to the west. Well, now was the time to enjoy the most wondrous change of all, the courtesan on his arm.

Two streets away, Arya slid the Valyrian sword and its sheath from her belt, handing it to Donovar, who was himself in stiff leather armor fit to his small frame, and was acting as her squire as he handed her the training version of that same sword while Brienne did much the same with Pod, Jamie Lannister shoved his way to the front of the ring of spectators, and Varys stood half-shadowed in the distance, near a group of the less legally minded smallfolk. Betting was rife with speculation; this was the first time she'd used the new weapons against Brienne, and the martially minded betting folk loved a good match.

Around them was standing a small crowd, many of whom were eating bread, some with their small rations of salted meat. A more enterprising work party had, she could hear, volunteered to carry another set of empty barrels for refilling even after their watch had ended; they had sent half their number to fetch food, while the remainder had set up the barrels under an overhang on one of the new buildings, creating a set of makeshift tables at which the entire group was enjoying a full meal; bread, still-warm buckets of soup full of vegetables, the broth leavened with moss to ward off the winter sickness in place of lemon or other fruit, and large pitchers of water to enjoy before finishing moving the barrels.

"My Lady Winter, I see you're finally going to use something that isn't too short for you," said Brienne with a small grin, twitching her training longsword back and forth twice before starting the match with a two-handed swing and a grunt as Arya danced back, then turned sideways to swing the other way one-handed at the extend of her long reach as Arya bent over backwards, the ball at the end of the long, thin steel sword tapping the thin mail under Brienne's gauntlet at the web between her thumb and first finger where only leather protected her hand even before Arya was fully upright again.

"Disabled hand," said Arya, stepping back and taking a different, more offensive stance. The difference in reach was astounding; with Needle, she'd given up nearly ten inches of reach with her blade to Oathkeeper. Arya's new blade was just over half a foot longer than Oathkeeper's blade; added to her speed and precision, even taking Brienne's armor into account, it was no longer close to a fair fight. Two passes later, she'd hit Brienne's hand again and a gap in the armor at her thigh once, just as she'd expected, and Brienne stepped back, lowering her sword and turning to face Podrick.

"Pod," said Brienne, holding her left arm out to grasp the Vale-style shield, rectangular on top with a slightly curved downwards pointing triangle at the bottom, that Podrick handed her while he fastened the straps carefully around her arm, giving the shield a good tug against her strength to ensure it was on securely.

"My Lady, your shield. May the gods guide your blade," said Pod, before jogging back to his post and handing a small pouch to a scruffy boy passing by who had already collected a much larger pouch from the Lord Commander.

"You don't want to disappoint him, do you? Though calling on the gods to help a warrior defeat a priest... perhaps not the wisest prayer," teased Arya with a grin, winking at Pod once before stepping forward and striking out twice with her blade, right hand behind her as she attacked, the first strike countered by the sword and the second by the shield. Her opponent ducked low, crouching behind the shield and cutting more quickly and with less force. Arya deflected the blade, took a quick step closer and struck up at Brienne's eyes, dropping the tip to strike at her knee instead as Brienne's sword came up to defend and her knee turned to take the blow on plate armor; Brienne had gotten much better at seeing and responding to swift and sudden attacks. As Arya snapped back to a guard position, Brienne let out a loud grunt and struck forward with an overhand sword strike, the edge of her shield also striking out at Arya on the other side.

Arya deflected the sword to the outside, leaning back and twisting to avoid the shield as the deflection opened Brienne up for a strike, only for Brienne's shield itself to be angled in and strike quickly at her, shield and armored arm smashing against her, throwing her to the ground with what she knew would be a spectacular bruise on her face, Brienne's sword having tapped her hip even as Arya was still falling.

"A real shield isn't just for defense, my Lady Winter," said Lady Brienne even as Lady Arya rolled back and sprang to her feet in an instant, sword raised to her nose briefly in deference to the point scored.

"Well, at least you're taking me more seriously. You should have been using a shield before now," said Arya with a feral grin. Two more passes later Arya had lost once more, and scored a draw by using her right hand to grab onto the shield, pushing hard to the side and then shoving it into Brienne's face herself. Even the greatest warrior couldn't push forward and to the side forcefully at the same time, after all - when you were strong one way, you were weak to the other. Arya could see, however, that she wasn't going to be able to compete with Brienne using her full equipment with just a sword.

"It wouldn't have been clean, my Lady Winter," Brienne replied with a glance at Jamie, and then continued as she looked at Arya with a slight smile, glad that Lady Catelyn's younger daughter was finally arming herself properly to fit her skills, and her reluctance to have guards with her. She continued as she knew Lady Arya would want, having continually pushed for informality, "You were only using a child's sword, before."

"Donovar," called out Arya, catching the training replica of her dueling dagger easily in her right hand as the boy tossed it to her as he'd practiced, spinning it in her hand briefly to reacquaint herself with the heavier weight of castle-forged steel, then sidestepped to her left quickly, moving in to try and trap Brienne's sword with the dagger and open her up, starting the dance again. She smirked, "Needle was more than enough against that longsword you like."

After a much more even set of bouts with Brienne, Arya stepped back, exchanging blades and drinking deeply but slowly from the cup of ice-cold water her 'squire' handed her after he'd cracked the sheet of ice that had formed over the top while she trained. Varys had moved during the bouts, but remained on the outskirts; he'd barely be able to see anything, there... but whispers, he'd hear. She handed back the water, settling her larger weapons on her belt and rechecking her obvious knives before thrusting the training dagger into her belt, taking the training sword and darting up a mound of barrels of supplies by a building.

She made a circuit of the training yards, correcting the various fighters. Alira Bogg was breathing heavily, but she was still fighting strongly, leading her small shieldwall well against the vile forces of Alys Karstark the White Walker; Alys's height and reach made her a natural for the role, and her 'ice blade' struck another soldier down while her 'armored' arm brushed two spears aside by the heads... and then a thrown spear took her in the gut. "Walker dead!" called out Alys, a third of her 'wights' dropping briefly before crawling quickly out of the way through the mud. The others training took her orders, and then she was done; the training happened without her, now. She'd done that job, and done it well, and now they did not need Arya Stark to keep it going any longer; they would train themselves.

"Irresso, training blade and attack!" called out Arya as she reached the top, stepping out on the low wall around a few buildings which comprised one of the town's fletching centers, the steady crack of shattering dragonglass ringing out against the walls. Irresso climbed up as quickly as he could; once it was in range, she struck down at his head, forcing him to jump off and go around another way. As soon as he'd turned, she took off running along the top of the wall, leaving grey-black footprints as her boots mixed the fresh top snow with the buried layer of soot and ash from the fires three days before.

She slowed down before an icy patch ahead, above a now-cold smithy oven, out of use for lack of raw materials, and spun, dagger coming out of her belt as she took up a stance well suited for extremely linear fighting just on the other side of the ice. Her Braavosi student came to a halt on the other side of the ice, taking up a similar stance as he eyed the ice, then looked around; other than the chimney from the smithy oven, there was no other path to take but to go down completely and approach from another direction. She could hear most of the pack of messengers assigned to her skidding to a stop on the ground on both sides of the wall around her after having darted around buildings, a few of the bravest on the wall fifteen yards behind Irresso.

"Good! The footing's too treacherous there; no matter how good your footwork, if your shoes have no grip on the ground, you have no control of your balance, and you die," said Arya approvingly, then kicked snow up into his face as she spun and continued on, clashing with him five times atop the walls, balconies, and roofs before she jumped off a wall into the main town square, darting to the side and snapping her training blade out to tap her student on the ankle in the middle of his own jump down.

"Bad landing! Dead! Enough, get a drink and rest, then three laps around the town without touching the ground. You must be swift as a deer, and attack from unexpected directions!" ordered the First Sword, moving to the well and taking a drink of cold water herself, chewing the small pieces of ice that came up in the bucket with the water. She again exchanged weapons with Donovar, taking her sharp steel sword and dagger; she would not trap herself into over-reliance on the lightness of Valyrian steel, could not afford to be any less strong and fit than her very best, no matter which face she wore, what equipment she must use.

She took her position in the square, nodding to her sister, her brother, and the rest of those with them on the second floor balcony; amusingly, it appeared to be quite packed with royalty and leadership, including Daenerys and Sarella and their parties. As Qhono approached with a worn feather in his braids, the drums again signaled no change, and that the wargs had re-confirmed the Night King's position. He moved with a seriousness rarely present in Dothraki as a whole, arakh tucked into his belt rather than in his hand as most warriors of his people would have done.

"Anha, Qhono, qoy sajak tat khaleesi, tikh lajat yer!" said Qhono as he stopped in the place he'd seen the other challengers stop, far enough away to avoid the dancing master winning instantly; he wanted a fight, needed a real fight. Nothing else would do, and so he gave challenge in the way of these strange people in this dark, cold place, where horses and men could die of cold.

"Ate qoy lajat?" asked the First Sword.

Qhono nodded; yes, a fight to the first blood was the custom here just as it was among the Dothraki for fights to prove strength, but not to challenge for position - fights where both warriors risked their braids, not their lives, struggling to become stronger and to show strength both. In that struggle, the khalasar was made stronger as well, for the strength of its warriors was the strength of the khalasar.

As he had heard the bravest of the city dwellers around the Great Grass Sea did when they fought, he tapped the hilt of his arakh as he would tap a well-trained horse, then dashed to the side as the girl drew her sword and came right at him with the shocking speed he'd seen her use before, drawing his own arakh as he'd practiced and swinging around at her side with his full reach. She bent backwards to avoid his steel, and he spun to his side to avoid her own straight attack, spinning his arakh before him; the light city sword she had wasn't like a machete or great axe; it didn't have much power, so it was easy to deflect, far easier than an arakh would have been.

He attacked again in a whirl of steel as quick as if he were fighting a Khal, and she spun away herself this time, just as the best Dothraki warriors would, but faster than any warrior he'd ever seen. She fought with honor - her strength against his, not cowering behind thick armor and large shields, nor using long spears! Girl or not, she was a true warrior, as the best of the city-dwellers could be. She put one hand down on the ground and rolled her entire body to the side, her heels over her head as he reached out as far as he could, slipping his hand along the haft of his arakh to get the most reach he could, striking downwards at her limbs. She tucked her feet in and spun faster, her steel flashing out to deflect his arakh even before she fully regained her footing, her steel darting towards his eye as he ducked low and let her steel add strength to his own swing, the tip of his arakh aiming for her belly until the flat of her bare right hand smacked it down and he felt the tip of her own steel slash a narrow line across his throat.

Arya raised her blade in salute to the Dothraki and said, "Driv; tawak sajak nakho az disse ilek."

She thought he was quick and skilled, and had fought well despite a lack of formal training; he had clearly been in many duels, even if he thought of some of them as parts of battles, and the Dothraki way of dueling as as close to the water dance as any foreign style might be; yet even among the Dothraki, few were brave enough to use a bare hand to block a blade, when being a tiny bit too fast, too slow, or off-angle could result in the loss of hand, life, or both.

The man across from her gripped his hair just above where his dueling feather had been woven into the braid, brought up his arakh, and sawed it off at the base of his neck, stepping forward to hand her the trophy. Arya could see satisfaction - not just the satisfaction of facing a tough duel against a superior opponent and coming off well even with the loss, but a deeper satisfaction; he'd proven something to himself... and, she thought, he'd made a final decision on something - he was without doubt, now. She wiped her blade down and sheathed it quickly, taking his braid and holding it up, her voice carrying, "An honorable duel from a skilled warrior!"

She could hear Rosa and others collecting their winnings; her fights with most were bet on by the length of time or the number of passes it would be, not who would win - except, of course, against the Volantine or Brienne or a handful of others. The Volantine fought as the best bravos fight, won against her sometimes, and they tied even more often than that; she'd miss fighting him when he left for home on the next caravan. For now, though, she retook her place, awaiting the next challenger as the drums once again gave their status report; no change in the besiegers, wargs report the Night King and his wight dragon were still hovering two miles out.

Above them, on the second floor of the Smoking Log, Sansa watched Tyrion and Daenerys's reaction to the match between her sister and the Dragon Queen's Dothraki commander; there was something very strange about the man's reaction. She had expected scorn, or anger, or injured pride, or even humiliation; but that wasn't what he showed, not at all. Tyrion hadn't picked up on it, but the silverhead had; well, Arya hadn't given any signs but those of pleasure at a good match, so that wasn't a matter she needed to worry about as Queen of her kingdoms.

"Queen Daenerys, my congratulations to you on the skill of your general; very few indeed have the skill to last so long against my sister," said Sansa, her voice kind. She had ceased being amazed at how good Arya was, though she always had some worry when her sister fought with live steel. Their father had never done that, had scorned tourneys and showing off his skill... and had not trained for war like Arya did, nor had he trained for politics like she herself did. She could see Arya was making a point... or several points, given the figure pointedly approaching her sister, live steel in hand.

"Especially one on one! When Arya trains us, she takes us on at fantastic odds - she's the fastest fighter I've ever seen; not just her blades, but her body, too. Qhono is quick, but my good-sister is amazing. Insufferable, too, but amazing," replied Princess Meera Stark, shaking her head, then turned to Grey Worm, "You'll want to see this, Grey Worm - Lady Chella's giving a spear challenge, and my good-sister is taking up her own spear on this one, rather than her sword and dagger."

"My bloodrider is a fine warrior, one of the best of all the Dothraki, though he is better on a horse than on his feet, as are all Dothraki warriors. The match was easily one of the best I've ever seen, in the streets of Essos, the fighting pits, or in a Khalasar," replied Daenerys diplomatically; fighting seemed to be as much or more of a well liked custom here than it was in Meereen. The match had interested her as little as any of the fighting pits, except that she could now see how the small assassin might be able to kill Queen Cersei.

Daario, too, had once approached a queen that thought she was well guarded. Her advisors assured her Cersei's guards were much more alert than hers, and Varys had heard whispers that there were no longer large court gatherings, but Grey Worm and Qhono had both agreed that surprise and vicious speed would let her clear two or even perhaps four guards - city guards, Qhono had insist - if they weren't expecting true battle.

The Dragon Queen kept in mind that this was a casual and foreign setting, not a formal one, far closer to the easy camaraderie of a Khalasar than it was to the formal courts of the Free Cities or her dreams when she was young, and she needed to, in a political way, woo the heir to the great... and northern... western port of the Riverlands, either to her Iron Throne, or at least to a good predisposition, "Lord Mallister, what did you think of the duel?"

Jamie Lannister came up the stairs as the conversations between royalty continued, threading his way between lesser highborns and highly regarded smallfolk and foreigners alike, one mug in his left hand and another hooked over his golden thumb to be passed to his brother, moving to a seat at the edge of the balcony where he could get a good view and speak to Tyrion.

"You brought me wine, brother?" asked Tyrion eagerly.

"Water, and you know it. You're looking well, for being unable to drink," teased Jamie, taking a deep draft of his own water, able to finally relax with his brother. Lady Winter had set the watches and released those off-watch to what she called the normal training schedule, with a day off here and there on schedules. He'd had a bath again, trimmed his beard, and come out to see Brienne fight. He was trapped in a castle of those he had wronged by an army of the dead who sought to wipe the living from existence, and to his mild surprise, between being Lord Commander of a Night's Watch that was truly defending the living, and Lady Winter giving him and the Lady Brienne more responsibilities overall, he was feeling better about his life than he had in years. Perhaps Ser Barristan would finally be proud of him.

"I have, to my lasting regret, been getting used to being unable to drink. Her Grace the Queen Daenerys Stormborn Targaryen started me on this... somewhat more virtuous path... when she first took me into her service and commanded me to advice her while I could still form whole sentences, though I must say, this is the least wine I've drunk since I was a child. You look well, too, brother - at peace, even."

"I'm protecting the weak and defending the innocent. There is no King or Queen that I have to obey, only my own poor conscience to follow as best I can. My vows are simple; I defend the realms of men. My men are few but well drilled, with thousands more on the way, I lead with the most honorable warrior I know, and the commander is a great warrior and a skilled leader, and doesn't nag me about getting married and following the family legacy. For a one-handed man, I find myself... well," replied Jamie with a wistful smile.

"I'm glad you've found your place, my brother. I've worried for years. You wouldn't happen to know where Lady Winter learned to lead, would you? My good friend Varys tells me she was learning Braavosi swordsmanship while she was in the Red Keep, but managing armies is entirely different, as I know well," inquired Tyrion of his brother quietly, quaffing some more of the plain, cold water that was all he was allowed until his next ration.

"Father," said Jamie with a small smirk.

"Father. But you're avoiding the question, Jamie."

"I'm answering the question, Tyrion. She learned from Father," said Jamie, his smirk growing as he looked down at his brother, then back out at the yard where Chella was skipping back along the icy ground, spear clattering against Lady Winter's in a rapid exchange before Chella abruptly stopped her backpedal and charged in, then the head of her spear swept the other's out of line, the butt streaked in towards Lady Winter's head, her dodge opening the smaller woman to Chella's kick which struck her just above the ankle as the mountain tribe leader continued the attack.

"Did she read father's letters, or get some of his plans and instructions? What do you mean, she learned from Father?" asked Tyrion, mildly aggravated at his brother's avoiding giving him an answer. Payback, he suspected, for when he'd lorded his own knowledge over his brother.

Jamie turned to his brother after a long moment; the spearwork was good, but the sword had always been his weapon, not the spear, so his paying attention to the match was more for Tyrion's benefit than his own, and replied with a wide smirk, laughter in his eyes, "She was his cupbearer from the day he arrived at Harrenhal, to the day he left... and he never suspected that he had Ned's youngest daughter at his elbow!"

Tyrion gaped, looking down at the small figure who had escaped his sister and his father both, on her back and pinned to the stones, the Vale tribeswoman's spear pricking her throat, and then threw back his head and laughed.

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Some time later, Tyrion wandered through the crowd, thinking. His Queen had been... different, of late. Difficult to advise, difficult to guide, and yet in a different way than before; more polished, less impulsive. She'd stop and think herself, ask questions, and instead of her previous, easy to follow, vague commands, she was giving more specifics, and demanding more specifics. Not specifics like Joffrey's commands to gut someone slowly with a rusty hook, nor like Robert's commands for a particular look of whore or type of wine, but specifics like a Maester wanted, like his father had sometimes demanded.

He was jolted out of his thoughts by the scent of sweat - a woman's sweat - and a strong arm dropping over his shoulder suddenly, turning him abruptly to a different direction and pulling him inexorably along.

"Half-man!" exclaimed Chella, leader of the Black Ears, her smile vicious as she looked down at him and whispered loudly enough everyone around could hear, "Your father did shower us with gold, but you also promised that you'd give us not just trinkets, but the Vale of Arryn. You said it was time for new Lords of the Vale. So, tell me, Half-man, what's your clever plan?"

As Chella dragged the dwarf who had once employed her clan and two other clans of the Mountains of the Moon to the rest of her clan so they could tell tales of battles old and new, including those the half-man had himself participated in, she gave a broad wink at a group of Vale lords who had heard her whisper; two she'd trained to be decent spearmen, one other was better, and three of the group she'd led in the fight against the dead. Those that were looking at her looked down at the half-man's expression, then turned away suddenly, covering their mouths and snickering.

She'd beaten the young Stark, as she did nearly every time they both used spears. That, she thought, was why the commander of the armies had asked her to take on her sister the Queen as her weaponsmaster; the little witch wanted her sister trained hard - and witch or not, she trained hard, too. The clans had never knelt to the Arryns, had never served the Lords of the Vale. Until recently, they'd raided, plundered, and enslaved those of the lowland Lords they could, taking them back up into the mountains by narrow paths the lowlanders in their heavy armor couldn't tread.

Yet now things were different. Enslaving the lowlands women would now bring not just the lowland lords upon the tribes, but also the Northern mountain tribes... and the Stark death-witch herself, guided by warg-witches and her greenseer-witch brother. That one would come not in open combat, but in secret to seed death in the clan itself; no clan's mountains would protect them any more than the Frey's castle had protected them.

Too, the Andal Arryns were not the leaders anymore, but the Royces - and the Royces were of the First Men, same as the clans. She's spoken with the Royce many times, planned with him leader to leader. He knelt to her student the lowland Queen, who showed the respect every student owes their weaponsmaster. She'd spoken with the Moon Brothers clan; they had never acknowledged the lowlanders before, but the Northern tribes had, and were prospering now. There was none of that Seven god shite, the lowland Queen listened to men and women alike, just as the clans did. The new lowland princess maybe from the lowest of the lowlands, the Neck, but she, too, was a fierce warrior, ruling the North in her own name, not the name of her witch husband. Even the lords of the Vale had that Waynwood woman in the ruling council!

Maybe, she thought, it was time for the clans to see if acknowledging a larger power - one that gave them the respect they deserved - was good for the clan's future. Now, though, it was time to drink their rations, to make merry, to tell stories... and to learn about this other Queen from the lowlands across the Narrow Sea. The new leaders in the North and the Vale were cunning and powerful, fighters all. The Dragon Queen had fought on the front lines, too, with her dragons and the Stark boy, putting herself in the fight like every good leader did.

Her tribe needed to know more, to know not just what traveled through their mountains, but what was happening in the world around them - dragons and dragon-killing weapons, death-witches, great alliances, and above all the army of the dead all around them would have slaughtered the clans easily without the warning, the training the Starks had given. The dead climbed easily and falling rarely killed them, dragons could breathe fire on the wing, death-witches roamed Westeros without limit - the Mountains of the Moon would no longer protect the clans enough.

"Lookit what I got! The half-man!" called out Chella, daughter of Cheyk, leader of the Black Ears to the gathering of Vale mountain clan archers that camped in Winter Town as she turned the corner with the half-man.

************************

Keyholder Tormo approached Maester Wolkan, sealed raven scroll case in his hand, and spoke.

"Grand Maester?"

"Yes?" asked the Grand Maester, his voice trembling only slightly as he turned to face the Iron Bank representative, his back straight, "What can I do for the Iron Bank?"

"I have messages for my superiors; some are urgent. May I inquire as to the price of renting your fastest raven for a bidirectional journey to the Iron Bank in Braavos, with good food and rest for your raven provided by the Iron Bank at the destination as part of the price?"

"I would be happy to help you myself," said Grand Maester Wolkan graciously. The Queen had made it clear that the Keyholder was to be given every courtesy, and unlike many of those in the castle, wasn't a killer of any kind, just a keen minded man of numbers. Refreshing, really, he was, compared to trying to corral the new council of Maesters. He continued cheerily, "No cost to the Iron Bank; helping our lender helps us too, after all! Please follow me; we can go to the Ravenry and you may see the bird off with your own eyes. Page, send a message to the wargs and the archers; the Keyholder will need an open lane and an escort for an eastbound raven."

The Keyholder followed. While drinking in taverns was ever a way to make the numbers worse, listening in taverns was a way to gather stories, and stories, unreliable or not, sometimes contained a glimmer of the truth. Many stories were said, and the rumor that Queen Cersei's brothers had noted that Queen Daenerys had hired Arya Stark to kill their sister... that was something the home office, and their banker Tycho, needed to know.

He and they may not know if it was true, and the House of Black and White shared no secrets, but he did know that Arya Stark was a Faceless Man. Many reputable stories indicated she'd had a list of those she intended to kill, most of whom were dead... and Queen Cersei was on it, as the home office already knew. That she'd been hired - that a Faceless Man had been hired - well, were it true, Queen Cersei would be repaying no more debts, and King's Landing might become very unpredictable indeed.

************************

The small girl from the Neck clambered over the cage and under the canvas that kept the wind out, reaching down to pull up another packet of feed for the chickens and other animals on the large cargo sled, moving back to the front and measuring out a small handful for each cage. She'd been picked for the duty because she was small and light and sure-footed on even the smallest little boats on the swamps, so they could fill the sled full of cages and she could still take care of the animals. There was but one wildling lamp in the middle, carefully caged so she could easily dump snow on it if it were to tip or start a fire.

She moved along the cages to the cute bunnies, giving them the last of the food she had; the other pages would refill her stocks at the next stop when the dogs were fed, and she'd be able to have some soup herself, then. Once she was done, she lay atop the center, crossing her arms and putting her feet up against the canvas, listening to the hiss of snow under the sled's runners, the calls of the Free Folk and the sounds of the riverlanders on their own sleds farther away.

It was sort of like home, she supposed; the cargo was lashed tight so it wouldn't shift or make noise, though on the sleds the ropes creaked a little, and they were so fast! Much faster than you could pole a boat back home... well, before everything froze solid, at least. Now she was going to see Winterfell! And Lady Reed, she was ruling the North - the whole North - now! Married a Stark, to boot! That had raised a hue and cry when they'd heard the news.

Wait! She scrambled around to get a closer view of the sled's oldest and fattest bunny, a hare from north of the Wall, who was sitting up with a stick in his paws, writing in the dirt of the cage. The bunny was just writing, though, and didn't make the signs for an alarm, so this was just a normal message. Normal for messages sent by wildling wargs, at least! Magic! She got to see magic with her own eyes, work with the wargs herself! Her da had thought she would grow up like him, serve the Boggs like ma and da, but here she was, a page! Fighting the Night King!

"Message! Meddelande!" she shouted, which was relayed by the driver as she frantically grabbed the parchment and quill, spilling a little ink into the bowl and copying the words exactly. She couldn't read all of them, not yet, but she knew some of the words. Winterfell was unchanged - still surrounded. Night King was unchanged - that meant he was still there, she knew. Since this bunny belonged to a warg at Winterfell sending them the message, that meant it was unchanged right now! The sky-watchers could relax for a few minutes, not that they would.

There was more - instructions on how to get to Winterfell, what paths to take. She couldn't follow all those words, but she drew the characters as quickly and precisely as she could - her nimble fingers had gotten her assigned to this sled, with the warg's bunny, not one of the other sleds of meat animals.

The maps the bunny drew were much clearer to her - she drew them precisely, watching the bunny lay the stick down and use the little notches to indicate distance; she has a stick with notches just the same that she used to copy the drawing, showing it to the fat bunny so the warg could approve her copy.

When the regular stop came, she waited for the canvas to be opened, and jumped down into the snow immediately to run over to the caravan's leaders with the message, two guards escorting her. Her! With guards! Well... really the message had two guards... but she had the message, so the guards were kind of for her, like she was a highborn lady like Lady Alira or Lady Meera... Princess Meera!

"Da! Da! The message!" she shouted, wrapping her arms around her da briefly as she handed him the message. He could read and write - he was a stonemason, and he needed to read and write in order to carve inscriptions in gravestones for the lichyards. He, in turn, read the message carefully to the man they had as a translator for the Free Folk, who told the wildlings about it. She wasn't supposed to call them wildlings, and she didn't, but that's what they were, just like she was a crannogman, a frog. Calling something a different name didn't change what it was, and wildling wasn't an insult, not like lizardface or fishbreath or shitehead.

Grownups were weird.

The riverlander leaders were here, too, with the spears they'd made. She wished she had a spear, too, like Princess Meera, or a bow, or a sword, but all she had was a little knife with a tiny piece of dragonglass. When she'd asked, her da had said she could have something bigger when she grew up.

The caravan was going to head west and then turn northeast to head into Winterfell; they'd be there soon! Two more feeding stops, then they'd have to break through the army of the dead. Lots and lots and lots and lots of them, but Princess Meera would see them through safe. She knew it!

When the grownups were done talking, she asked, "Da? When we get to Winterfell, can I ride on top of the canvas? I want to see! If a wight comes, I'll protect the chicks and the bunnies and stab it with my knife!"

Her da looked at another man weirdly, and then nodded, "Yes. When we get there, you can ride on top. You hold on tight to the ropes, mind you! The warg's bunny will be up there with you, and you'll need to watch it carefully and tell the translator, who will ride on your sled in place of the food."

Her da looked worried and gave her a big hug, but all the grownups were like that now. She thought he missed her ma, who had left Moat Cailin to go to Gulltown weeks and weeks and weeks ago. She missed her ma too, but she was proud she'd been made a page, and her ma and da were too. She'd been talking with Yasha and Igiov; they'd all be riding on top and protect the flocks and make it to Winterfell together! They'd be the best pages ever!

************************

 

[Epic Reader]

Jamie Lannister strode across the courtyard with Queen Daenerys's hand in the crook of his arm, feeling tremendously silly acting as a court chaperon in a castle under siege, with imitation Lannister armor – cheap tin clad in the wrong shade of red – over his black Night's Watch outfit. Behind them were Grey Worm and Missandei; he found this whole charade to be somewhat odd, but he supposed he owed Queen Rhaella and the Starks alike a debt, and a Lannister always paid his debts. At each bailey's gatehouse, they waited while the inner door was opened, went into the small space between gatehouses, and then the door behind them was shut and barred and the door in front was opened, archers above alert while senior guards patrolled back and forth to ensure they didn't slack off.

It was, Jamie thought, an excessive, thorough, and thoroughly annoying way of making sure wights or White Walkers falling from the sky like rain would be contained. It also meant that his escorting anyone was quite ridiculous from the point of view of protecting them, and the Queen wasn't his Queen and had been twice married besides, but appearances must for this little charade.

"You'll need to pay attention to every word," said the former Kingsguard, his voice mildly amused. He'd never given political advice before. Never even been asked! But now, well, he could pass on what little he knew, "Every sentence, every phrase, every head tilt and titter and expression and gesture has three meanings, and the ones that are most obvious are the least important."

"And how do I decode these secret meanings, Ser Jamie?" asked Daenerys tartly. She hadn't wanted to be a politician, but it seemed she had little choice; a simpering, curtsying, giggling Arya Stark wearing an ill-fitting frilly dress over her leathers, slits through it for the hilts of her weapons to poke through had delivered an exquisitely gilded note on thick, creamy parchment inviting Queen Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, rightful heir to the Iron Throne, rightful Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Protector of the Four Kingdoms, the Mother of Dragons, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains, and one handmaiden to Southron Tea with Lady Sansa Meadows and distinguished guests.

Jamie's laughter rang out, clearly and distinctly, "I have no idea, Your Grace; Tyrion might know, but I am the stupidest Lannister, and I know only battle, and what my sister told me. Knowing what women or politicians mean isn't my talent, I'm afraid."

"But you did know some women - you knew my mother, didn't you? No-one ever spoke to me of her, only of my father, the Mad King," replied Daenerys, her voice turning wistful. She had been lectured on her father her whole life - by Viserys, by those who opened their homes to her and her brother, by Ser Barristan and others since she became a Khaleesi, a Queen, herself. But her mother? Almost never had she been mentioned.

"I did know your mother, Queen Daenerys," said the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, remembering his brother who had also never known their mother asking similar questions, then thinking back to the many nights he'd guarded her door from everyone except the man she needed guarding from, "Would you like to hear of her?"

"I would, Ser Jamie," she said, and remembering that he was in no way beholden to her, nor, as Jon had taught her, to any kingdom anywhere by virtue of being in the Night's Watch, added, "Please."

"She was… trapped by her House. By her brother-husband. By the King's Kingsguard. She loved her children, very much - every time she lost another babe, she was inconsolable for months. She would have loved you, very much; I am sure of that."

Daenerys smiled sadly, "I wish I had been able to get to know her; but I only had Viserys, and now I'm the last Targaryen. What can you tell me of my mother?"

Jamie spoke of Rhaella Targaryen for a time while they strode steadily through the baileys and courtyards, passing parties of men and women jogging to and fro, pushing wheelbarrows, carrying supplies, moving to their posts, and even a work party using pulley systems to lower an entire scorpion down one side of a tower while another scorpion was being raised up the other – the one going up patterned on Qyburn's more powerful design, which was much rarer in the North – only one in eight were of that design up here. He passed on some of his happier memories of her mother before moving on to how she had been at the end, and to her father.

"She taught Rhaegar as much, and as often, as she could - as much as she was allowed; she would have loved to teach a daughter, I'm sure. You'd probably have learned the harp from her, just as Rhaegar did; she loved music. Perhaps that was one of the few things she could enjoy, confined in her rooms as she was so often; a gilded cage, left alone except when the King had burned someone alive. Then he would... go to her. I tried to help her, once, but not even Ser Barristan would allow any to come between the King and his sister-wife. No matter what he did to her, what we could hear him to do her," said Jamie Lannister regretfully, "Just like of all the hundreds of people who came to the Red Keep, no one stopped the King from burning one man after another, week after week, year after year. They just watched; my father watched, Varys watched, the Tyrells and the other lords and ladies watched, the High Septon watched… everyone just watched."

"No one tried to talk sense into him? His advisors didn't advise him against it? Tell him what he was doing to the Seven Kingdoms" asked the Mad King's daughter, trying to understand what had happened with her father. Trying to understand what might happen to her, someday, if she wasn't careful.

"Rickard Stark complained to your father about your brother; you know how that ended. The throne room had five hundred men in it, all the great knights of the seven kingdoms, all the Kingsguard from me to Ser Barristan the Bold, and it was silent as a crypt... except for the screams, and the Mad King laughing. People complained in secret, and some of them burned for that, too, when the King asked Varys to find traitors. Varys was always very good at finding traitors. But no; no one talked to him about it, not ever. Some of us had sworn oaths; oaths to obey the King, oaths to protect the King, oaths to be just, oaths to defend the innocent, oaths to protect the weak, oaths to obey your father, oaths to protect all women."

Jamie escorted her up the makeshift wooden stairs a story and a half high, then over the rough planks resting on barrels of supplies piled high in the bailey and between hundreds of cages of thick-furred Northern hares stacked high as he continued wistfully, "Did you hear what the Starks have done up here? There's an assassination contract for Queen Sansa with the Faceless Men - one she started herself. Signed in public by her sister, High Faceless Man in Westeros - to be executed if the people cry out for just vengeance. A ruler who puts justice above their own life - or says she does, at least. And not just her life - the life of every ruler after her. If Aegon Targaryen had done that, things might have gone very differently, here. A throne that comes with a death sentence isn't quite as tempting, I should think."

"I would never have been born, I'm sure. But I was, so the point is moot. The Starks do seem to love their justice and are loved in turn by their people - perhaps that is why they are loved so well."

"They aren't loved by all their people - not even Margaery Tyrell was. The Boltons, Umbers, Karstarks, all rose up against Robb Stark. You never met Robb Stark. I did. He captured me and two of my nephews - just boys. Kept me in a cage, chained to a pole, covered in filth - that was his justice for my great crime of serving my House and obeying my father. And killing the Karstark's son, I suppose. My nephews he put in a cell, and Lord Karstark came to try and take my head; Lady Catelyn stood between him and me. So old Rickard stood down... and then he and four of his men slaughtered the guards on my nephews and stabbed them, and Robb took his head for it, and hung the others - the watcher he hung last, so he could watch the others die. Justice is a funny thing, you see - Robb lost the war, his life, his wife, his mother, and his unborn babe for justice," said Jamie Lannister.

"What about Sansa and Arya Stark?" asked Daenerys, curious as to his take on Jon's sisters, who had taken... who ruled the North and the Vale.

"I saw a strange thing the other day. A wildling - I'm sorry, it's Free Folk, isn't it - man and a few of his friends raped a girl. Just a peasant girl - no one of importance, without family to stand up for her, without a lord as a patron, only a peasant sister to complain. And yet the rapers were sought, found, and dragged to trial - not a trial by their clan, by their rules, but a trial under Princess Stark under the laws of the North, because she said that all crimes in the North are judged by the North - and the wilding leaders had agreed to that. Just as you and I have agreed to that, interestingly. The men demanded, what was it, ahh, yes, a 'fight judge' - a trial by combat."

"Against who?" asked Daenerys, curious. She'd heard of both trial by combat and trial by seven, but had not studied them in detail yet. She was only just beginning to really learn about Westerosi customs, and the trial by combat seemed to her to be a way for strong men and those who, like her Hand, could hire them to do as they liked.

"Against whoever champions Princess Stark - or against her directly, I suppose, since she's supposed to be a passable swordsman as well as a great archer. But up here, it seems Arya Stark takes the role of champion of her family herself, much like the Mountain did for my father and my sister," said Jamie, smirking at Daenerys's obvious wince; it seemed what he'd heard of the deadly Stark training her was true, "I see you can imagine how that went for them. She spoke to them in their tongue - warned them off, warned them to take a normal trial or they'd die slowly, screaming, my page said, but when they saw a small girl, they figured they could kill her and get away with their crime. They boasted they did it, that they were strong and the Southrons were weak, that their leaders were weak for giving in to Southron rules, and they spit on weak Southron gods. They thought they could take her."

"They couldn't take her."

"No. They couldn't, not if all of them had attacked her at once, rather than one at a time, and in all my years, I've never once seen the gods interfere in a fight. If the gods do exist, I cannot believe they are just, for there is too much injustice in the world. Lady Winter served them her idea of Northern justice, or maybe the justice of her own god, or maybe she was acting like my father and sending a message. She fought them one by one, and took them apart as easily as if she was carving a cake. The ones who held the girl down, she stuck her blades through their elbows and knees, crippling them entirely. The one who watched, she carved out his eyes and cut off his feet. The ones who raped her, she took their tongues and their manhood, root and stem; she carved their bellies open last and left them to die, screaming and flailing and begging for their mothers while she fought the next in line, cold as ice," said Jamie Lannister somberly, looking down at the short, silver-haired Queen, continuing.

"A trial by combat means trusting your fate to the hands of the gods; and the gods here, or the warriors standing in for them, are merciless in their justice. Those men had families who mourn them - who hate how a Stark butchered them and left them to die painfully. Yet the girl who was raped? She loves the Starks for it. Other peasant girls and families love them for it. I can't tell you if it was right or wrong, but I can tell you the Starks believe in as cruel a justice as I've ever seen; but justice, still. And that is why some love them for it, some hate them for it, some fear them for it. Some carefully consider exactly what they can, and cannot, get away with, and what will happen if they don't get away with something. Some don't care at all. Perhaps some members of their tribe loved the rapers, and thought the punishment unjust. Perhaps some thought the punishment too lenient, too quick. Perhaps some think an innocent peasant girl is of no worth compared to skilled warriors, much less the highborn. Perhaps some in their tribes who were powerful are less so now, and some who are more powerful. You'll have to face those same choices if you sit the Iron Throne, your Grace. That was never a game I wanted to learn; it's easier just to fight."

"I'd heard that some rapists were executed, but not the details of it. Thank you, Ser Jamie, for the story, and the lesson," said Daenerys thoughtfully. She'd been relying on her dragons, but she hadn't always. She'd crucified men, had Ser Jorah kill them, imprisoned them, let them go. As Queen, she would have many options, including sending men to the Night's Watch; to Lord Commander Jamie Lannister, in fact.

"Varys never did like to show more of his hand than he had to. Of justice, though, beware. When you're named heir to a noble house, when you become a knight, when you join the Kingsguard, they make you swear and swear, but they never tell you what to do when your King is killing the innocent, when your father orders you to betray your King. When every choice you have betrays an oath, what is justice? What does an oath mean when no matter what you do, you're forsaking one vow for another?"

"It means you have to be true – not to your oaths, but to yourself. To who you are, to who you want to be. To who you decide you're going to be," said Dany, her voice strong and resolute. She was, above all else, the Breaker of Chains, the defender of the innocent, and that was what she would hold as her most important title, and her goal. She would be worthy of ruling by defending the innocent, by freeing the enslaved… by being more than simply not her father. By being Daenerys Targaryen, and by taking care of her people, of all her people, on both sides of the Narrow Sea.

"He burned everyone he thought had turned against him – lords and ladies, smallfolk and merchants alike burned for his pleasure. Oddly enough, his burning people alive tended to make people turn against him. Strange; who could have predicted?"

Daenerys looks at him sharply, forcing her anger down yet again, and sees nothing there but sarcasm and bitterness at the world. Her father did burn people alive, she knew that, so perhaps that comment wasn't aimed at her attack on his forces, or her burning the Tarlys. Her father burned many people alive, and she was probably the product of the aftermath of one such burning. Aerys had planned to burn so many, many more - guilty and innocent alike, down to babes in the cradle.

"Varys tells me you saved King's Landing when you killed my father the Mad King. So, as the last Targaryen left, thank you, Ser Jamie, for saving half a million of my people. Defending the innocent should always be more important than obeying an unjust or insane monarch," said Daenerys thoughtfully.

"Well. I do believe that is the first time anyone has ever thanked me for that particular act, so, you're welcome. I'm thankful that my new vows don't have any of those problems; the Night's Watch is freeing like that. I just have to guard the realms of men, and if the Night King would just grow the balls to come close enough, I believe we could. Queen Daenerys, your grace, on behalf of the shields that guard the realms of men, thank you for coming with your dragons and your men to fight for the living."

Daenerys smiled up at him briefly as they continued past the many alert guards into the main castle, "You're welcome. And I forgive you for trying to spear me on the Rose Road."

"It was my duty."

"And now your duty is to learn to command all these forces… me and my dragons included."

"It is. The world is a strange place," said Ser Jamie Lannister, "A very strange place. I can't fight like I used to with only one hand, and leading soldiers is my only other skill, but I'm not sure why Brienne and I are being taught that; Lady Ar… Winter seems to have as little need for a second in command as my father did."

Daenerys laughed quietly as they approached Queen Sansa's solar, "Well, I did hire her to kill Cersei, and she won't be able to do that from here, will she? Thank you, Ser Jamie, for the escort."

With that, she, Missandei, and Grey Worm are allowed to proceed up the stairs towards Queen Sansa's solar. In the hallway were a set of guards, each in different 'livery' thrown over their normal armor. A man with a checkered purple and white field set with gold coins in each square stepped forward, bowed deeply, looked pointedly at Grey Worm and his spear before reciting woodenly, "Your Grace, my Lady Aymee would dearly love to meet you. But, her honorable father, my Lord Fabiar, prohibits armed retainers of other houses in her presence without her own guard. What is your command?"

Daenerys glanced back at Missandei and Grey Worm, then back at the guard as Missandei addressed him.

"I believe you have indicated that there are four possibilities. Our Queen can ask her loyal and honorable guard Grey Worm to leave his spear and blade outside Lady Stark's solar, Our Queen can grant you leave to enter the solar, armed, into the company of the other Ladies and her Grace's presence, you can escort Lady Aymee out and she may not partake in tea, or our Queen Her Grace Daenerys Stormborn Targaryen can overrule Lord Fabiar's orders, as he is sworn to her. Is that correct?"

Every guard, not just the one, was immediately and obviously affronted and insulted. The indignant guard who had spoken before replied strongly to Missandei, less woodenly at the beginning before reciting by rote again, "No, m'lady. You aren't from here - she is a Lady, daughter of the Lord Payne, and she must obey her father until she is married or takes vows as a Septa or a Silent Sister. We aren't like those Northern savages or foreigners from across the Narrow Sea, Your Grace, letting their daughters run off with wildlings. Here in civilized society fathers and husbands have rights! The first three are all within your power of course, my Queen."

As Daenerys had suspected, this was a trap in the Stark style of there being no escape, doubtless the first of many. Sansa may not be a fighter like her sister, but she was every bit as ruthless a teacher - merely mentioning a woman taking away their patriarchal rights and men would jump to defend their bitterest enemies, uniting in brotherhood. And the man's response proved Sansa had anticipated exactly with she or Missandei would say - how they would lose the first match by not knowing local customs... Westerosi customs. Even her ancestor Aegon had followed many of the local customs after conquering this land, and she... she had not been nearly as successful as he and his wives.

Were she to respond as she wished, and tell the guard that everything was within her power, that she was Queen, she would lose the second match; very well, she would hold her tongue. Every option was a loss - but one option would show her respect for the Lady while not inviting every petty Lord to try and make unwelcome patriarchal edicts about her and her own guards.

"Grey Worm will harm none who mean no ill to me or mine; he will remain armed and with me, my trusted guard and friend, and other armed retainers are not permitted, as is the usual custom. You may inform your Lady of these conditions; she may stay or go as she wishes," commanded Queen Daenerys. She would not hold back from giving women the right to choose what they wanted, and she would deal with that if and when it came up, but she was still within the bounds of custom - a mere guard didn't have the authority to make decisions, either, so he and his 'Lord' couldn't complain, either.

The guard bowed, then approached the door, where the guards in front knocked; after a brief conversation, a girl in a frilly purple and gold smock over thick northern clothes exited, gave a longing look at Queen Daenerys, and then gave a curtsy and followed her guard the other way down the passage. Behind Daenerys, Grey Worm turned to see another pair approaching; this time, Lady Frey strode confidently towards the Targaryen contingent in her usual outfit, casually unslinging the large crossbow from her back without so much as disturbing the full dragonglass dagger on her belt, much plainer than the ones Missandei and Daenerys herself wore, and placing it against the wall alongside the rope and pulley system used to cock, which she laid straight on the floor, a chubby lady - Lady Keath, Dany remembered - behind her with a bag and a smaller crossbow on her back, goat's foot lever on her belt as she stood back against the wall, ignoring the frowning guards

"Queen Daenerys! A pleasure to see you during my trip to King's Landing from the Twins! Imagine my surprise when Lady Meadows invited me to tea. I had no idea you were coming; it's good to see you again; you and Drogon and Rhaegal fought long and hard during the Second Long Night with us, against the dead," greeted Kitty warmly, while the guards all rolled their eyes or scoffed, along with a hesitant, softly whispered jape at women pretending to be warriors and carrying crossbows, prompting a glare from Kitty and Lady Keath both, which had no effect, "The Southrons still don't believe the Night King existed; they still think this is just a cold, dark winter. Shall we go in together, Queen Daenerys?"

Daenerys smiled, thinking furiously; she was supposed to be pretending to be in the Red Keep, to have already gained the Iron Throne. Lady Frey, she recognized easily, and even her handmaiden Lady Keath - and this was obviously another test, especially given the guards and how they reacted. Does she go in with Lady Frey - a woman sworn directly to Arya Stark, as Tyrion had informed her, and through Arya to Sansa, and one who was obviously looked on almost as a barbarian? Or does she go in by herself, without a foreign kingdom's representative, to tea with her 'subjects'... while, she supposed, snubbing a woman who had fought the dead with her, who she'd sat at a table and shared bread and salt with... which would get back to Queen Sansa and have implications there. Curry favor with her new 'subjects' or honor her alliance with the men and women she'd fought the dead beside. Well, that made the choice clear.

"You fought bravely when the dead rose in Winter Town and attacked, defending the smallfolk, as did Lady Keath; I would be honored to enter with you, Lady Frey," decreed Queen Daenerys. The guards straightened a little and stifled their stilted expressions of mock disbelief as they heard 'their Queen' honor the bizarre foreign girl from the Northern Riverlands. Lady Keath, meanwhile, set her own crossbow down, pulled a frilly dress out of the bag she had carried, and put it on, as well as two bracelets adorned in diamonds, the right one with a decorative symbol of a white swan on black and the left with a black swan on white, and slipped into Sansa's solar.

"Thank you, your Grace; it's good to see another veteran of the war against the Night King. Shall we?" replied Lady Frey, ignoring the guards entirely. She held back a giggle; she knew what was to come, and she got to play herself - stronger and more confident than she'd ever imagined when her father derided her as being useless, when she was married to Lord Frey as the nearly powerless Lady of the Crossing. She'd found a family, saved her ladies and their children, learned espionage and many other skills, fought the dead, and found herself, in a way, in Winterfell. She would never be the meek girl she once was again, and she could indeed imagine what it would be like to go South again.

Dany wasn't sure if that indicated she'd made a good choice or not, but the door was opened and she and Lady Frey entered together, followed by Missandei and Grey Worm, who tilted his spear downwards to clear the frame and looked over the chambers.

She cast her gaze around; Sansa's solar looked entirely different now, less than a third the previous size, cut off by, and covered in, light-colored gauzy curtains. There was no more light than several candles and no fire in the fireplace, but other than that, it looked much more feminine, creamy and light-colored. The weapons and shields were covered, the bookshelves and desks covered, and the divans had been moved to create a cozy nook; a table in elegant tablecloths was surrounded by high-backed chairs in their own cream coverings.

The women seated inside stood as one, curtsying to Queen Daenerys, each with a frilly overdress atop their normal wear, while the maids behind them gave a much deeper curtsy, their faces entirely hidden as they dipped their heads down low. Sansa was in front, closest to the door, a necklace with a green circle bordered in flowers adorning her neck, while next to her was the chubby Lady Keath. Beside her another lady with lambs carrying goblets decorating her overdress's trim, simpering at her, then three open seats and another lady with a prominent symbol of a barren tree on black surrounded by black ravens on red, directing at Lady Frey a truly venomous glare which turned into a gentle and welcoming smile as soon as Dany turned her head towards the woman.

Sansa looked over the entering party with her best Tyrell smile, waving a hand dismissively at Grey Worm, indicating a corner behind the empty seats, her eyes darting over the three women briefly, and spoke brightly, with but a brief flicker of a glance at her other 'guests' to ensure they caught the insults hidden in the courtesy, and to give Daenerys and her party a chance to notice, "Welcome, Your Grace! Thank you so much for accepting my humble invitation; this city is made brighter by your presence. I can see that we may have a new fashion trend to account for! What kind of jewelry is that - was it given to you by the barbarian horselord you married in Essos, perhaps? It's very... unique."

Daenerys glanced down at herself while the other guests giggled briefly, momentarily puzzled; she hadn't brought her jewelry with her on this trip - there had been little time, and she'd been told to bring only what was necessary on the trip to Winterfell, since the dogsleds she'd taken had been nearly full. Then she realized, it was the jeweled dragonglass dagger she carried... and, perhaps, her party's utter lack of frills. Dark colors for the three of them against everyone else's light colored dresses - and all of theirs matched the decor, while her party and Lady Frey stood out like mourners at a wedding.

"These?" the silver-haired woman asked, tapping the dagger as she took the middle of three chairs, Lady Frey taking the one farthest from the woman with the tree, and Missandei on her other side, "They're dragonglass; obsidian. We mine it at Dragonstone to fight the dead - dragonglass can kill wights and White Walkers alike."

"Have you seen the army of the wights yourself, your Grace? I don't think I could possibly bear to look at one, let alone hundreds of them! I heard about the ones those barbarians in the North sent down, and it sounded absolutely horrid! I'd be too afraid... but I'm not brave, like you, my Queen," simpered the woman with the lamb sigil.

Lady Keath in her swan bracelets responded with a roll of her eyes, "Come now, Lady Stokeworth, just because you spent most of your life in King's Landing doesn't mean you should give those tales any credit. I saw the creature as they brought it through Storm's End, and our army could take out a few hundred or a few thousand of them easily! Proper knights with the strength of the Warrior and the justice of the Father have nothing to fear from such pathetic creatures. My husband has been overseeing the castle, you know, my Queen, ever since the Baratheons abandoned it! He's taken ever such good care of the lands, and I've got the castle gleaming and stocked for the winter. If you would ever like to fly to Storm's End, I would be delighted to host you! My husband would be awestruck - he grew up on tales of dragons, and his only dream is to be Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, and to serve you loyally, my Queen."

"Proper knights should be used properly! Not against a handful of wights and white walkers and snarks and grumkins and giants and whatever other nonsense the Northerners are crying about, but against rebellious savages who think themselves too good to be part of the Seven Kingdoms!" sniped Lady Sansa, turning so the green shield with the flowery border on her overdress was obvious and gesturing to the maids to bring tea while glaring at Lady Frey as she continued with a voice of utter sincerity, "And those craven cowards hiding in their castle, doing no more than exacting tolls on honest merchants of the Reach. Your Grace, my husband and I served the Tyrells loyally, and Lady Olenna pledged to follow you. Let House Meadows hold the Reach, and we will supply and feed a hundred thousand soldiers to reclaim your lost kingdoms!"

As Sansa spoke, the three maids brought the tea, each moving to surround the table. Daenerys noticed that the maid farthest from Sansa was, in fact, Arya Stark... a faceless man, and deduced that this was another test... just as the blatant flattery and jockeying for their husband's positions was. Just as the utter lack of introductions was - she didn't know any of the new symbols! She'd learned Northern and Vale sigils out of the need to find the right camps when fighting the dead... the dead who were surrounding the entire castle she was in and its attached town, while play-acting as if she was already Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

It was, she thought, somewhat surreal as Princess Arya poured tea from a single teapot and passed cups to each of Missandei and the lady with the tree. From her other side, another maid passed tea to the simpering lamb Lady, Lady Frey, and herself. Arya never once got close to Dany's drink, so she counted that a win; her vigilance had worked. Just like in sparring, failing to pay attention, leaving an opening led to an immediate attack, but a vigilant defense could sometimes buy time. She glanced back; yes, Grey Worm had noticed as well, and was also watching Arya. The swans must be for House Swann!

"House Raventree serves House Targaryen with all our hearts, as we have since King Aegon founded the Seven Kingdoms! House Tully used to hold the Riverlands, and look at them now! Their army was never half as large as House Blackwood's; our lands are larger, our armies stronger, and we serve far more loyally! We only fought with the North because our liege lords, the Lord Paramount, commanded us to; the Targaryens have always ushered in a golden age! We would gladly add the forces of the Riverlands to the task of taking back the rebellious kingdoms to our North for you!" exclaimed the woman with the tree.

Kitty threw her shoulders back, her head high, and replied coldly, "We, and the North, and the Vale, and Queen Daenerys all fought the dead together. We fought more than half a million wights, who know not fear nor sleep nor hunger nor thirst nor cold, and we held them back and defeated them. Together. I suggest you... ladies... consider that you have never raised half a million soldiers, and if you did, half a million lost facing us."

Kitty narrowed her eyes at Lady Blackwood continuing in the silence that had fallen, "The Northern Riverlands is a separate and independent kingdom from the Southron Riverlands; we want no part of your games. Also consider my sister by choice is a Faceless Man... perhaps you ladies and your husbands should consider that you, personally, may pay the price for any foolish choices that harm my people."

Daenerys sipped her tea after watching the others drink as well, particularly the lamb lady who had been served from the same teapot; it wasn't bitter at all, it was even just a bit sweet on her tongue. She took a deeper drink and...

"Dead," said Arya flatly, interrupting Dany's thoughts, while she listened to the faint drumbeats from outside signal no change in the army of the dead, yet again.

"You not come near my Queen cup!" exclaimed Grey Worm.

"She didn't do it," said Sansa, smirking, relaxing from her character and taking pride in a ploy well executed, "Lady Eyla Stokeworth did it. Perhaps she hates Targaryens, perhaps she thinks if you're gone, her family will have a chance to better themselves."

"She never handled any poison; she never reached into a pouch or pocket or even a ruffle," protested Missandei, "What about the other two who drank from that teapot?"

"They're fine; the poison wasn't in the tea. Daenerys, describe the flavor," commanded Arya Stark, in exactly the tones she used during training after Dany made a mistake.

"A fine black tea with a hint of rose, slightly sweet," replied Dany.

"Who else tasted anything sweet?" asked Arya, prompting a round of shaken heads.

"I thought the tea was slightly bitter," commented Missandei to Daenerys.

Sansa turned over Lady Keath's wrist, turning the swan ornament aside to show the rest of the small, clear stones, "Look - see how there's a diamond missing? Those aren't actually diamonds. They're sugar crystals - though they would have been poison were this real."

"She didn't do it! I would have seen her drop one in," said the silver-haired queen.

"Lady Stokeworth took one while Lady Blackwood was advocating for war and the tea was being passed, dropping it in your tea, Queen Daenerys. In this little example, she was given the bracelets just before this dinner, by someone she trusts; someone who had been bought, or who had always been loyal to someone else. She could just as easily been in on the plot herself, but she cannot reveal what she does not know, so this is a superior method," replied Sansa, plucking another 'diamond' from the bracelet and popping it in her mouth, the crunch as she bit down clearly audible.

"This is ridiculous," exclaimed Daenerys, "A trusted friend gives poison to a lady who she somehow knows is going to attend tea with me, and happens to sit next to yet another lady who actually puts the poison in my cup using some sort of slight of hand? That's worse than the wine merchant who tried to poison me years ago."

"On the contrary, Queen Daenerys, that is exactly how Lady Olenna Tyrell killed Joffrey at his own wedding, using her own hands to pluck the poison from an unsuspecting girl wearing jewelry provided by someone else; and the Queen of Thorns put the crystallized Strangler in Joffrey's cup herself, right in front of the Kingsguard, his mother, his father, his grandfather, and hundreds of guests, while Cersei's attention was on Tyrion, who she was suspicious of, just as you were suspicious of Arya; and that focus on the threat you knew about blinded you to the threat you didn't expect," said Sansa, her voice utterly serious before lightening her tone and continuing.

"So, let us recap the actual tea so far. If you are Queen, why did you leave your own chambers, solar, rooms in the Red Keep and go to take tea in a place you do not control, rather than regretfully declining and issuing an invitation of your own to a guest list you select? Also, name each house present and describe their relationships with each other, and with the other greater and lesser Houses of the Southron kingdoms, and whether, overall, they were flattering you, insulting you, or neutral, then we'll continue."

Dany settled herself and began to think; if this was anything like training with Arya, whatever she said would be critiqued and expanded on, and if she had questions, they would be - mostly - answered. Unlike, she thought, what would have happened if this had been real. She had not considered training herself in politics... nor had her advisors pressed the matter, to her detriment. The last time she actually trained in anything, studied anything, was when she had Doreah teach her to make Drogo happy. Whoever Jon's sister sent down to King's Landing in the future, she realized, would doubtless also go through training like this; they wouldn't be unprepared. Gathering her thoughts, she began to give her best answers.

************************

After the 'tea' and the extensive analysis afterwards was done and the ladies who had impersonated the other Southron highborns had exited, Sansa and Arya pulled their overdresses off entirely, Kitty took a set of sewing from under the cream cover and began working on it, passing another set to Sansa, while Arya opened up a map of northern Westeros, staring at it silently, her eyes darting from place to place on it.

"Queen Daenerys, if we could persuade you to stay a little longer? My brother is due any minute, and we have some important news for you; a family matter, as it were. You may wish to hear it by yourself - it is extremely sensitive, though it will be public sooner or later. Every secret is, after all. For us, it will be only myself, Arya, Kitty, and Meera, in addition to Jon."

Daenerys looked at Grey Worm, at Missandei. She'd wanted a family, a real family, so badly, and for so long, and yet these two had been with her since Astapor, had stayed with her, had helped her and served her by choice, had given so much of themselves and had asked for nothing in return. The Starks appropriated family as they saw fit; it was time she claimed her own. She may have more family, in time, but she wasn't alone.

"I will stay. And so will Missandei and Grey Worm; they are family. My family," said Daenerys with a warm smile, reaching out to pull Missandei into a hug, beckoning the somewhat taken aback Unsullied over as well, quietly commenting to him, "Relax; there is no threat here that a few seconds extra time will make a difference for. You've guarded me so long, and so well. You are my family."

Not long after, the sounds of spears tapping the floor sounded, and Meera escorted Jon in, closing the door, barring it and patting the furs down under their sheet before everyone found a comfortable place, placing a few parchments on a table in the center.

"You redecorated, Sansa? I think I liked it better the way it was before," said Jon, looking around the light-colored room with a grin before turning to Daenerys with an uncertain smile.

"It was necessary for training," replied Sansa sharply, narrowing her eyes at her brother.

"What kind of training needs fancy chair covers?" asked Jon.

"The important kind," said Arya archly, her nose in the air, "The kind a brute like you would never understand. The subtle and deadly art of... the tea party."

Jon swatted at Arya's arm, laughing, but she was suddenly a half-inch beyond his reach, her own hand wrapping around his wrist and adding momentum to his motion.

"Stop!" exclaimed Sansa, frowning, "I swear, if you damage my furniture, Jon, I will have you personally repairing it until it's as good as new! And, Jon, I don't want to hear anything from you about tea parties - they are a very powerful political tool, which can be used to topple dynasties, or raise them up."

"Me! What about her?" Jon asked, pointing at Arya.

"I'd never damage her furniture while I beat you, and she knows it; I'm a water dancer, not a brute hacking and hammering like you!" retorted the younger Stark sister as she flopped into a chair next to the divan Kitty was on, right hand angling her long blade up and back so it touched nothing but air as she did so, and then she reached under the chair, pulling out a long, narrow, round bundle of leather with short straps and large metal rings, leaning forward to offer it to Queen Daenerys.

"First things first – before anything else, you've earned this, Daenerys. You've trained diligently, and you're not going to hurt yourself or anyone else carrying this… not unless you mean to! The rings should fit on Drogon's rope halter, and the straps will let you tie it down to keep it where you need it when you're riding Drogon. You've made good progress in your training with me - you're ready to carry this anywhere in the North or the Vale or the Twins that you travel," said Arya as Dany unwrapped the thick, tough leather, exposing the softer canvas of the inside that cradled a staff, encrusted with sharp dragonglass shards on both ends.

Daenerys picked the staff up, slid her hands carefully up and down, feeling the steel bands just before the dragonglass, then at Arya's encouraging nod turned and struck swiftly at an empty chair, well away from everyone else, stopping the strike just before hitting the cloth, transitioning immediately back to a guard and striking twice more, returning to her guard as fast as she could; Arya was merciless at attacking every opening, and every attack left you open.

Arya nodded, and commented, "You're still moving your right foot too far forward - the damage to your balance isn't worth the reach. Keep working on speed and strength both. And start by carrying it wrapped up, or slung in the wrappings while carrying a training staff - you need to learn to see where corners and doorsills and furniture are even when you aren't watching, and the accidental impacts. It doesn't take too long, but the first couple days indoors can be rough on the staff."

Daenerys nodded at Arya and smirked at Jon's expression, since he had never seen her train before, he looked a bit gobsmacked, while the others in the room trained with the staff, Sansa and Kitty, both looked approving, while Grey Worm looked satisfied and Missandei was proud. She re-wrapped the staff, pleased at being acknowledged as a warrior – a novice berserker, perhaps, but a warrior nonetheless, as her ancestors had been. She was the last Targaryen warrior in the world, and was getting better every day, with staff and with her dragons both. Her children and her armies would always be her best weapons, but she'd been left alone, lost in the great grass sea as Drogon flew off before, and if something like that happened again, she wouldn't need to be unarmed. She wouldn't be helpless.

"Thank you, Armsmaster Arya. I hope to prove to be worthy of the honor and of your teaching," said Daenerys, setting one dragonglass-encrusted end into the pile of old rags Jon's sister pointed to, leaning the middle against a concave arch in her chair's decorations as she sat. She'd grown up a princess on the run, but she knew that a master-at-arms was a valued position, and she had always heard the First Swords of the cities she stayed in spoken of with great respect. Arya Stark was one such woman, and had taken the time to train her in secret, after determining her nature as a berserker - and had, to all accounts, kept that knowledge from the public so far, while she was still learning to turn being a berserker into a power she could wield, rather than one that wielded her.

The silver-haired queen cut her musings off with the last thought that her brother would never, ever have given a deadly weapon to a foreign visitor when he was anywhere close to them, then grinned at Jon, "What? You were the one that ordered everyone in the North to learn to fight, are you not? I'm in the North, and out of respect for the former King Jon, stuffy old goat that he can be, I am learning to fight. You do approve of my learning to fight, don't you?"

"He is a bit of a stuffy old goat, isn't he?" asked Arya teasingly, laughing at her brother.

Sansa kept a pleasant smile on her face; Arya had set the mood masterfully, deflecting worry and concern and replacing those with pride, family, and joy with hints of gratefulness with nothing but a little planning and the truth. Would that her sister could handle the Conclave so easily, but large groups were her skill, not Arya's. She then spoke into the brief pause, raising her eyebrows at her brother as she brought them back to the matter actually at hand, "Jon. I believe you had something you wanted to tell Queen Daenerys apart from how pretty a woman with a wight-killing quarterstaff is, and how glad you are that she might be able to beat you senseless in the brief moment between when you're talking about being an idiot and when you get to the actually being an idiot part?"

"Yes. She is! Beautiful, not about beating me! That is, what I mean to say..., " Jon said and then trailed off for a moment, glancing around at all the people in the room, then at Sansa, who nodded.

"Everyone in this room is either our family and knows already, or Queen Daenerys calls her family and wants to know, too," Sansa said reassuringly, falling silent to give Jon some time to get himself together. He'd been a little off the past few days. Arya had taken their military in an iron grip, he wasn't King, nor was he Lord Paramount,and

"Dany... I'm... that is... I've found out who my mother was - Lyanna Stark. Ned Stark wasn't my father," said Jon, then at Arya's glare and smack on his arm corrected himself, his voice slowly trailing off as he spoke, "He's my father, just not by blood! By blood he's my Uncle, and my sisters are my cousins. My father was your brother, Rhaegar Targaryen. I'm trueborn, even, I'm told. I'm your nephew."

Daenerys blinked, trying to figure out what was going on. She wasn't alone! She wasn't the last Targaryen! She was Jon's aunt; she had family, she loved her family... Her nephew was, by the Westerosi law she had been studying, the rightful heir! Her anger rose, and she kept herself rigidly in place as she realized Jon, by accident of birth, had usurped her rightful claim to the throne...

Then she quashed her anger with an effort of will; Jon had been King already, been deposed, and hadn't cared once; she knew him, and as the Stark sisters had made clear, 'rightful' wasn't as important as her dragons and her Unsullied and her Dothraki and making allies. Jon had sworn himself to her, and he was a man of his word. His sisters commanded the Northern kingdoms, not Jon; he wasn't so much as Arya's second, for all those from North of the Wall and many of his people of the North loved him. She didn't need to be angry, nor to panic, and neither of those would help her here... so she, Daenerys Targaryen, would conquer them both! Taking a steady deep breath as she had been practicing, she met Missandei's eyes and smiled slightly while Kitty picked up the parchments Meera had brought, passing them to Daenerys to see and inspect, the first page being a sketch of a man's face she did not recognize, as Sansa took up the conversation.

"Sam's wife Gilly found High Septon Maynard's private diary, which stated that he had set Rhaegar's marriage to Elia aside and married Rhaegar to someone else. Lord Reed has confirmed that Lyanna did indeed give birth to Jon just as she died on the birthing bed, and that she named him Aegon Targaryen. Bran has confirmed all of this and seen the wedding of Rhaegar and Lyanna - attended only by them, the High Septon, and Ser Hightower, Ser Dayne, and Ser Whent; the same three Kingsguard that were later killed at the Tower of Joy where they and a single maidservant had stayed with Lyanna. Those parchments are copies of the diary notes and the records from Bran's visions, as well as a sketch of the wedding, including the High Septon's face. Lord Varys or Ser Jamie should be able to tell you who the people in it are, if you ask either of them."

"Make no mistake, Jon is our brother; anyone who hurts him answers to us," said Arya sternly, "Now and always, no different than before; no matter what face he chooses to wear, by whatever name he calls himself, he's our family. We will not, however, go to war for anyone who wants to put him on the Iron Throne as a puppet. We will not go to war to put him on the Iron Throne for any reason. That he came in on a dragon already had tongues wagging and gossips gossiping, trying to guess at his mother, as if only Westerosi Targaryens could ride dragons. Provincial idiots. Jon, I told you, you need to make a statement and formally give up your 'right' to the throne."

"I agree with Arya, Jon. Daenerys, as we told Jon, even for Starks, first cousins have married, Stark women have married their half-uncles, like Serena and Edric; Targaryens have married brother to sister, so nephew and aunt aren't an insurmountable problem, though the Faith of the Seven will object if they think they have the power to do so. If you wish to continue your relationship, that is your business insofar as Jon agrees; but you should consult with Tyrion and Varys regardless; there are many things to consider," said Sansa, lecturing with a small smile, "Did you want to say anything else in your own words and of your own accord, Jon, or should Arya remind you again?"

"No, I don't need a reminder! Dany, I don't want to be King; you are my Queen, now and always. I didn't want to be King in the North, and I definitely don't want to be a Southron King. It's... it's been a bit of a shock, to be honest, and I only learned about it a few days ago. Arya told me I should make an announcement, but I didn't want to do anything until I talked about it with you. I just... wanted to come to grips with it first."

"Then let's talk, Jon, and soon," said Daenerys steadily. She had left Daario behind in Meereen so she could entertain marriage alliances; as Tyrion had insistently told her, Jon would no longer bring any kingdoms to the Iron Throne if she married him, though she thought it would strengthen ties to Sansa's independent kingdoms.

"Wait; you said they were married! My brother didn't kidnap and rape Lyanna Stark?" asked Daenerys.

"That we do not know," said Sansa calmly and steadily, "She was alone in the presence of a Prince and his Kingsguard who are sworn to obey the Prince and the King, no matter how vile an order they give... when they bother with what they're sworn to do at all. We do know she ran away to join him, that her running away to him was not a kidnapping, and that is a point in his favor, though I was once foolish and fancied a prince as well, wanted to stay in King's Landing with him to the very day our household was slaughtered, because I was a stupid girl who hadn't learned. We do know he left his wife and two trueborn children, set them aside in secret to take Lyanna south, to Dorne, to marry her and then take her to a tower, alone and nearly unattended, with no word to anyone from either of them, by whose choice, we cannot know. Whether she wanted to leave, whether she was afraid of the Kingsguard or Rhaegar, whether she loved him, whether she stopped loving him; it's not something even the Three-Eyed Raven can truly determine, but that she was in an isolated tower with three guards and a single attendant, without a Maester or midwife, while he went to battle his father-in-law, is not a point in your brother's favor."

"It doesn't matter," said Arya flatly, "None of us can now know the mind of your brother Rhaegar or our Aunt Lyanna; we are what's left of our families, Stark and Targaryen, and none of us knew either of them. It's up to us all to make our own way forward for ourselves and our families, and none of us left alive today is interested in vengeance or repayment for anything they may or may not have done. The Mad King is gone, killed by Jamie Lannister. Your concerns should be with the living, Daenerys. Leave the dead to the Many-Faced God. So, what are your concerns?"

************************

After all the guests had left, Sansa reached out to take Meera by the arm, "You're coming with us, good-sister. You are a Stark now, and that means there are many more lessons you need to learn. Keep your spear ready; the crypts may not have been cleared completely."

Arya opened the door, and they and their guards and pages began the long trek down to the entrance to the crypts, where the entourage was left behind. Passing tomb after tomb after tomb they continued deeper, Arya leading, a torch burning in her right hand and a pack on her back, Sansa between them with her spear held ready, and Meera bringing up the end, watching behind them.

"Bran told me about the crypts," said Meera, looking around as Arya led them unerringly through branch after branch of passages in the maze-like crypts. The first ones, near the surface, were full of barrels of supplies topped with boards holding soil, growing mushrooms and other plants that need little enough light that being rotated up was enough, or no light at all. As they continued ever farther and deeper, the soil became barren, and then there were only boards, and then grew open again, empty of supplies or plants or preparations for the moment, the tombs grew ever older, then ancient, though every gate and door was new, thick and strong... some of those showing signs of scrapes and scratches, deep gouges and hammering, while many of the statues near those doors had no swords in their hands, not anymore.

The tombs were unmarked and undisturbed since the covers had been replaced after the burning, though in some areas the doors were damaged and there were new, rough openings in the walls, loose stone and soil piled up next to them, crude wooden braces ensuring no collapse would happen. Some were from ancient parts of the crypts, lost from cave-ins, some were from areas that had been walled off centuries or millenia ago, long forgotten, lost in the mists of time, "Osha hid them down here under the noses of the Ironborn, no matter how the Ironborn searched, Bran and Rickon knew the crypts far better than they."

"That's why we're here," replied Arya just loud enough for the other two to hear, "You are a Stark, now, soon to be mother of more Starks. Stark children grow up exploring the crypts, playing in them... learning them without knowing how important that might be later on. You must learn them, too, and teach your children. They may not need them as Bran did, but I like to think these crypts may again let some Starks not yet born tell Death not today."

Sansa spoke as Arya led them down the final staircase, crafted, they knew from Bran, before the Wall had been constructed, during the first Long Night itself, "Our mother taught us to swim down here, you know; there are several pools filled by the hot springs; mother used one of the ones much closer to the surface, but she was from Riverrun, and she felt that knowing to swim was something every small child must learn."

"Mother's lessons saved my life, back in Braavos, when I was stupid and foolish and got stabbed; I threw myself in the water, and swam under it until I was out of sight, far enough I and my tracks wouldn't be found when I pulled myself out of the canals," said Arya, stopping at an unremarkable section of wall, turning a rock and then opening a cunningly camouflaged door to another section, containing two chests, a few dragonglass weapons of various types, a horn, a drum and a gong, a barrel of dragonglass, and a stack of brand new stone tablets with carvings of wights, white walkers, their defenses, how to fight them, how to make wildfire and grow plants in the cold and the dark, and maps of known dragonglass deposits.

"What's in the chests?" asked Sansa quietly as she walked past them, feeling at another section of wall. The dragonglass, stone tablets, and other items she recognized - just another set like those they had sent out before and would continue sending out, instructions and warning for not just the current populace of the world, but for untold future generations of what might come for them, should the Night King survive - like what Jon had said the Children of the Forest had left at the mines of Dragonstone, but designed by Sam and the Maesters to last the test of time and be easily constructed and scattered far and wide across the world.

"Not much - gold and jewels. Just a distraction to explain the slightly disguised door," said Arya, closing the outer door and then smirking at Sansa as she held the torch up so Sansa could see the inside of the apparently closed chamber properly, "The one we just came through - a cheap mummer's trick. This one, though, is finished with actual stone from this level. Watch carefully."

With that, Arya pulled one stone out, then another, placed her feet, put her hands on two particular outcroppings, and shoved, the door moving away from her slowly and steadily, having extended both above the ceiling and below the floor by an inch, dust - just like the dust that had been packed all around the edge as part of the door's disguise - falling down as Arya opened the way to the large chamber and hot spring within. As she entered, she placed the torch in a holder by a table, illuminating not only the still water, but the barrels of supplies, piles of torches, crates of candles, and selections of clothes and makeup, weapons and tools.

"You've been busy, sister," said Sansa as Arya shut this door behind them, too, small brass rollers moving smoothly under it. Her sister had spoken to a few of the oldest, sickest, and most injured craftsmen they had, and pledged their families would be taken care of by the Starks in exchange for them pledging to do some work in secret... and then give up their lives, accepting 'the gift of' a peaceful death.

It was, she thought, an interesting solution to the problem many rulers faced - constructing a secret passage or place was fine, but it was hardly secret to the workmen who built it. Arya's solution was unusual - she made the deal up front, death included, and only those who agreed were told anything at all. The usual solution, to kill the unsuspecting workers instead of paying them, as Littlefinger had done to Ser Dontos, well... that wasn't the Stark way. That wasn't their way.

"This is the last refuge of the Starks in Winterfell, to be known only to Starks from this time forward. The Lady of Winterfell will be responsible forevermore to stock and supply this with only her own hands and the hands of her husband and children, that her family may have one last place within the castle to hide," said Arya, "We've all had experience hiding - if we must hide, we should do it properly."

The youngest Stark shucked her backpack off, pulling out a few more items and stacking them on barrels, then set her weapons by the edge of the pool alongside the other weapons already there and started undressing casually, laying her hidden armor out on the smooth stone floor, "It's our day to bathe; we can do that here, in the hot spring. You'll like it, Meera - it's quite warm, the water's crystal clear, and the bottom is smooth. This is where Sansa and I started to plot against Littlefinger, not even an hour after I returned."

Arya could hear Meera lean her spear in the rack by the pool and start to undress as well, while Sansa had only set her weapon down. She kept her face placid and her movements steady as her rage poured through her; Sansa had killed Ramsay herself, but she still hadn't recovered from what he did to her. Perhaps she never would; but now she could have Meera supply enough of a distraction to help. She lit a single dim candle, then put the torch out and continued speaking, putting away her rage and wearing the face of family.

"No need to waste fuel. Meera - tell us about what Bran was like, when you were with him, before he became the Three-Eyed Raven. We never got a chance to see him grow up; you did. Share a little with us, good-sister, please," said Arya as she scooped a bucket of water out and started scrubbing herself down with a wet rag. There was a small underground stream fed by the pool, but it wouldn't do to dirty it unnecessarily, and they were all in dire need of a bath.

"We'd just gotten to the Nightfort; me, Jojen, Bran, Hodor and Summer. He said there were a lot of horrible stories about this place; that he'd liked them, once," said Meera , starting to wash down herself, looking across the water as Sansa started to undress behind her.

"Those were always Bran's favorite," replied Arya.

"Jojen, too. So, Bran told us a story about the Rat Cook," said Meera, looking over at a nearly-submerged Arya who'd burst into laughter - smug, vicious laughter, from a girl so silent she'd made it all the way into the pool without the slightest sound.

"Go on, tell it!" said Arya with a wide, bloodthirsty grin, "I don't think Sansa's heard this one."

"I never liked those stories," said Sansa repressively, taking another rag and starting to wash herself off.

Meera took a peek at her good-sister, and stared for half a second before looking out over the water again; she hoped Sansa hadn't noticed. Sansa, the beautiful Queen of the North, was utterly covered in overlapping scars of all kinds, over every bit of her skin except from her wrists down and her neck up. Not just scars, but... Meera stopped her thought and continued her story, trying her best to keep her voice as it was before. Sansa would have said something if she wanted her scars commented on, and she hadn't, instead taking steps to hide them.

"So, we all gathered around the fire, and Bran started. The King visited the Nightfort, and the cook was angry at the King for something. The cook killed the Prince, and baked him into a big pie with onions, carrots, mushrooms, and bacon. That night, he served the pie to the King. The King liked the taste of his son so much, he asked for a second slice. The gods turned the cook into a giant white rat, who could only eat his own young. He's been roaming the Nightfort ever since, devouring his own babies, but no matter what he does, he's always hungry," recited Meera, imitating Bran's tones and cadence as best she could. That was one of the last times they had all had a good time together - Jojen and Summer and Hodor, and Bran before the Three-Eyed Raven, with a warm fire for themselves, a second fire for their abundance of food, strong walls and a good roof over their heads.

Sansa slipped into the spring while Meera talked, sinking down next to Arya so only her head was above water, while Arya wrapped an arm around her roughly scarred shoulders underwater, squeezing gently, making the sign for sister and then showing two fingers.

"I said if the gods turned every killer into a giant white rat, and Bran glared at me! It wasn't for murder the gods cursed him, he said, or for serving the King's son in a pie," continued Meera, glancing over at the return of Arya's disturbing laughter, "but for killing a guest beneath his roof, and that, the gods cannot forgive. All right, Arya, what's so funny?"

"Walder," said Arya, grinning.

"What about Walder Frey, Arya?" asked Meera, slipping into the water on Arya's other side and coming close when Arya invited her with a tip of her head, while Sansa shook her head at her sister.

"Black Walder and Lothor didn't make it to the last feast," said Arya with a wide smirk.

"You said you'd fed Walder two of his sons - you fed him his heirs in a pie," replied Sansa, only curiosity in her voice as she pushed her discomfort and shame at her scars being uncovered while her good-sister was present down, "And you said he asked for a second slice... just like the story of the Rat Cook. You never did say what happened to the rest of the Freys, though."

"You fed Walder Frey his sons in a pie?" asked Meera, not quite incredulous. That was quite horrific... but so was the Lord of the Twins; many of her father's bannermen, of her people, had died there, massacred at Robb Stark's wedding. She'd known her good-sister was deadly, but there was a great distance between any level of deadliness, and baking people into pies to feed to their parents. Or, indeed, in feeding a man to his hounds while he was still alive.

She'd wondered about the Starks, growing up. Her father had told many stories of his good friend and liege lord, Ned Stark. Of his honor - his excessive honor, even, not long before she and Jojen left to find Bran, of Lord Stark having faced Ser Arthur Dayne in single combat, despite being completely outmatched. Her father had warned that sometimes the too-honorable needed a practical crannogman to face the world - even though the crannogman's way of fighting was looked on with disdain by most.

She'd done that for Bran, as best she could... but these sisters, there was honor in them, true, but it was a smaller, colder, harder, more practical code of honor than even a crannogman's. And there was a wild viciousness not far underneath the controlled show they usually put on. Sansa was showing, right now, a pleased little smirk, a mirror of Arya's - her Queen actively enjoyed knowing men had been baked into a pie. That an entire family, an entire pack had been destroyed. That she'd personally had her husband torn apart by dogs... by the closest thing to wolves she'd had available.

Meera had listened to the many tales of her father as she grew up, of how the Marsh Kings had been conquered by the Starks, and had been loyal ever since as House Reed. Of how the Red Kings had bent the knee during the invasion of the Andals and become House Bolton, and had rebelled time and again since then, most recently a thousand years ago. She'd wondered how the Boltons had survived so many rebellions, and when they again rebelled, she knew her father had started planning for how they might put down the rebellion, and she'd thought that perhaps the Boltons had very carefully timed their rebellions only against the most honorable Starks.

That had, she thought, worked for the Umbers and the Karstarks - their line lived on, pardoned by Jon Snow, allowed to keep their ancestral castle as the Boltons had kept the Dreadfort before. But the Boltons were extinct, now. The Freys, too. Kitty had told her that when Arya took the Twins back from the Lannisters, Kitty would rule the Northern riverlands; all male Freys would give up their name no matter their age, and she would, when she chose to marry again, take her husband's name, though he would have no right to rule, just like Meera herself ruled in her own name.

And yet they did not torture for fun, only to make a point. Trial by combat was an ancient custom, letting the gods decide; and yet Arya had made it painfully clear that calling for it in the North was little more than begging for a hideously painful death. Accepting a judgment of guilt in a trial on a capital crime, on the other hand, did have the chance for being sentenced to the Night's Watch, and even when the sentence was death, it was always quick, and clean. Never was a slow death passed in sentence. Never was a sentence passed for torture or a painful death.

She could live with them, she knew - it was just a little odd, that her role would be that of the honorable woman of the North, not that of the practical warrior of the Neck.

"I did!" exclaimed Arya, delighted, "Just like in the legend of the Rat Cook. He and they all broke guest rights; god cares not how vengeance is delivered, only that it is; so I delivered our vengeance in the ancient way. Then I took his face, as I had taken his son's faces, and took his place. I called for a feast to be held nearly a fortnight later, and invited every Frey who took part in the Red Wedding, commanding those were were away to return to the Twins. Here, I can show you, if you want."

Arya gave Sansa another squeeze, watching as the redhead made the sign for yes, then stood, moving over to stand behind a large, flat, waist-high rock, drying off and redressing before swirling her cloak around, Walder Frey's face looking out in the dim light as she put her hands together, closing her eyes for a minute; she gathered magic together, imagining exactly the Frey high table, the Lord's chair, the decorations, the exact cut and shape of Walder's outfit. This was no simple glamour - there were tiny details everywhere, and while many parts were silent and unmoving, other parts did need to move, to make sound, to look perfect, as the faces she had 'taken off' of the man until she revealed her own were perfect.

Meera watched as Arya Stark in her dark leathers became No One in his vestments before her eyes, hood lowered to show wispy white hair, and then he closed his eyes and was still and cold as ice. Seconds stretched on with nothing happening and she exchanged looks with Sansa, who gave a minute shrug.

As the patterns flowed and shifted, Arya concentrated on the magic until each pattern was precisely as she required, and then she poured the magic she'd gathered and shaped into the patterns she needed and the image she'd imagined, the glamour snapping into existence around her, and she lowered herself to 'sit' in the 'chair'. She couldn't move from this spot and keep the glamour up, but as long as she stayed where she was, she'd manage. She raised the 'goblet' in her hand, banging it down on the 'table' before her twice.

When Meera looked back at Arya at the sound of a goblet on a wooden table rang out, she gasped; there was a table there, now, with candles and food and wine, and a great chair; not a rock and piles of supplies. The image wavered briefly to her sight, and she could see the reality under the illusion. Then, as Arya - as Walder Frey - spoke, she let herself focus on the glamour.

"You see it?" asked Meera in a murmur.

"I do; wavering a little, but I do. Glamour, like in the stories; and a keen eye pierces them," replied Sansa in her own quiet murmur, "I suppose we have keen eyes."

"You're wondering why I brought you all here. After all, we just had a feast! Since when does Old Walder give us two feasts in a single fortnight? Heh. Heh. Heh. Well, it's no good being Lord of the Riverlands if you can't celebrate with your family. That's what I say!" said Walder in his rich, deep voice, the sound of hands banging on tables echoing over the still, warm, water. He raised his hand and snapped his fingers.

"I've gathered every Frey who means a damned thing, so I can tell you my plans for this great House, now that Winter has come," said Arya, smirking for a fraction of a second as she referred to the words of House Stark; the first of many hints to the Freys that her vengeance was upon them, "But first, a toast! No more of that Dornish horse piss, this is the finest Arbor Gold! Proper wine for proper heroes!"

"Stand together!" called out Walder, the faint echoes of a mass of voices repeating the words of House Frey coming from everywhere and nowhere as he held up his goblet, not drinking, smiling broadly as his eyes looked out over the still water and his sisters. He turned to the side, to an empty 'chair', plainer, smaller, a smaller, plainer silver 'goblet' before it on the 'table' - forming a glamour of Kitty was beyond his current skills - and said flatly, "Not you. I'm not wasting good wine on a damned woman."

"Maybe I'm not the most pleasant man, I'll admit it," continued the Lord of the Crossing strongly in Walder's rich, deep voice, "But I'm proud of you lot! You're my family, the men who helped me slaughter the Starks at the Red Wedding!"

As the echoes of men cheering rang out over the still pool, he continued, his tone acquiring a derisive edge, "Yes, yes, cheer! Brave men, all of you! Butchered a woman pregnant with her babe. Cut the throat of a mother of five. Slaughtered your guests after inviting them into your home. But, you didn't slaughter every one of the Starks. No, no, that was your mistake."

The sounds of men coughing and clearing their throats started to echo through the crypt cavern now, "You should have ripped them all out, root and stem! Leave one wolf alive, and the sheep are never safe," said Arya, gracing Walder's face with the pleased little smile she'd shown then, as the sounds of men choking, falling, dying rose up and then died out before she reached up and took Walder's face off, releasing No One's face as well, and Arya's own face over Walder's rich clothing turned to the empty 'chair', speaking quietly.

"When people ask you what happened here, tell them the North Remembers. Tell them, Winter came for House Frey."

Arya let the patterns of the glamour dissipate, quickly undressing again near the wall, placing a round cylinder of metal around the torch, filling a pot with water and adding some rough-crushed grains, a little moss to ward of scurvy, and two small mushrooms, hanging the pot on a tall tripod over the covered torch before relighting it. She'd told the kitchens they'd have their food while they were out, no special foods, just grains and those few vegetables.

She then strode towards the pool, growling, "Winter came. I said tell them Winter came for House Frey. Not Lady Winter. Not Lady anything! I said Winter came! I wasn't trying to get myself a pretentious name like yours, Red Wolf, but no, you encouraged the poor girl, helped her find her courage."

Sansa watched her sister launch herself in a sudden, flat dive, disappearing instantly under the surface, the shadow of a bulge moving quickly towards her, and immediately started moving away from Meera as quickly as she could, to no avail. A hand clamped on her ankle underwater and with a mighty tug she was yanked under, tucking her head in quickly as she had since she was a child, to avoid bumping into anything while her bratty little sister dunked her.

Arya emerged from the water with Sansa's foot falling from her hand, easily wearing a face of good-natured glaring, "Any words from you, good-sister?"

"Not a one," replied Meera calmly, cupping her hands underwater and bringing her arms up as fast as she could to launch a huge wave of water at Arya and, as she came up, Sansa as well; she'd been able to take even Jojen by surprise most of the time, playing in the waters Greywater Watch floated on; she was glad to see she could not just work with her good-sisters, but play with them, too. They would be Aunts to her sons and daughters, just as much as they were Queens and commanders, and she intended her children to grow up not just skilled and deadly in court and on the battlefield, but also happy.

************************

 

[Epic Reader]

No One bent down to check the tiny flake of dragonglass in the dead novice's wrist, then took his arms while an acolyte took his feet. The novice had been just a little too curious for his skills; he had not seen, smelled, or felt the poison on the door ring when he went into an area of the temple rooms to which he had not been invited. The House could not afford a Faceless Man who couldn't figure out what people expected in a given place on their own, and in the House, they expected novices and acolytes to eavesdrop when it could be done with subtlety, to examine everything and everyone around them... and to never, ever, go where they hadn't been invited.

Together, they carried the corpse to lay beside the many others awaiting care within the House of Black and White. Some had died in battle, some of their wounds, some had asked for the Gift rather than continuing to suffer until they died, unable to be cured by the Maesters. For some, they might have lived for a time, but lived in suffering that would have lasted months or years, and those here had chosen to not continue on crippled as they had been, but to accept the Gift. As long as their prayer was true and honest, the gift was theirs for the asking. She'd given it time and again after the battle, as had the other priests of the Many-Faced God, as was their duty.

Arya took off No One's face and swirled her vestments around to present the Lady Winter side as she left the temple rooms proper, moving towards a room next to her workshop, putting a small spoon with wax fragments in it on the side of the single torch as she heard footsteps on the stairs, one light, one determined, and two heavier that matched with the sounds of light armor, and then the tapping of spears on the stone outside. One of her guards spoke through the barred door, telling her what she already knew, "Lady Winter, Princess Sarella and Queen Daenerys have arrived with two guards."

Arya unbarred the door, opening it for the two royals, "Thank you both for coming. Grey Worm, Tranan, you may check the room first, and then wait at the end of the corridor; it will be only the three of us."

Once the guards had looked over the nearly empty room, received approval from the woman they reported to, and left, Arya closed and put the bar in the brackets over the furs, adjusting the spoon's position a little and moving over to the first of two small tables, the only furniture in the room except for the barrels stacked up along the walls, and two small boxes, one with a Targaryen sigil, and one with a Martell sigil.

"Sarella, Daenerys, we have received one or more ravens for each of you; any messages you may have received, if any, beyond the one I will be working with are in the box; you may take it with you when you leave this room. However, as you are both young rulers that we hope to have a continuing alliance with, I've offered you this time to educate you on what you should expect from your Master of Whisperers... and what you should expect from any and every place where your ravens or messages are handled by anyone but your most trusted people," said Arya, watching the two women look at each other and shrug; clearly they were getting along, cautiously, it was true, but getting along nonetheless. Fighting the army of the dead together, seeing each other do so, hearing stories of each other's actions from the soldiers; sharing a drink in the tavern, being strangers in a strange land together, all that mattered. People formed strong bonds when they fought together.

Her sister, Arya knew, hoped that good relations could be had with and between all of Westeros, at least for their lifetime and their nieces and nephews lifetimes. That these two were being friendly - at least in the face of a foreign Master of Whisperers - had its good and its bad. It spoke well for the possibility of peace after Cersei had been given the Gift. It also meant that peace might be more equitable, rather than purely in favor of the Two and a Bit kingdoms. That was all right; after the Night King was driven back or destroyed, after Long Night and the winter after was over, there would be plenty and to spare. Before, well, Valar Morghulis - that was the test. If all three of the leaders south of the Wall could work together, and with the Free Folk, and with Essos when times were hard, then perhaps over their lifetimes Sansa could keep the youngsters and idiots in check... and when she couldn't, Arya would step in.

Arya knew that these two needed to know more than they did for that to happen; to have good relations with them each was possible, but with their successors? That was harder, especially if they were overthrown, so she was going to do something about that; she wouldn't teach much, nothing but what any half-competent spy would know. They needed to realize that it wasn't just the battlefield, or even the battlefield and the court that was deadly; everything and everywhere could be deadly. The youngest Master of Whisperers picked up a scroll, showing the two the place where the seal had been on the outside, and then opening it, reading the scroll before the two before re-rolling it carefully, holding both ends against a parchment on the desk.

"This was a sealed scroll for Queen Daenerys, which..." said Arya as Daenerys interrupted her.

"You're reading my messages?" asked the Targaryen Queen sharply, her ire rising. How dare they claim friendship and yet still read sealed messages to her from her own subjects!

"Exactly as Varys read the sealed messages for my brother the King in the North that Sansa and I sent to Dragonstone," replied Arya solemnly, with neither apology nor accusation, grey eyes boring into the Queen's steadily, "I'm the Master of Whisperers here - it is my duty to know as much about what comes in and out of Winterfell as I can, just as it was Varys's duty to know that for Dragonstone. Thus, I open your sealed scrolls, just as Varys opened sealed scrolls destined for the King in the North. Out of courtesy, to show you what each of your Master of Whisperers should be doing, and to show you what you should watch for on your own messages, I invited both of you here to watch. Out of that same courtesy, I am opening your mail myself, reading it myself, rather than have another Whisperer do so. Know also that it is entirely possible these messages have already been read by others before arriving in Winterfell."

Arya waited another moment as the dragon queen subsided and finally gave a sharp nod, then continued the lesson, "So, to begin with, I borrowed some thread, a piece of parchment, a sharp, finely pointed broadhead arrow, a pencil, a torch, some salt, finely ground flour, a mortar and pestle, a bowl, a goblet of water, and two very smooth silver spoons from the kitchens. Note the fine marks on the parchment; those are the exact size of each end of the scroll; it was wound a little unevenly, perhaps on purpose to warn of clumsy tampering."

Sarella watched the Queen's glare soften, and then moved closer, noting the tiny marks on the parchment, and saw how many shavings were on the table from the pencil. The pencil had probably been re-sharpened for each tiny line, and there weren't just two, there were several, tracing the entire shape of the scroll! If it had been rolled unevenly, in an oval shape, or otherwise crafted, a lesser, easier, sloppier technique wouldn't be able to tell! Measure and countermeasure; there was no reason for the more difficult, time-consuming, elaborate advanced technique to be used unless the easier technique was less capable. There was a history to this, she could see - a long history of scientific advancement in forging and counter-forging, just as other sciences taught at the Citadel had a long history.

She could also see shades of what she'd been learning from One-Armed Harry! She was quite sure there were specialized tools for this type of task, just as healing had specialized tools, and yet Arya was using common implements from the kitchen and the armory, nothing more. She wondered if the Stark had been trained in the specialized tools as well as makeshift ones, or if her teachers, like her disguise teacher, felt that they were unnecessary to the sufficiently skilled practitioner... and that any trouble a novice had using makeshift tools was merely an excuse for even more training! Better tools would be necessary for the very best results, just as she'd purchased expensive supplies from the local Maesters for her own lessons with Harry, to be able to practice all of what he could teach... but she knew some healing and disguise already. She knew ravenry, but little of subterfuge, like this... not yet, at least.

"Did you sharpen the pencil with the arrowhead?" asked the acolyte of the Citadel, after quickly going over each item Princess Arya had listed; only the arrowhead could be used to sharpen the pencil, and Arya was nothing if not thorough when teaching her practical lessons. Too, she was also precise and well prepared; she wouldn't have listed that many things if that wasn't comprehensive, and the arrowhead was the odd tool out.

"I did. Princess Sarella, if you could warm the broadhead up, please, but carefully, to just barely hot enough to melt wax? Queen Daenerys, please pick up the small cylinder there and describe the ends to me," asked Arya as she carefully wrapped four previously set up loops of thread around the paper, one at a time, tightening them just enough to preserve the shape. No thread overlapped the marks the sealing wax had left on the paper.

Sarella lifted the shaft and inspected the broadhead; simple iron, cleaned to a level she'd be comfortable eating with. The metal had no tempering - it wasn't even case-hardened. Heating it up to that temperature would have no real effect on it, and it was a good example of a common, reasonably inexpensive hunting head - she could find the like anywhere in the world she'd ever been.

Dany lifted the small cylinder, then rubbed her fingers along it; it was light, and a tiny bit rough; it wasn't clay. She lifted it, moving closer to the torchlight and looking at the rounded end; there was nothing special there, though she raised it towards her face when the Princess of Dorne spoke quietly, rotating the broadhead near the torch while holding the shaft in her hands.

"Don't sniff it! If it's poison, or an acid, you might inhale too much. Instead, first use your other hand to wave the air over it towards your face," instructed Sarella, "If it's safe, then you can wave more air, and if that's safe, then you can sniff from far away, very carefully getting nearer."

"Do you know much about poisons, Princess Sarella," asked Daenerys, doing as the other ruler had suggested after Arya gave an approving nod. There was just a little hint of a smell of bread, so she continued with the test; yes, she could definitely tell it smelled of bread.

"I studied both poisons and healing at the Citadel, as my father did before me," replied Sarella, then blinked, realizing she'd forgotten her courtesies in her academic excitement, "Your Grace."

"Thank you, Princess Sarella, for your expertise. Though I thought only men were allowed to be Maesters?" asked Daenerys as she turned the small cylinder over, seeing fine indentations in a pattern hidden in the shadows of the dark room. Holding it up to the torch, she tilted it, then frowned; that wasn't just a pretty pattern, it was a sigil she recognized! That was, in fact, a copy of Daario's personal seal, and a good one!

"In Oldtown, they were, so I disguised myself as a man and studied anyway. In the North and the Vale, I'm pleased to say, the rules were changed yesterday! Women have been accepted by the Maesters, to study, to earn their chains!" said Sarella, proud. She'd spoken eloquently on the topic, first as Alleras, and then as Princess Sarella. Here, she'd found a much greater emphasis on practical results than on formalities and traditions. What part of that was Northern culture, and what part was the exigency of the war against the dead she couldn't be sure of, though she was 7 parts in 10 certain that only with the war against the dead could that decision have been made in her own lifetime.

"Congratulations, Sarella! I'm sure you will do well in your studies. I hear there were eloquent speeches from certain people on your behalf... one of them by you. On behalf of my sister and I, thank you for helping our Maesters give more chances to women like us," said Arya with a warm smile, and without a trace of surprise in her voice, then held her hand out towards Daenerys, palm up.

"This is Daario's sigil! You made a copy of his seal out of flour and salt!" said Daenerys, her eyes narrowed as she remembered the list of items Arya had gone over, her grip tightening around the copy slightly before she dropped it into Arya's hand, "When did you make it?"

"And water; I'll show you how on Sarella's scroll, which is yet unopened, but it does take some time to dry enough to use; half an hour of careful work at least, and all of our time is valuable, so I did that this morning and simply let it dry near a torch for a few hours - it takes longer, but requires less attention. Now, see here; in this spoon, I have the wax of the seal; any substitution may be noticed, so this is only the original wax. On the scroll itself, there are the marks from where the wax was, so I know where to apply it, though it takes some skill to get the shape identical. On the fake seal, note that it's markedly curved - its curve matches this scroll and only this scroll, and can be used for nothing else without being distorted," said the Master of Whisperers, "Raven scrolls are too small and tightly wound to make a really good flat impression."

Arya slipped the seal between two fingers of her left hand, then took the spoon up between the forefinger and thumb of her left hand, rolling it around slowly, letting the wax cool off a little, the scroll held seal side up in her right hand, speaking quietly, "The wax must be just on the edge of solidifying, not too thick, and evenly cooled. It also can't be too runny, or you won't get it to the same shape it was before. When it contacts the parchment, it cools a little on the bottom, and the seal will cool it further on the top... just so."

With that, she poured the wax carefully onto the scroll, instantly dropping the spoon and pressing the seal down atop the wax, lifting it off a moment later, blowing on it once and showing the result to Daenerys, "Look carefully; what is wrong with this seal?"

Daenerys leaned in to inspect it, replying absently as she put her attention to the task. From a distance, the seal looked perfect, and she imagined that many of her scrolls had been read before; she'd never paid extremely close attention to the seals, merely noted who it looked like the scrolls were from. Like midair fighting on a dragon, there were many, many fine details that an expert took for granted, a novice wouldn't even know to look for, and those in between, like herself with aerial combat, could notice with constant attention.

She wanted to be better than a novice at checking her own people's seals - relying on her advisors was expected... but not all the time, and not for everything! Up close, though, the flaws were obvious, "It's rougher - there's a texture to the wax that there shouldn't be. And there, a bit of the wax is missing, as if it broke off, and the impression... it just doesn't look quite like Daario's. It's not... loving enough."

"Good," said Arya, holding up the fake seal, "Be careful when your gut tells you something's wrong - your gut knows something is wrong... but that could be wrong with you, or the area, or something else, not the seal itself - yet you should give a very careful inspection when your gut tells you it's wrong. Technically, see here - a bit of the wax stuck to the seal; I lifted it imperfectly, waited a touch too long, and the seal was too cold when I used it, which is why it was missing from the seal. The flour seal is also not as smooth as a good metal seal; that can be corrected with a better fake, but those take more time, more skill, more materials - and, at the highest levels, access to the original seal. Note that for any ancient seal, there could have been excellent fakes made long ago. Sarella, arrow. A steady hand and a good memory is all that's needed to correct many of the flaws; watch."

Arya took the arrow, holding it as if it were a quill, just below the broadhead, and used the sharp, hot tip to trace along the edges of the tiny seal, plucking the tiny bit of escaped wax from the seal with the tip and reshaping it; every few seconds she held the arrowhead near the torch for a second or two.

"Princess Sarella, I've been wanting to speak with Alleras the Archer, who I'm told also studies at the Citadel. I heard his arrow lit the fifth trench on the first shot," said Daenerys while she watched the flaws in the seal vanish under her weaponsmaster's careful work, then cast her eyes over at Sarella with a smirk, "And that he is not only a patient teacher, but also a she. I enjoy meeting clever and powerful women, especially in the land of my birth... even if they aren't sworn to me."

"Does everyone see through my disguise immediately?" Sarella asked, having lowered her voice to respond with indignation before returning to her normal friendly and curious tones, "Was it Varys that told you? Three of the Maesters here had already noticed, too. Not Grand Maester Wolkan, but some of the others weren't surprised at all, though they did vote in favor of allowing women."

"Two of those Maesters are leches, Alleras, and one's a lech with a clever mistress. Of course they voted to allow more women in," said Arya, setting down the arrowhead and handing the raven scroll to its intended recipient, "Daenerys, what do you see now?"

"The angle of those ridges is slightly wrong, the color's too dark over there, and there's a slight curve to some of them where they should be straight," replied Daenerys after a careful inspection. She then continued ruefully and honestly, "But if I hadn't seen you fake it, I'd never have noticed anything wrong."

"My clumsy assistant got soot on the broadhead, which changed the color of the wax," said Arya, shaking her finger at Sarella, who shrugged with an innocent grin, "The angle could be wrong because my touch-up was too rough, it could be wrong because the fake seal wasn't applied perfectly straight, and the curve could be because there was too much water in the mix and it drooped before it dried enough, or your forger didn't hold it straight down as it dried. Lots of things can go wrong, especially in a hurry and with improvised tools - the less time, the more risk, always. Remember that - give those who would read your messages as little time as possible!"

She dropped the fake seal in the mortar, crushed it back into salty flour with a few quick strikes of the pestle, then ground it into an even, fine mix before pouring the reground flour into the small bowl and spooning in water, mixing it carefully, "Some spies would simply eat the fake seal to get rid of the evidence. Some careless spies would use the same mix again, like I am, which can cause other issues the next time. Sarella, pass me your message; I'll show you how to take a good impression. You only get one try, and you have to hold it very still, like this."

As she watched Arya demonstrate how to turn skills for making fancy pastries into skills for intercepting royal correspondence, Sarella whispered loudly to Daenerys, "Do you think she cooks much?"

Daenerys eyed the other ruler, then giggled while she leaned in and whispered loudly back, as if that would keep Arya, four feet away, from hearing, "My own spies say she one of her friends is a master baker, and they traveled together for a time when she was younger. Maybe he was her teacher!"

Sarella grinned, her eyes flicking up at Arya, "Maybe I should hire bakers to be spies."

"Or spies to be bakers!" replied the silverhead in a whisper, prompting laughter from Arya.

"Quiet in my class, you two, or there'll be extra lessons for you both! I'd pay to see Varys baking dinner while Hot Pie spied for you. I wouldn't eat a thing Varys prepared, mind you, but I'd pay good silver to watch him as royal cook. Hot Pie as a spy would eventually get you the secrets of every great family recipe in King's Landing in no time... but nothing else. Daenerys, you could ask Sarella some questions about customs - she's the closest thing we have to a true Southron Lady raised by a great house" exclaimed Arya, laughing, while her hands, steady as a block of ice, held the slowly drying dough against the Dornish seal.

"I'm no great Lady; I'm Dornish, half foreign, unladylike by their narrow customs, and a Sand besides; the Southron ladies wouldn't give me the time of day," replied Sarella easily, meeting Daenerys's gaze steadily, "But I can tell you some... if you'll do something for me."

"I could legitimize you as a Martell, if you like," offered Daenerys after barely a moment's hesitation. She'd spent time with her advisors on who might rule - or want to rule - each kingdom, on what they might want. Not just the first or biggest or most obvious thing, but many things they wanted or might want, and how those interrelated.

The more she learned, the more she thought politics was much like dragons fighting - you might want to use your dragon's flame on the other dragon, but if that let the other dragon get its claws into your dragons belly, it was a bad choice. Even, sometimes, doing something you don't want to, like turning your dragon away and diving toward rocky ground, giving up height in the sky, might tempt the enemy into attacking you, letting the dragon behind you attack them from above - the best kind of attack! Politics, it seemed, were similar, except it wasn't a small duel, but a great battle of hundreds of dragons and shifting alliances besides.

Sarella waved her hand, dismissing the suggestion, "I'd like that, but that's a minor thing for later discussions, and just a stroke of a pen for you and Sansa, especially for an independent Dorne. What I really want is to send craftsmen and tools to set up a fletching industry on Dragonstone to mate Dornish arrows, bolts, and artillery bolts with your dragonglass. That skill shouldn't be kept only in the North, on the front lines of the war."

"I can supply several Northern and Vale knappers and fletchers, and speak with the Free Folk about providing two of their real knapping experts in addition to the other groups they're sending out," said Arya casually, while pulling the dough very, very slowly up and off the message, then sticking the back of the arrowshaft into the top third of the dough, placing the arrow on the table so the seal imprint hung facing the floor near the torch's heat to dry, "And Meereen, with its access to the Skahazadhan river, would be ideal for the same kind of thing for Asshai dragonglass, to add to our supply if we hold out, and to supply Essos if Westeros is overrun entirely. Now, watch; we cannot let soot gather on the dough, nor can we let it crack as it dries. Sarella, go on, ask for the other thing."

"Another thing?" asked Daenerys, catching a hint of a smirk on the young Stark's face, then turned to face the Dornish princess with raised eyebrows. She's seen that look on the young Stark's face before, just before she baited her brother into turning his back to Ghost.

Sarella blushed, then put her shoulders back and answered both eagerly and confidently, as she has when asking an Archmaester something, "And I'd like to study your dragons - your children! They're wonderful and amazing and full of magic that no one has studied before! Not properly, at least; I've looked through the books on the higher mysteries, and they were mostly supposition and conjecture, without any actual measurements!"

"I will not allow them to be hurt!" said Daenerys, frowning, while Arya began very carefully removing the seal from the scroll, taking no care to prevent the way from breaking apart, but making sure each piece landed on the parchment rather than the table and taking great care not to damage the parchment in any way.

"I wouldn't hurt them! Not at all! But studying the way their wings move in flight would allow designing a better harness! Seeing if all dragonflame has the same heat - which I'm sure it does not, based on observation - would allow a measurement system, which would then allow for specific training for your children when you need a hotter or cooler flame! Maybe one or the other is longer lasting, or requires a dietary change, or has an effect on their teeth."

"Enough!" said Daenerys, giggling briefly as Sarella defended her good intentions, then decided to not simply give the positive reply that she wanted to, but to take some time and think. This wasn't a battle, and she had time before an answer was required, "I'll discuss both with my advisors, though I would certainly want any agreement to study my dragons to include the first copy of all results, and all work that comes from those results."

"Children, pay attention!" snapped Arya acerbically, "Seals won't pull themselves off without leaving marks on the parchment!"

"She's strict," whispered Sarella loudly.

"Always," replied Daenerys similarly, "At least she's not leaving bruises in this lesson."

"Weaponsmasters are cruel. I was sore for days after I met her in White Harbor, mostly from the run to the training ground and back," replied the Princess of Dorne.

"Wait... you were the Dornish archer? Lady Wylla told us about that - she was really very impressed. You took on four wight dragons in that training, I believe?"

"Yes - barrels launched from scorpions, with eyes painted on to hit. It was really very challenging!" replied Sarella.

"Archery is a ladies hobby in the South, is it not?" asked Daenerys.

"Archery for hunting, usually combined with hawking is, yes, though not with a warbow like Arya or I use. Would you like to learn?" asked the master archer, eyes gleaming, "I can show you how the highborn ladies do it in the Reach and the Stormlands, and you can ask your Dothraki blood-rider to show me how to shoot while standing on a horse!"

************************

Sansa looked up from cleaning her spear as Arya and Sandor passed the line of guards around the pool, joining the rest of the family under the heart tree in the Godswood, both unsheathing their swords simultaneously in perfect, casual mirror of the other.

They made a striking pair, the very large man and the very small woman, moving very like each other in their own ways, Arya quickly and Sandor powerfully, both striding with easy confidence, side by side, exuding martial skill and willingness to kill in a way Meera and even Jon didn't, and differently than Brienne did. Most telling of all was their obvious complete comfort in each other's presence.

The large man grunted at Gendry, then sat down ungainfully on a patch of frozen ground and complained, prompting a small smile from her. The Hound had never really known how to get along with anyone outside of a battlefield, but he knew the true essence of family - the pack protects each other.

"Why in the Seven Hells did you drag me out here, wolf bitch?" growled Sandor as he took a seat on the ground near Jon, snapping the small rag-wrapped jar Arya tossed casually at him out of the air to start cleaning his sword, just as Jon was cleaning Longclaw beside him, Ghost and half a dozen pups sprawled around him.

"Because you're family, Uncle Hound, and this is where our family has come to clean our weapons for thousands of years, under the weirwood face of god," replied Arya warmly, exchanging an amused smirk at his grumpiness with her sister as she sat between Kitty and Sansa, with Bran and Meera on Sansa's other side. She leaned over to address her good-sister while she pulled out a small bottle of oil and a rag of her own to go over her blades and needles with, one at a time, briefly commenting, "Don't forget to unscrew my spearhead, Meera, and oil the threads."

"Only a cunt would call me that. I bet you named your sword, too, just like the other one. Needle," said Sandor grumpily as he took up a small stick from the ground to put the rag over so he could more easily clean the crevices in the dragonglass; looking closer, he could again see that it hadn't chipped any more since the battle, but the first time he'd cleaned it after combat, he'd noticed many very fresh places where the dragonglass had flaked off, ignoring the dog curling up against his back.

"I did. Icicle, since it's long and slender... and half of father's Ice," replied Arya, reaching down to scritch under the chin of the puppies tussling at her feet.

A few feet away, Gilly tucked Little Sam in tighter and set her own dagger far from the babe as she reached over to adjust Sam's hands, "Hold it like this, Sam... at this angle, and closer. See? It's easier to clean this way, the stroke's more natural and smooth. Just don't cut yourself."

"I see. I won't cut myself; I'm not entirely helpless, Gilly. Besides, the furs would help protect me. Of course, if it got through the furs, there's an artery right there in my thigh. An artery is like a big vein, carrying a lot of blood. I'd bleed out and die if I cut it," replied Samwell.

"Very quickly indeed," said Arya, "Of course, if you keep talking like that, Gilly might kill you and save you the trouble."

"I wouldn't," exclaimed Gilly, giggling as she stretched her feet out to rub the belly of one of the half-breed Frozen Shores clan dogs near her, "Little Sam would be upset."

"Now, now, that's enough," said Sam with a smile, copying what Gilly had shown him, "I can't watch Little Sam while you teach the children if I'm dead, can I?"

"Meera, does this string need replacing?" asked Kitty, examining the weirwood crossbow the crannogwoman had gifted Sansa with her Valyrian steel headed bolts, which Kitty had trained for and carried even now, just as Meera carried Arya's spear. Her husband Walder would never have let anyone else handle any Valyrian steel he might have owned... except, perhaps, to sow greed and envy and division among his sons and grandsons, to cause them to fight each other, undercut each other in pursuit of it.

Meera stood easily, rested her hand on Bran's shoulder for a moment, and then stepped over the bundle of fur stretched in front of his wheeled chair and went over, taking one glove off to run her fingers carefully over the thick string Kitty had removed from the crossbow, turning it in her hands before handing it back to the Lady of the Crossing, "Change it. It would probably last another few training sessions, but that monster puts a huge amount of strain on it. Pass it on to the used stores for the goat's-foot training crossbows; it'll be fine on a less powerful weapon. If it snaps, it won't be good for you at any time. If it snaps in battle, so much the worse."

Kitty nodded easily, taking another string out of her pouch and accepting the jar of beeswax Meera had been using to treat her own bowstring, applying it to the new string and giving it, too, a careful inspection before starting to restring the crossbow. Arya and Meera had both been of one mind; everyone should be able to handle and maintain their weapons properly, without help. They might be highborn, and powerful, and have pages and squires, servants and soldiers who either could do so, or did do so most of the time, but even a Stark could end up alone, without aid, depending on only their own skills, and Kitty agreed, too.

It was very different than she'd been raised, very different from any House she knew of in the Riverlands, and not at all in keeping with the teachings of the Maiden or the Mother, or even how the highborn warriors of the Riverlands she'd known acted. Yet she'd been up in the North for too long, now, learned too many things of what happened in the world. Sansa's spies that reported to her, her own spies... the world was a harsh and unforgiving place to those who could not take care of themselves. She'd made it up here with her ladies and their children, and brought the treasure of the Twins with her, and here she'd found a family, and her own strength.

She'd been raised to run her husband's castle for him, to rule its servants and smallfolk. Her father had been delighted to take Lord Frey's money after Lady Stark killed his eighth wife, selling her to be his ninth. There she'd been little more than an ornament and toy for her husband; he'd never trusted her to run much of anything. After Arya killed him, and she came here, she'd helped Sansa out, growing stronger as she walked the camps every day, learning to talk to the peoples of the North, to the Free Folk in the camps, to soldiers and servants, leaders and wargs, to collect and analyze the reports of entire kingdom at war. She'd been taught to be a spymaster, to seek out what was hidden in addition to what was claimed, even given subtle signs that her finding her own personal spies was expected and approved of. Taught to fight with staff and crossbow, even some with a dagger.

"Thank you, Meera," she said, standing with her foot on the front rest, slipping the thick hook over the string, and winching quickly and smoothly, just as she would in battle; as she had in battle, the metal bow bending back smoothly watching and listening to the string as she'd been taught, making sure both the thicker loops and the thinner main string were strong enough. The Maesters had done their best to calculate the thinnest string that could take the power, and the craftsmen to make it, but not every string worked out. She wanted to ask Arya about taking back the Twins, but this wasn't the place for that conversation, not in the open, even without considering the archers and guards in the Godswood on duty all around them.

"Good string, it's strong enough for even the lightest, fastest bolts, for now, at least," commented Arya, listening to the string as it stretched, then reaching around Sansa to smack Bran on the shoulder, "Come back to us, Bran; you've got a dagger to clean, too. You don't need to be greenseeing every time you're near a tree!"

Bran blinked, his eyes returning to normal as he replied flatly, "I'm the Three-Eyed Raven now."

"You want me to tie daggers to your hands so you can have raven claws, Bran?" asked Arya acerbically, prompting a gruff laugh from the Hound.

"No!" replied Bran, returning to himself for a moment before his expression blanked once again, lifting his dragonglass dagger and cleaning it mechanically. As the dog on his feet shifted, he smiled, just a little, glancing at Meera for a second before returning to cleaning the dagger.

"How'd that Valyrian steel work, Snow?" asked Sandor, finishing with his sword and pulling his axe off his back, starting to go over the dragonglass with care. Gods, if he had to do this too many more times he was going to end up a knapper in his old age. Snow'd been assigned to the other side of the castle from his own position during the battle, and he still didn't have any Valyrian steel of his own. Half the girls did, but not him. Shrugging to himself, he figured at least the only one that had much of it was Arya, and she was every bit the great killer she'd wanted to be; she deserved it.

"Cut right through the dead," replied Jon. He wasn't really comfortable with 'Uncle Sandor', but his sisters were united in their opinion of him... and he'd proven himself against the dead beyond the wall, fighting to capture a wight. Not a pleasant man, or a patient one, but a great ally against the Night King.

"You fight any in that old bronze armor?" continued Sandor.

"Cut right through that, too."

"You think you can make me a Valyrian steel sword, too, smith?"

"Aye," replied Gendry, "If you can get me the metal."

"Not mine!" exclaimed Sansa.

"Nor mine," said Kitty.

"I've got enough for a boot knife the size of your little finger; that won't help you," said Meera with a laugh, "My spear's borrowed."

"This is technically the Mormont family blade," said Jon.

"You used to work for the Lannisters, Uncle. They ever pay you enough?" asked Arya casually, cleaning and oiling one knife after another with quick, precise motions.

"Not even when I won the tournament," grumbled the Hound.

"How'd you like some Lannister Valyrian steel?" asked Arya quietly, her tones quickly hushed by the few inches of fresh kramsno on the ground from the night before, just loud enough for the family to hear... or very sharp-eared spies, but this... this was a secret she didn't care about getting out, "With Meera carrying my spear, you're the last of the real warriors in the family without any, and you fight on the front lines. You can make it count."

"You mean the sword your sworn shield carries?"

"No, that's Stark steel. Old Stark steel, at that. Gendry's getting her a new hilt when he has time."

"Lannister's don't have any. Not for want of trying, either, but nobody'd sell 'em any, not even for all the gold Tywin'd pay for it. I remember when Tywin's brother Gerion went off to try to find their old sword; he never came back. Valyria's not a nice place, not anymore."

"It never was a nice place, not under the dragonlords, at least. But where Gerion failed, others have succeeded. The Lannisters had their chance; when father and Howland Reed killed Ser Arthur Dayne, father returned Dawn to Starfall. When Ser Illyn killed father, Tywin kept Ice for his own family. Brightroar will be ours, soon enough, and you're the last real warrior in the family without a good weapon. Hopefully we can get at least another Wolf's Head and a crossbow bolt or two out of it, too, not to mention that's not the only abandoned Valyrian steel we've found," said Arya quietly, "And there's a couple of books you and Daenerys might want to read, Jon, plus another load of dragonglass."

What she did not mention was that in addition to the other steel she'd hinted at, the treasure hunting group she'd sent had retrieved Blackfyre, using, as always, Bran's directions to find and more or less safely approach its resting place. That sword, like most of the Valyrian steel weapons her people were retrieving, would vanish into Gendry's forge... though that one and Brightroar, being retrieved from post-Doom Valyria, she would check over very carefully before she personally put them in the furnace to melt. She was a priest of Death, and they were made with Death; she would know if they were pure. Bran may not have watched anything affect them, but even the Three-Eyed Raven could not truly watch everything... and even when he could, well, watching was not seeing.

"You found more?" asked Samwell incredulously, "More Valyrian steel?"

"What are you trying to do, start a collection?" scoffed the Hound.

"It's not my fault people haven't bothered to pick up the stuff they left lying around," replied Arya with an insolent grin, "Don't even try to tell me your stupid 'code' says you won't pick up a coin purse you find lying in a ditch and use it for yourself. Even if it had the owner's name embroidered on it."

"Any fancy cunt stuck up enough to have their name stitched on their purse deserves to have me spend their coin."

Sansa exchanged looks with Meera, Kitty, and Gilly, then all four of them burst out laughing. Sansa unscrewed her spearhead, folding her own rag around her steel knitting needle to oil the threads and the outside of the needle at once, looking around as other conversations started between her family. Her father had come here with Ice, cleaning Ice by himself but for mother's or their children's company; her grandfather dead, her uncles dead or off beyond the Wall, her aunt, who might have joined him, dead. But now? Now they were together, taking up old family traditions together and passing them on to their new family.

She glanced over at Arya, and made the sign for family, which her little sister returned with a shadow of a smile, while the Hound was asking Jon why the wildling women kept coming up and jabbering at him.

After a few minutes, the general conversation turned towards the group training sessions and fighting styles.

"You changed how you fought when you 'killed' me, little sister," said Jon, "All rapid thrusts, too fast for me to block, then you went back and started all those cuts at Meera and the Hound while you punched Gilly in the face and threw Sansa on her back. Even when the... Sandor knocked you down, you 'cut' Sam's foot off while you rolled away. Where'd you learn to fight like that?"

"The Water Dance? Syrio Forel. I've told you that! And you're too slow with a training sword the size of Longclaw - you're getting dependent on the lightness of Valyrian steel. That sword's balanced for hacking, but after you block a blow to the neck you can't move fast enough to block a blow just above the top of your boot," replied Arya with a smirk, even as Sam leaned over to take another look at the bruise forming on Gilly's face while she rolled her eyes and pushed him away.

"No, the other! Where we spent more time on the ground than on our feet!" exclaimed Jon, a smile stealing across his face as he realized he was, again, able to jape with Arya.

"From him," said Arya with a bigger smirk, waving the throwing knife she was cleaning at the Hound, "The basic tenant of fighting a duel is the quick thrust, finding an opening and piercing the enemy suddenly, before they know what happened. Then their water leaks out, and they die. The basic tenant of fighting groups is different; it is not to kill suddenly, it is to keep them disorganized, separated, to never let them bunch up on you - cuts, defenses, and trips dominate there, as Syrio taught me. Sandor showed me how to use my body in other ways, too; the sword is to prevent the greatest threats from killing me - you, Meera, Sandor, and everything else is to keep others from taking advantage, and taking your enemy off their feet means you can still move swift as a deer, and they cannot. Just like the Hound did when he fought five men at once inside an inn."

"I remember that," said the Hound, "It was after you'd been whinging at me all morning. I want a pony, you said."

"I was not whinging! I wanted away from your stench; it's like you don't know what bathing is. You smelled worse than Harrenhal," retorted Arya.

"You were too whinging. Then you saw that dumb cunt..."

"Polliver."

"And started whinging about your sword that you named and what's-his-face Lannie."

"Lommy."

"And then charged at the Inn like you were going to kill them all by yourself."

"I only got to kill two of them, you greedy fuck."

"I let you have Polliver, din' I?"

"Yes. So, after my perfectly legitimate complaints..."

"Whinging."

"LEGITIMATE COMPLAINTS, we went in. Polliver was there with four others, and he came up to our table and tried talking to the Hound. That didn't work out so well for him," said Arya with a wide smirk.

"I'll bet," murmured Sansa, flashing a fond smile at Sandor while she turned to better hear the story of her sister and her Uncle's travels, one she'd guessed at before from the reports of the hundred stag price on the Hound's head for killing five Lannister soldiers at an inn during the time she now knew Arya was with him... Arya'd never been mentioned by anyone, so Sansa hadn't been sure if she'd been present. She'd thought so - it was in both their characters to stay close to each other - but now she could hear the true story.

"So, after Sandor threatened to eat every fucking chicken in the room, Polliver said 'you going to die for some chickens', Uncle said 'Someone is' and when Polliver stood and tried to draw his sword, Sandor upended the whole table over him, taking him down so he could face the man charging in,"

"Lowel," corrected Bran.

"So he's who you learned throwing tables from," said Gendry, rubbing his face and the back of his head, "I should have known."

"Aye, that was his name," said Sandor, "I knocked most of his teeth out with my fist..."

After Sandor had described the rest of the fight and the execution, he continued, "We ate well after she executed the fucker and cleaned her little sword off while she watched him die. Wolf bitch made me drag the corpses out for the innkeeper before we looted them! She picked herself out a nice white mare - best of the lot. Good teeth, sound hooves, new shoes, good stamina. A little wild, maybe, but she rode well. Looked so proud of herself."

"I wasn't proud. I was glad to be away from your stench, to have needle back, and some food. You didn't complain about the chicken either, not at dinner, not at breakfast the next day," retorted Arya.

"Aye. It was good chicken. You, maester boy. You're too fat and slow to keep charging out after anyone getting close to your girl there," said the Hound, ignoring the way Samwell winced and ducked his head and Gilly glared at him, "She's quick enough and knows when to run and when to hit. You've got good reach - you need to fight like the Red Wolf there. You find a corner, a wall, a rock, a fucking tree, whatever you can, and you keep it clear for her. She's no Joffrey - she won't just hide, and she won't charge in like a dumb cunt, but she needs a place to come back to after she goes out and hits someone where they're weak. You need to be that place, not go out and get yourself killed trying to protect her. Same with you, smith boy."

"I fought with you beyond the Wall!" replied Gendry indignantly.

"Aye, and if the rest of us had been your normal batch of cunts, you'd have died carrying that slow-ass hammer you liked and not wearing any real armor. You've got a proper warhammer now, with a dragonglass spike, but you need to build yourself a poleaxe, get some reach, and wear some armor," replied the Hound, "You too maester-boy; you need to wear some real armor; you're already slow enough, you might as well get some protection."

Samwell raised his head, working through what the Hound had told him. Lord Clegane was in many ways a lot like a rougher version of his father, and he'd thought the man full of nothing but scorn for any man who wasn't a powerful warrior. He thought that might still be true... but unlike his father, the Hound wasn't insulting him to make him feel bad, he was insulting him to make him better. To help him protect Gilly and little Sam.

"Thank you, Uncle Hound," said Samwell Tarly, unable to hide his instinctive flinch at the glare the Hound gave him... but he was able to recover immediately and smile at the huge man, "Exactly how do I make a place for her?"

With a roll of his eyes, the Hound picked up a yard long stick and stood, stepping out away from the puppy who was looking at him, betrayed, "All right. I'll make a place; Princess can fight like your girl. Wolf bitch, pick some fucking bandits and attack."

"Jon, Sansa, Kitty, you're with me, swords and spears only, spread out and attack, but try not to get killed, our goal is to kill the ugly fucker and grab the girl alive," called out Arya as she stood under the heart tree, "Jon, we're bandits; don't use your full skill. Injuring or maiming Meera's fine, but don't kill her; don't stab at her thighs! Sansa, your reach with your spear's our best bet, you're on point. Kitty, don't defend the rest of us, just attack yourself - bandits rarely work together well. Gendry, watch what the Hound does; you need to learn to fight this way, too. Gilly, pay attention to Meera's footwork, and how she positions herself compared to where Uncle Sandor can most easily defend."

"Let's show 'em how it's done, lizard girl," said the Hound as he put his back to the heart tree, the frozen pond on his left.

"After this, Meera, you and Kitty get to shoot at me," said Arya just before darting towards her good-sister, her own stick raised.

************************

Sandor looked out over the battlements, pulling his cloak a little tighter against the chill wind, blowing out of the North like it always did. It was fucking cold here, as cold as it had been beyond the Wall or worse. The dead fuckers were out there, waiting; whenever the wind blew the light snowfall around he could see them. He'd be on duty soon, have to climb down those damn ropes because the wolf bitch had decided to completely block off every single fucking gate into this fucking castle.

If he'd wanted to be a fucking sailor, he'd have done that! Though if he'd have been a fucking sailor, he might be somewhere warm, far away from these dead fuckers. He wouldn't be here. He wouldn't have taken the farmer's silver... he wouldn't have had to bury the man and his daughter. He wouldn't have fought Brienne, and he wouldn't have met Ray.

That man might have enjoyed talking to the wolf bitch; she certainly believed R'hllor and the Seven and the Old Gods were all one god. And she had a very direct way of helping people... mostly by applying violence. He'd have liked to hear what Ray thought of that. He wasn't a man who thought all the fucking time, but to help the smallfolk by killing fuckers that hurt them badly enough? Hah.

"I heard you were up here," said Jamie Lannister, holding his own cloak tight as he approached.

"Oh, for fuck's sake. If you knew I was up here, why didn't you go somewhere else?" asked the Hound in an annoyed growl.

"Because I wanted to ask you something. Queen Daenerys said she hired Arya Stark to kill my sister, and I've heard you traveled with her for awhile."

"Only saw the dragon girl at the dragon pit," said Sandor gruffly.

"I meant Arya Stark."

"Aye, I traveled with her."

"And?" asked Jamie.

"And your sister's on her little list."

"List? What do you mean?"

"Her little list of people she meant to kill. Said it every fucking night before bed. Every. Fucking. Night. Joffrey. Cersei. Walder Frey. Meryn Trant. Tywin fucking Lannister. The Red Woman. Beric Dondarrion. Thoros of Myr. Illyn Payne. The Mountain. The Hound. Looks like she got Walder and Meryn already, aye, and the rest of the Freys. That cunt Joffrey's dead, your father's dead, Thoros is dead. Beric's fighting the dead with us. A few people left, most of 'em in King's Landing. Your sister, my brother, that mute fucker," said the Hound, then shrugged, "I got taken off when she left me to die slow."

"She has a list of people to kill? And she's actually killing them?"

"Aye, that's what I said. Every fucking night I heard it. I almost forgot Rorge. Guess he was on her list long enough for her to say thank you, and stab him in the heart with her little sword. Didn't blink, didn't hesitate. Just a good, clean strike."

"She means to kill Cersei, then," replied Jamie softly.

Sandor looked over at the man; he was less of a prick than he'd been before, but still a prick.

"Aye, she'll kill your sister, and my brother. Don't even think about riding South, you dumb cunt. Everyone in the North executes deserters from the Night's Watch, and if the dead fuckers don't get you, the wolf bitch will. You wouldn't even make it to Moat Cailin."

"You're right, I couldn't, but you could. Could you get my sister out? Get her to Essos, hide her there? I'll pay you anything you want," asked Jamie, nearly begging.

"No. You can't save your sister, and I can't kill my brother. They're both going to get what's coming to them, and there's nothing you or I can do. Wolf bitch is one of them Faceless Men; she knows people, she knows Essos. She's got fleets of ships. She'll find Cersei no matter where she runs, even if Cersei keeps her mouth shut - fat chance of that. Guess we both just have to get used to it," said Sandor.

"Why her and not me?" asked Jamie, "I pushed her brother out a window."

"You came here, right? Your sister want you to?"

"No. She threatened to have your brother kill me."

"Sounds like her. You're not dead, so she didn't give the order, but is there anyone else she didn't kill? That she wouldn't kill just because she felt like it? You stopped hurting people, and came here to start helping people. Friend of mine once said it's never too late to stop robbing people, stop killing people, and start helping people."

"It's that easy?" asked the one-handed Knight, "Leave my old life behind, swear to defend the realms of men, and I can live out my life as a crow?"

"Quit your whinging. Wolf bitch can always kill you later."

After that comment, they stood together looking out across the camps in silence for a time.

************************

Emira kept her legs tucked under the ropes atop the canvas as the wind blew in her face, one arm behind her clutching another rope, the other holding the rope before her, glancing up and around briefly before checking the old bunny again. He raised his paw and pointed straight, which she repeated with her own right hand as she shouted.

"Straight ahead! Ratt fram!"

She tucked herself down, tugging her thick furred hood down to protect herself from the wind as the sled swerved around something; she swayed her body as she'd been taught, grabbing the rope again. They'd finished their last rest before arriving at Winterfell - it was only a few hours away, now! She'd get to see the capital of the North! And the army of the dead... they'd have to break through it, and it was her job to guide them. Hers! And the warg's, she guessed.

And his bunny.

Such a cute bunny!

Miles to the North, Arya and Sansa and their guards and pages rode across the retractable bridge across a radial division on the second ring to the section just to the left of the large, blocked off gates, the last area they were inspecting under the glow of the moon high in the clear, dark sky, long lines of horses and dogsleds ready to go out sprawling through the area, men and animals eating and preparing, dragons being watered and harnessed. The inbound caravan and the defenders had to open up a path through the dead, and hold it open, and the dead weren't like any normal army. They were truly surrounded, utterly and completely, without exception, without gaps... yet their siege engines had forced the dead to stay far enough away that even their enormous numbers had to stretch to cover that much distance.

They'd open a hole, and hole it open for hundreds of dogs, thousands of men, thousands of horses, and tens of thousands of barrels of supplies to enter, and at the same time they'd send out caravans of their own to White Harbor and to Moat Cailin. Men and women would die to open the lines of the enemy - everything they could possibly do with that opening had to be done. Their deaths would not be wasted.

"Sam, Gilly" greeted Sansa warmly as she dismounted and patted her horse to calm her, just after Arya did, her voice carrying easily for all around to hear, "Are the books and example tablets prepared?"

"Yes, your Grace," replied Sam, thinking back to his father going over the great deeds of the Tarlys of old, of how proud his father and his brother were of their martial deeds. The books he'd helped with, that so many had helped with, didn't just list fighters, they listed everyone. Rangers, stewards, builders, the cooks who'd worked out how to make moss not just edible but tasty lauded and their recipes included as great deeds alongside those craftsmen who designed scorpion heads, the Maesters who created the best ways to calculate trajectories, and the fighters and leaders who held the front lines against the dead.

"Three copies in each caravan; tablets and examples of the weapons and defenses, books of everything the Maesters have learned about the dead and the White Walkers, and the book of the names and affiliations and jobs of every man, woman, and child who is here with us, or who has already given their lives in the Second Long Night. I've never heard of a fable that kept such detailed records, and future generations will have records of what their ancestors did. Not just the highborn, but everyone."

"Their names will live on," called down Daenerys from atop Drogon as she tied the straps on the leather case around her staff to the primary guide rope, snaking another tie around his spines in a figure eight, and checked every rope was fitting correctly, wouldn't fray or come loose in flight, "Not for some stupid contest in a fighting pit, but for a sacrifice for their people."

"Exactly! Future Maesters will have records from all over the world, detailed ones, to support the legends that families pass on. The tablets and statues will last thousands of years. It's just... if it's to be another eight thousand years, it's hard to know what will work."

"The Children left drawings behind in the mines at Dragonstone; they were lost," replied Daenerys, "Jon showed them to me, and I wasn't convinced by them. Not enough, at least. There was nothing to read, just pictures."

"Bran said the Night Fort had drawings, too, but the Night's Watch abandoned that centuries ago... and even then, the only thing that survived was the oath, and three calls of the horn for white walkers," said Jon from atop Rhaegal.

"The Children of the Forest knew exactly what was coming, but they stayed, protecting the Three-Eyed Raven, and he did little enough to warn us. The Red Priests always warn about the Great Other, but their own warnings were twisted over the millenia to the ends of trying to make people serve their particular face of the Many-Faced God over all others. But that is not our duty tonight," said Arya solemnly, then put her hands on her saddle and hopped up, standing easily atop her horse as she looked out, her voice ringing out commandingly

"Tonight is the night we prove the Night King can surround us, but cannot starve us! He cannot run us out of supplies! He cannot prevent us from warning the rest of the world, from teaching them how to survive the Second Long Night! He cannot prevent us from shipping the other kingdoms and cities of the world furs and patterns for clothing for real cold, books and scrolls, for sending them teachers and crafters and warriors from all our peoples; from the North and the Vale, from our allies the Free Folk! He cannot scare us into death, for we know death, and we tell Death 'not today'!"

Arya went from group to group afterwards, making sure everyone knew their role. When she was done, she clapped the Hound on the shoulder, gave Jon a hug and patted Rhaegal, and then she raced up the rigging over the inner moat to the top of the ice-covered wall while Sansa stepped onto a small platform with Ghost and were winched up the same way supplies would be when they came in.

"Gengangare ratt fram!" heard Emira as the call came from the scouts in the lead of the caravan, repeated back to the rest of the caravan as it trotted up another snow-covered hill

Emira looked up as they crested the hill, a gleaming, shining beacon of a castle ahead of them, illuminated in the moonlight, as much bigger than Greywater watch as Greywater watch was bigger than a hut! It was enormous, and beautiful! And surrounded by a thick, dark band... the army of the dead. She shivered, not from the cold; they'd encountered bands of the dead, but there must be more wights than there were reeds in the swamps!

The bunny signaled, and she relayed the instructions immediately, instructing the caravan to bring the horses up to a canter and close up. Which the caravan did at her command, to get through the wights! She tightened her grip on the ropes, her mouth suddenly dry. This was it; she couldn't make a mistake. She couldn't! Everyone was depending on her, even her da!

People would die if she made a mistake. Maybe even her da... but she couldn't stop. This was her duty - she'd volunteered to be a page, and the warg had picked her, from all the children of her size who had volunteered. She was the one who translated for the warg back in Winterfell, cared for the bunny he'd bonded to.

The old hare waved its paw and flicked its ears, giving her orders to pass on.

"Hoger! Right!" she shouted immediately, exactly as she'd been doing for the weeks the caravan had been on the move, the caravan wheeling on her command... and the dark bands ahead shifting in response. Minute after minute the thick band of wights got closer, thicker, her heart racing as they charged towards the enemy.

"Gangangare vanster! Valnad vanster! Gengangare vanster! Valnad vanster!" came the calls from the scouts on their left flank as they called out wights and white walkers on the right, deep twangs from the scorpion sleds sounding while the caravan continued on its path, a scream rising up over the sound of the caravan's soldiers and the Night's Watch recruits fighting, then a crunching, crashing sound she'd never heard before. They continued on the path she had put them on. Her breathing quickened further as she worried; had she missed a signal? Was that a sled that crashed? Men and women that got killed? Did she get them killed? Was it her fault?

"Is this the right way? Did I tell them right? Did I draw the maps right?" she whispered urgently to the bunny, who put its ears back and nodded solemnly, making the signs for wights, battle, and surprise. It took her a minute, but she understood that the enemy had surprised them. Anyone could surprise anyone, in games of chase, or when the Bolton's men were trying to invade her home, or when the Mountain's men caught the Brotherhood, or at the Red Wedding. This time, the enemy surprised them.

It wasn't her fault.

"Thank you," she said, reaching out to wrap her small hand around the bars of the cage, one finger rubbing the stiff, thick fur of the bunny's chest as the sled dropped out from under her for an instant before she slammed down atop the canvas, taking care to spread her weight out as much as she could to avoid breaking the cages or the frame, "Please don't tell anyone, but I'm scared."

The bunny, the warg she'd never met, wrapped its arms around her finger and patted her hand, nodding again before hunkering down, paws digging through the dirt to tighten its grip on the bottom of the cage, flicking its tail chidingly as she did the same.

A few minutes later, they were close enough she could start to see more than just a band of darkness in the clear, cold moonlight, but also some figures - huge ones! Wight giants! And those wight 'mammoths' she'd heard about! All in front of them, between them and the castle!

The bunny signaled her, and she relayed it, relieved, shouting as loudly as she could, as dry as her mouth and throat was, "Vanster! Left! Galopp! As fast as we can!"

She felt better as the caravan swerved away from the mass of the dead waiting for them, horse's snowshoes pounding across the surface of the snow as they went faster and faster, sleds behind keeping up even as she saw another dark wave moving, this time from the castle itself... and then balls of flame arched out from inside the glittering walls, slamming down on the inside edge of the dark band of the dead on both sides, a path outlined by two lines of fires burning brightly before them.

Another set of signals from the bunny, and she shouted to relay the message even as she felt cold deep inside herself at what he'd said.

"Natt kung drake hoger lag! Night king dragon right low! Vanlig drake ratt fram hog! Friendly dragons straight ahead high!"

She risked a glance ahead to see two bright orange lines of flame shooting out to identify them as friend dragons high above the ground, while the scorpion sled in front of her cargo sled had already swiveled to face the right. The dark wave from the castle was heading towards them even as she could hear drumbeats and horn calls and gongs from the castle sounding faintly when the sounds around her were quieter for a second. She'd seen the burned remains of a watchtower flash past a little while before they'd brought the horses to a gallop; the amount of noise they were making even without trying meant the signals still weren't loud enough... and the warg was quicker.

She was quicker and louder than the drums. Her duty was still important. She was still important! And the Night King was coming for them from the right. She risked a quick look, and couldn't see anything, but she could be burned alive, or eaten if the wight dragon attacked. But the sky-watchers were watching... the warg had warned them where to look; she had warned them! The scorpions were loaded, the archers were ready, and two friendly dragons were coming, too - two against one was good odds, especially living against the dead!

"Hoger! Right!" she shouted at the bunny's next signal, turning the caravan towards where the wight dragon had been reported, then a couple minutes later at a new signal from the bunny she shouted, "Vanster! Left!" hoarsely as their sleds turned on her order. They were nearly upon the dead; even after swerving going left and right, they still had hundreds of yards of wights to go through before they could reach the fire-lit path. All around her came the shouts of the fighters and Night's Watch recruits using their dragonglass arrows against the dead... and another of those terrible crashing noises, this time with an inhuman scream she'd heard before, when a horse had fallen off a cliff... it cut off suddenly, and then a different scream from behind her.

The gleaming shape of Winterfell vanished in front of her, then the rest of the defenses as a dark line of a snowstorm, a blizzard advanced towards them quickly, the bunny giving her the signal to keep going.

"Ratt fram! Straight ahead!" she shouted even as the snowstorm hit. She couldn't see any but the closest of the other sleds around her anymore... but, she thought, that wasn't her duty. The bunny was all that mattered right now, relaying what the warg told her.

"Separera! Separate!" she shouted, her own sled jerking a little atop the snow and closing in on the sleds on the left, those on the right vanishing in the thick snow... and then they were being passed on the right by dozens of others sleds going the other way. Sleds with scorpions, and men, and barrels, and cages of wights, all heading south past them, between her sled and those going towards Winterfell on the other side, arrows being loosed on high arcs above her by the outbound caravans. She didn't know what they were aiming at, but they were shooting really fast, dragonglass and fire arrows both!

The falling snow turned orange around her, and then the bunny hunched down suddenly, flicking its tail, and she did the same as the sled tilted forward without warning, sliding down a steep, short hill before leveling out suddenly, swerving left and right, obstacles appearing through the snow as they raced by, following the path of the sled in front even as the sounds of men and women fighting quieted around her as a continuous orange glow grew on both sides, sounds of battle fading out slowly behind her as they pounded over a wooden bridge past horsemen forming a wall of pikes and spears, then another and another and then over another bridge past a low ice walls with many men on it, line after line of knights and spearmen in heavy armor, with crossbows and bows behind; the ring three ramparts! They'd arrived! She hadn't messed it up! She could still hear flights of arrows and bolts sailing overhead as sleds were ordered left and right to make room for those behind.

She tucked her head down as shouts came from ahead, one after another, calling out in ice-river for sleds with wildfire, then food, pitch and tar and stuff that burns, Maester supplies, tools, dragonglass, the Night's Watch soldiers to go left or right. Then they called for wargs, diplomats, important people and critical messages, and the boy driving her own sled swung them to the right. She'd made it. They'd made it! She grinned at the bunny in relief, shaking suddenly. They'd made it! As her sled came to a stop she opened the cage, picking up the twelve pound bunny and hugging him carefully.

A woman's voice with a strong Neck accent somewhere to her right called, "Emira! Old Fluffytail! Where's Emira and Old Fluffytail!"

"Here!" she shouted hoarsely, sliding down the back of the sled, peering through the rapidly thinning snowfall as a lady and some fighters came up. Not just a lady, a Lady!

"M'lady! Here's Old Fluffytail!" she called out, standing straight and then trying to curtsy without hurting the bunny... then she coughed, her mouth still dry, flushing in embarrassment. She'd just messed up in front of a Lady, a highborn!

Lady Alira Boggs approached the small girl with the big rabbit, planting her spear in the snow and leaning it against her shoulder as she uncorked her waterskin and offered it to the girl, waving at two of the guards, one of the Free Folk and a Northman, "These men are here to guard Old Fluffytail, and you; this is Jurguens, and that's Quickspear. Here, drink; you've been in battle, you need it more than I do. There's bread and salt and hot food waiting for you both, too."

Emira tried to hold the waterskin still for the bunny to drink, and then flushed as she recognized the Lady - this was Lady Alira Boggs, her own village's liege lord's daughter! Princess Meera's handmaiden! Who was gently holding her arm to steady her while she let the bunny go first; after he finished, she took a deep drink of the bitterly cold water herself, and then another

"Thank you, M'lady Boggs," she said, slow and careful like ma had taught her.

"You're from near my family's holdfast, aren't you, Emira?"

"Yes, M'lady," the small girl said, the looked up as she took another drink, offered it to the bunny again, and passed the waterskin back to Lady Boggs, "You know my name? I'm just a page!"

"I'm proud of what you've done, Emira; and it's not just me that knows your name and is proud of you - Princess Meera wants to meet you, too. There are many pages, and while they do good and important work, few indeed have helped guide an entire caravan through the army of the dead. You'll find you have more friends than you know, I think. You and your father will be sitting at the high table tonight, with Queen Sansa, Princess Meera and the rest of their family. Lady Winter herself mentioned she wanted to meet you; Bjoramyr has told her how good a job you've done translating for him and caring for Old Fluffytail. He'll be at the bottom of the command tower by the time you get there, and I know he wants to see you with his own eyes, and be with his hare again," said Lady Alira with a warm smile.

"Can Bjoramyr come to the high table too?" asked Emira, looking down at the bunny; the warg was gone, though, the bunny's eyes normal again, whiskers twitching as he burrowed into her fur, so she couldn't ask him now.

"You can invite him yourself; Princess Meera told me he was invited as well, though remember, he is of the Free Folk; he can do as he likes."

Emira nodded politely. Of course he could; she knew all about the Free Folk, she didn't need to be told. Behind her, a group about her own age and a few really old people were taking the canvas off her sled, and she watched for a moment to make sure they were doing it right. If you didn't do it right, the cages would fall down and the animals would be hurt! But they were doing it right, so it was ok.

"They'll take care of the animals for me?"

"They will. Go, Emira; the guards will take you into the castle. Remember, Old Fluffykins is your responsibility; Bjoramyr insisted you be the one to take care of him. You've done excellent work; you do the Neck proud!"

Emira nodded seriously, then followed the lead guard towards the next bridge leading closer to the castle. Lady Boggs was proud of her! As she approached, she could it really was an ice castle, now. The Starks had a castle made of ice! It was so pretty! As she was led towards the main gates, she could see sled after sled after sled still coming in, each sent to stop next to a small post with a bucket hanging from it, not like her sled.

She was being led past another set of soldiers, over another bridge towards a line of people going past another line of people. Highborn people, with swords and fancy clothes and guards like the bunny's guards! A greeting line, and she was joining it! Her! She was behind a short, squat man with a thick neck and some weird metal staff. That must be hard to keep from rusting; weird. Ironwood was much better, everyone knew that. She rolled her eyes as she heard him muttering about how remarkable seeing dragons and wights was.

Southrons, she thought. Everyone knew about wights and dragons. He didn't seem to have any dragonglass, even.

As the line shifted, she could sometimes see there was a tall Lady in a dress with a platter, and a shorter Lady with a jug and a cup and some other ladies. Was she going to meet Princess Meera? The Lady of Winterfell, married to the Three-Eyed Raven, Lord Stark!

The snowfall had stopped and the clouds above were parting again as the sounds of battle were fading away; a beam of moonlight passed over the group ahead of her, and she saw the shorter woman had on leather armor with two big squares on it, and a cloud over it... the Twins! That was the Lady of the Crossing, who'd seen Lady Winter come for the Freys and kill them all right in front of her! The Lord who had been getting bread from the platter moved, and she could see the tall woman now, a wolf's head on the front of her armored dress - an armored dress! And a leather helm, like Lady Frey had on! With a crown on it!

That was Queen Sansa Stark!

She was going to meet the Queen!

She clapped a hand over her mouth to stop herself from squeaking. Gods, she was going to meet the Queen! Right now!

************************

A few hours later, as the sun should have been peeking over the horizon it wouldn't cross for hours, Sansa set yet another critical letter from the caravan aside, stood from her desk and stretched before she moved over to sit on the bed in her chambers as Arya finished coming in and sealing the door.

"Well?" asked the Queen.

"Everyone's settled, more or less; fewer casualties than I'd feared - the Night King decided not to attack with his dragon," replied Arya, starting to disarm, setting her weapons around the bed as she'd become accustomed to doing when she was going to stay with her sister.

"I knew that," snapped Sansa sharply, making the sign for jape, "Otherwise you wouldn't have deigned to see your poor neglected sister... or your Queen, who hasn't heard one word from her Master of Whisperers!"

Arya stripped off her armor easily, retorting, "You know what happens to Queens who make excessive demands of their Master of Whisperers?"

"They get what they demand?"

"They get something, all right!" replied Arya, laughing tiredly even as Sansa joined in with her own laugh, then continued, "Varys had a set of his little birds arrive with messages. A couple of Cersei's spies are so incompetent the guards already caught them trying to sneak around; I took care of a couple of obvious cut-throats; by the Many-Faced God, it's like they're trying to give assassins a bad name on purpose. We'll find the better ones later. We also got a few more pyromancers from the South; seems they've heard we're the ones actually advancing the art of The Substance. Night's Watch recruits are as expected, about three thousand, with another four hundred soldiers from the Riverlands coming, also with three years of food. We got the swords in a sealed case; Gendry's already melted down the Valyrian steel and only I handled it, just in case; it seemed normal Valyrian steel. The Mallisters are extending their best wishes to Queen Daenerys Targaryen, First of Her Name and all that crap."

"And?"

"Bending the knee to you. Most of the smallfolk nearby are in favor, less the farther south you go, so you can easily get Hag's mire down to Oldstones. That's still good, rich farmland, and it borders the Vale; the land is narrow, there, just some over two hundred miles from the shores of Ironman's Bay. Make the right deal with Daenerys, and draw the border from the northeastern Tumblestone mountains across the riverlands between Oldstones and Fairmarket, east to the border with the Vale. We can rebuild Oldstones as a southern castle to support Seagard and the Twins, which can reinforce each other in days, and anyone attacking gets fucked up the ass by Vale forces sallying northwest from the Bloody Gates while Northern forces sweep down from Greywater Watch and Moat Cailin," said Arya.

"What about trade?" asked Sansa. The military aspect was easy enough to see, even at her skill; that area was narrow, had mountains on both sides, and would have several castles that could support each other. Politically, it might work. Tyrion wouldn't like it, but as long as she 'gave in' regarding Fairmarket itself, he wouldn't argue much; Seagard was a lost cause for Daenerys already, and a border just north of Fairmarket meant that the Westerlands would share borders with only the Southron Riverlands, west of Riverrun, and as Hand of the Queen, Tyrion, Lord of Casterly Rock would have significant political advantages over his neighbor, and be able to benefit from nearby international trade without the difficulties of actually sharing a border with a foreign nation. Measuring by land area, the Northern Riverlands would be only a small fraction of the size of the Southron Riverlands, and with only two big settlements, the Twins and Seagard, and one ruined castle, Oldstones.

And, she thought with immense satisfaction, farmland. Hundreds of square miles of Southron farmland that the Northern Riverlands could grow food on to trade to the North and the Vale for the centuries to come, receiving silver, furs, timber, expertise, and other valuables, and be the trading houses that moved goods into and out of her kingdoms from the South. And when those Southrons tried to war on the Riverlands as they has so many times, they would have allies who had a great deal of self-interest in keeping that farmland, and those farmers, and the lords and ladies who watched over them safe and productive. Far better

"What about trade?" asked Sansa. She'd been spending quite a lot of time working on that, and having good access to the Sunset Sea might be very valuable.

"Oldstones is right on the Blue Fork, the Twins are on the Green Fork, both of those empty into the Bay of Crabs just past Maidenpool in the Southron riverlands, which joins the Narrow Sea at Gulltown, so you've got both ends of the waterway. Fortify Wickendon to keep a strong hold on the middle and cross-ship from oceangoing to coastal vessels. Maybe add thirty to fifty miles of road or hire some Braavosi to build a canal from near the headwaters of the Blue Fork up to Seagard, and build another seventy miles of better road between Seagard and the Twins, a bit fewer miles for a better road from the Twins to the Kingsroad, and we'd have some real trade possibilities for the Reach and Dorne, without having to navigate the Stepstones on the east, and with different coasts to travel on when the South goes to war with itself again, whenever that may be."

"All right; I'll call a Small Council meeting later today and make sure Patrek has a chance to tell me beforehand so we can go over it with everyone. What else?" asked Sansa as she blew out the only flame in the room, a single candle, and scooted into bed with her sister to sleep for a few hours.

"Bran wasn't able to block the Night King all the time, but most of it, he was. Bronze Yohn managed to get himself bruised up holding the path open - killed two of the big elk wights, but a tree thrown by a giant near landed on him. He'll be fine, but won't be fighting for a few weeks. We lost a few sleds punching through, but the Night King didn't try anything really new," said Arya pensively.

Sansa listened carefully, reaching over to clasp her sister's shoulder; the muscles were slightly tenser than usual, and she had heard an edge in her sister's voice that she rarely ever heard.

"You're worried," asked Sansa gently.

"The Night King faced Bran the Builder, in this very castle, and wasn't defeated. There's no records Bran can find of the magic used back then, he can't see what the Builder did with his magic. He can't see what the Children of the Forest did with their magic, but the Children are gone, now. The Night King isn't out of tricks, and if he thought he could wait us out, he knows better, now. He hasn't tried the earth-cracking magic Meera saw him use. Maybe it doesn't reach far enough to make a difference against us, maybe he's storing power somehow to shatter walls and moats in an instant. Maybe he's got something else. Archmaester Marwyn came with the Seagard contingent; he's eager to study, but knows nothing of northern magics. I don't think he's going to want to go back to Oldtown, not when he'll be respected for studying magic here, rather than be ridiculed," murmured Arya, letting her sister hear her feelings in her voice.

She had learned so much - here, in King's Landing with Syrio, on the road with the Hound, in Braavos. She'd studied the books and scrolls that Jaqen had brought from the House in Braavos, had learned not just to watch, but the true seeing that is the heart of swordplay. She'd learned to change her face, to feel and control the patterns of the Many-Faced God's power, studied the records of old Valyria, even started to learn glamour, and yet for all she knew, she knew nothing about the Night King's magic; the dead were still dead, deaths tied to them, twisted somehow, but not like Jon or Beric. What the Children of the Forest had done to create him, she did not know.

How to kill him, she did not know... and she could only hope they could find out in time. Men, women, sorcerers, warlocks, wargs, greenseers, Children of the Forest, dragons; all those were so easy to kill... because they already knew know.

Sansa wrapped her arms around her little sister, holding her close. Her sister, like Jon, thrived on action; for all that she could wait for an opening, waiting for the Night King to take the next step without knowing what opening to watch for was immensely wearing on Arya. Sansa murmured, "Is there anything we know to do that we aren't doing? Anything else we can do - you, or me, or anyone at all?"

"Nothing that I or anyone I've talked to can think of. Nothing in the books here or in Essos. Nothing that Bran can see; as far as he can tell, the Children of the Forest are gone, now, and never had any useful written records of their magic," replied Arya so quietly that Sansa had to hold her breath to hear.

"Then relax for now," continued Sansa, squeezing her sister tight, "There's nothing more to be done but make sure every battle we can imagine has been planned for, that we're ready for every action of his we can see in our minds, that we've prepared to take every action of our own that we can see in our minds... and then wait for the situation to change, and take advantage of the change, whatever it is. As long as he runs out of working plans before we do, we can still win."

Arya squeezes her sister back, then settled in to sleep. There wasn't anything else she could do that would help more than sleep and her sister's company, not right now.

"Thank you, Sansa," she murmured.

************************

 

[Epic Reader]

Arya sat at the high table, filling her mug and passing the pitcher of ale over to the Hound with a quick smile; they'd put off their ration for a couple days to be able to celebrate properly when - and if - the caravan got through. She'd been fairly confident it would, though at what cost she hadn't known. The Night King had reorganized, had more scouting parties out, and was flying his wight dragon on circuits a few miles out. The next caravan would have a harder time getting through... but they'd learned, too, and the next caravan had not only the normal escorts, but a few thousand Dothraki horse archers and their quivers of dragonglass arrows to hold off the dead, if they could be kept under control.

But now was time for the first supper after the caravan had arrived; she exchanged glances with her sister, then turned to ask their guests some questions. That was, after all, a large part of this ancient tradition - invite smallfolk to the high table, and hear their words directly. This, she suspected, was part of the reason the Northern lords did less blatant lying than Southron lords - when the Lord Paramount or King or Queen spoke directly to the smallfolk, obvious lies from their liege lords would be found out in short order - or, at worse, the next winter, when outlying areas were abandoned for however many years it was until spring came. Subtle lies or highborn like the Boltons terrifying their own smallfolk wouldn't be as easily found out, of course. That was what spies were for.

For now, Arya smiles at the young girl and the old man next to her and says, "Emira, welcome to Winterfell, and thank you for helping Bjoramyr guide the caravan in - his own page translated my words to him, he passed on my instructions, and you translated them to ice-river and common to tell the drivers and the escorts what to do. Bjoramyr, tak skal du have."

"De levende," replied the warg, holding a shoot of willow for the old hare in his lap to nibble on in one hand and patting Emira on the back with the other with an approving nod to her, and to her father, seated on her other side, "Den lille, Emira, gjorde det godt. Jeg vil adoptere hende i natlobere."

"What did he say? He's a Nightrunner! The boy driving my sled told me so - they speak a different language than the ice-river clans!" asked Emira excitedly. Every night, she'd helped the driver and guards pile up blocks of packed snow around the sled, to keep the wind out and the animals warm, and she'd learned so much more of the wildling's langauge... and that they were so many wildlings and tribes. The boy thought the ice-river clans were the best, but that was stupid. Old Fluffytail and her warg came from the Nightrunners clan.

"He used the word for living, levende, and your name and the word for his clan; like you, my ice-river is much better than my nightrunner, but he might be offering to adopt you into his tribe... or maybe he's telling you already are adopted; you can ask his page to translate later," said Arya, then gestured out at the table, "Eat, girl; we have the usual rationing, but there's as good a variety here as you had in Moat Cailin, and Meera's cooks are particularly good. If you want a particular piece of chicken, though, you'll have to be quick - the Hound and I usually grab it first."

Meera laughed, grinning at the excited girl and winking at her good-sister, "The way those two go at the chicken you'd think it was bacon! Me, I like an egg, some bacon, and blood sausage to round out my ration when it's my turn. I dreamed of it when I was beyond the Wall with Bran, you know, eating the same moss the Children of the Forest ate."

Emira made a face at the mention of blood sausage, saying "Blech!" immediately. Then she felt her face heat. She'd just insulted the Princess Reed, ruler of the North!

"Emira!" snapped her da.

"It's quite all right," came a lovely, smooth voice from Emira's right. The Queen was talking to her! She'd embarrassed herself in front of the Queen, too! Gods, she was going to die!

Sansa suppressed a smile at how the girl blushed after speaking her mind; that was the Northern way, all right - say what you mean, right to their face. Still, the girl looked mortified, and that wouldn't do - she'd done everyone a great service, and this was meant to be a reward, not something painful; she made the sign for me to her sister, then looked both ways with a smirk, "People from all over the North, and the Vale, and the Northern Riverlands like to eat different things. Would you believe that there are some people who don't think lemon cakes are the best sweet in the world?"

"That's because they aren't," commented Arya with a grin, "Only strange people with weird names like the Red Wolf would think lemons were better than a good pie."

"What kind of pie?" asked Samwell, from the other end of the table.

"Who cares?" groused the Hound as Arya snatched the small piece of chicken he was reaching for out from under his hand, glaring at her, "It's pie. Pie's good. What do you like for sweets, girl?"

"Cattail pastries," replied Emira. She'd made a mistake, insulted her Princess, her Queen, and they didn't mind! They even acted like her brothers had, before they'd gone off to war and died. They ribbed each other, but it wasn't mean; they weren't mad at her. It was like when she'd asked when the wildlings were going to bend the knee - they'd laughed, but not really at her. Gods, she'd been so dumb, but it was all right.

"Ooohh, I love cattail pastries," said Princess Meera, who turned to Emira's father. He was an older man than she'd have expected from his daughters age without having read the reports that his sons, much older than Emira, had gone off to fight for Robb, and died as part of the distraction that had let Robb capture Jamie Lannister, "Especially the ones filled with swamp apple jelly. I've had lemon cakes, but they're just not as good; sweets are a thing for spring and summer, and even fall. Now that winter has come, we can only look forward to them next spring. And dream about them!"

She gave him a friendly smile and remembered an... incident... years ago, when she was visiting the Boggs, "Don't worry about Emira; she'd done all of us and our allies a great service, and I remember what it was like to be her age. You probably do, too; I was a little older than she is when Jojen and I were visiting my good friend Alira, and we went out to swim and hunt together. By the afternoon we'd finished fishing and trapping and hunting, and were covered in mud and hungry, because we'd finished our lunch and hadn't brought any more, so we had a race to the village, where we went to the market and went to stuff ourselves without so much as washing off in a pond first. Her dad was so cross with us, he told us off on the spot, paid the merchants while he was still telling us off, and kept telling us off all the way back! Alira got a hiding, Jojen and I got one when we got home, and the next time we went to the village, they had an old woman, Lenaira, with a bucket and a rag waiting for us."

Emira looked at Princess Reed wide-eyed; she knew Lenaira - she was scary! Always making sure she and her brothers were clean before they could buy food, ever since she was little. And that was because of the princess! Even the princess had gotten all filthy, and been shouted at in front of everyone, and she'd still gone on to marry Lord Stark, the Three-Eyed Raven and rule the North! A greenseer was a great match, too. She might like to marry a greenseer, but they didn't bond with cute animals, so she thought she'd marry a warg someday when she was older, and help care for his animals, and translate for them, and protect him when he was warging when she was home and not guiding a caravan of her own!

"I got in plenty of trouble when I was young, too, Emira; even at feasts sometimes," said Arya softly, "You traveled with the dogsleds. Can you tell us what you saw and heard, what would make the next trip faster, or better, or safer, or more comfortable, or easier to guide? Was anyone especially unhappy, or angry, or happy about anything? Of everyone at this table, you are the one who guided the very first major caravan of supplies through the army of the dead. You saw things on the trip nobody else did, you spoke to people we have not and will not. We want to hear what you can tell us."

The small girl looked up and down the table; the Princess was looking at her! The Queen was looking at her! They were listening to her... they were all waiting! She gulped down some water, then, like her ma always said, she started at the beginning.

"Lady Winter, when the riverlanders started coming for the Night's Watch, they were sad. And scared. Kos - a boy I talked to - he said they'd heard the Lady of the Crossing had sent ravens that all who would take the vows of the Night's Watch would be welcome," said Emira, glancing down at Lady Frey and her winch-wound crossbow briefly. It was an expensive one, of weirdwood and steel, and like everyone else at the table, she carried it like she was born to it - far better than the riverlander crossbowmen she'd guided carried theirs, even! It was no wonder she'd been adopted by the Queen, "They missed their families, most of all."

"Our father always said there is great honor in the Night's Watch," said Queen Sansa Stark.

Emira had continued with her tale until she had no more to say, and now her da was talking about the village, now, and the Neck, and how the stonework at Moat Cailin was going, all that boring stuff, so she ignored him and took a drink, carefully keeping her little finger out, then got some more bread and soup and make really sure the tip of her little finger was still clean before she brushes some more salt into her soup, then some of a funny red spice that was on the table, too. She'd traded some of her food for some of the wildling's food; it was different, and on the long trip her own rations got so boring. Some of the wildling food was pretty good, and she could recognize the moss in the soup here - it was bitter, but if you added some salt pork it was pretty good, so she took a little salt pork for her soup and cut it up, and ate the rest of her meat ration in ham with bread while she stirred her soup, crushing the salt pork against the bowl, like her ma had taught her. Da was talking about how he missed her ma, now, so she looked up and listened.

"M'Lady, M'Lords, may I ask, has Gulltown been attacked? I worry for her," said her da.

"Gulltown hasn't been attacked," said the Three-Eyed Raven, "The dead are not close. Euron's ships are not close. Cersei's armies are not close."

Maybe she'd take a greenseer if she couldn't marry a warg, thought Emira. Women moved into their husband's houses, she knew, but being able to see how her ma and her da and her friends and cousins and aunts and uncles were doing whenever she wanted would be pretty great, too. She took a bite of soup; it was spicy, but good, so she had some more - the heat covered the bitterness.

"I heard you're a stonemason. Are you good at fine carving - words, specifically?" asked Lord Tarly, as Emira's throat felt even hotter.

"My father carved the memorial words for the Hand Lord Reed's father, and I carved the memorial words for Lord Jojen," said her da, "I'm sorry for your loss, m'Lady."

"Ahh, yes, thank you," said Lord Tarly, "If you haven't been assigned any work yet, we've got really quite a lot of carving to do about what we've found out so far, and some of the masons are, well, they're better at buildings than writings. I'd be happy to have you work on some of the carvings. If you like, you can carve a portrait of your daughter translating for the hare. To document the wargs, you see."

She grabbed her cup, scarfing down water quickly; her throat was on fire! Her eyes widened further as the water just set her whole mouth on fire, but she clamped her lips shut and looked around quickly. She wasn't going to embarass herself again, even if Lady Winter was looking right at her... and holding up a piece of bread. Setting her empty cupt down, she grabbed her bread and ate... then had some more bread before returning to her soup, smiling at Lady Winter, who winked at her and put a huge portion of that red spice in her own soup, then raised the bowl and just slurped it down!

"I'll get the writing you'll need to carve to you tomorrow - come to the Library Tower, and ask for me. I'm Gilly," said the Lady sitting next to Lord Tarly, "I hope Little Sam grows up to be as brave and smart as you, Emira."

Emira couldn't place her accent; it was a wildling accent Emira couldn't quite place, but she was pretty and kind and was smiling at her and though she was brave and smart! She'd even helped Lord Tarly cure the greyscale that two of the people on her caravan had! They'd seen Valyria, and gotten greyscale, and come to the North, and were going to be cured! They weren't even highborn, just smallfolk like her, working to help their kingdoms and the Starks, and they'd be taken care of by the Starks and their family!

"Thank you, m'Lady. I'm sure he will, with you and Lord Tarly helping him with his lessons. I knew how to read and write before I was asked to be a page, my da taught me, and my friend Robb knew how to do math because his mother taught him, and he's working on a ballista team now. Did you know they make sure the mount's level using a bowl of water and a rock on a string, because the water is always flat and the rock always points down?"

Emira ate for awhile longer as the adults talked, glancing up at Princess Stark from time to time. At the high table in Winterfell, amidst the greatest nobles in all the kingdoms, Lady Reed was so pretty! And smart! And friendly! There were even frog's legs on the table!

One table down, Daenerys exchanged a smile with Missandei while she ate; the food they had, from their own supplies, was plain, plainer than nearly anyone else's aside from the table beside them, occupied by the other... visiting royalty, decked out in what she recognized as the pattern for winter wear that had been sent to all the world, all but one. The Dornish contingent spilled over to another two tables now, with, Lord Varys assured her, a small camp of archers and spearmen - and spearwives, spearwomen - outside as well. Three chests had been brought inside, and Lord Varys had assured her there would have been many messages, which had caused her to try and not smile at the reminder of the 'lesson' she'd shared with Sarella.

"Who is the older man with the metal staff at Princess Sarella's table?" asked Daenerys, "And what are the meanings of the... links... she has on the leather strap around her neck?"

"That new gentleman is Archmaester Marwyn, called 'The Mage', as he is the Archmaester of the study of the 'Higher Mysteries'," answered Varys with a derisive edge to his voice, "He spent years traveling the world in search of magic. For her links, the copper one denotes history, and is one she earned back in Oldtown, along with..."

Around them, calls for a song became more frequent, and then some voices in the back picked up. These weren't like the minstrels and bards she'd heard at the palaces of some of those who had housed her in her youth, nor were they in tune, but they were... enthusiastic.

"We're merry men of the North
Some sturdy and some stout
when the day is done, when it's time for fun,
we'll drink and sing and shout
you weak-livered milk-drinkers
can let your throats run dry," sang the rapidly swelling group.

A huge red-headed man she recognized stood and shook a fist at the crowd, despite the wide grin he displayed before hefting a large horn and drinking, white liquid dribbling down his beard. Tormund Giantsbane, she recalled, one of Jon's friends among the... Free Folk. One of her nephew's friends. She had a nephew, she thought, glancing up at him at the high table, hoping he'd come to her bed tonight. She wasn't the last Targaryen in the world... and she had family beyond that, Grey Worm and Missandei.

"cause there's just one drink
that we will sink
until the day we die
drinkin' northern ale in the halls of Winterfell,
the maidens and the men.
We swig our brew until we spew
then we fill our mugs again!" sang a large part of the crowd deafeningly even as much of the rest of the crowd jeered good-naturedly - almost none of the knights, she thought, were singing, but many had raised their cups and were waving them along with the music.

"You can keep your filthy spiced rum,
it makes our bellies bleed.
Cause when we raise our flagon
to another dead white walker
there is just one drink we need
northern ale!
northern ale!
Chug a mug of ale
and another mug of ale
chug another mug of ale
till you fall down"

Daenerys glanced at Missandei, who was clearly focusing on the song intently, mouthing along with the words as she heard them, then she winked at Grey Worm. Qhono was ignoring it entirely, Tyrion had raised his own cup and was joining those jeering with a grin, and Varys was watching everyone and everything. Probably memorizing who was offended by the drinking song and who was singing, she thought.

"Chug a mug of ale
and another mug of ale
chug another mug of ale, Warrior!
After the long hard day
of hunting and of war
our throats are tired and thirsty
our bodies drenched in gore
But we won't waste our evenings feelin' tired and feelin' spent
We perk right up when we breathe in that wholesome butter scent
That reachman's cider, too fruity for these tongues
You can keep your fancy Arbor Gold
it tastes like mammoth dung
that Summer Isles wine tastes great to you
but here we like it plain
just fill my mug with a mighty jug
of gruit-heartened grain
Drinkin' ale in the halls of Winterfell," sang the crowd, including at this point her weaponsmaster, who'd hopped up on her chair and had pointed her mug straight at the primary Dornish table when the reference to the summer isles wine was made. Looking over, the dragon queen noted a grin on Sarella's face as she raised her own personal wineskin and stuck her tongue out at Jon's younger sister.

Daenerys laughed and joined Missandei in giving applause at the end; looking up at the other Queen in the room, who was also applauding while apparently sharing a jape with Lord Clegane, she considered this dinner for a moment; it was after a victory, but was no feast. Nothing of this was like what she'd expected growing up... nor like any story Tyrion had told, nor Varys, nor the older ones Viserys or those who had housed her had told. Nor could she see the Masters of Dragon's Bay singing a drinking song, nor the 'ladies' from the tea party... yet both many Lords and Ladies of the north had sung, as well as some of their Free Folk allies and a few of the knights of the Vale.

The song itself was contentious, the gestures from many had been aggressive, and yet it was very like when one khalasar joined another. Rivals they may be, even enemies previously, but full of respect for each other's strength, and now united in purpose. She'd been thanked by quite a few people, even, not just for flying out on Drogon to fight the dead, but also for flying out to tow targets and train the scorpion and ballista crews to fight the wight dragon. Princess Sarella the Sphinx, she'd heard thanked similarly for her bowshots, and the supplies she'd sent.

Lyanna Mormont turned back to her platter as she listened to a Free Folk man she didn't recognize come to ask one of Fjornal's clansmen a question; they were probably stationed at Moat Cailin and had arrived on the caravan, she thought.

"Var ar pengar mannen? Min klan vill gora ett avtal som ska garanteras med en man fran andra sidan Smala Havet."

The answer was equally incomprehensible to her, though the man pointed at the table the Keyholder was at, so it was clearly a question of coins. She'd learned some of her second's own language, but that had sounded like what the dogsled teams spoke to each other. A brief glance at Fjornal herself resulted in a headshake, so she returned to her soup; she'd had her steward trade some of their meat rations for fish. She'd missed fish, this far inland, and she knew her people did too, bannermen and smallfolk alike.

A few hours extra working with the sled scorpion crews when she was supposed to have some time to herself was a small price to pay to grease the wheels, and they had a hatchet expert from another clan who owed them a favor who'd spend an hour or two giving her some pointers, too; that could come out of her personal training time. The time she spent with Maester Russal couldn't be traded for some other activities; her position as Master of Laws required study. Endless, dry study.

She had so much still to learn, and every time she learned more, she learned how little she knew. They'd told her that was natural; the Lord Hand Reed had even told her it happened to him, even now. He'd done it by telling her stories; though at least they were obviously intended to be lessons, though much gentler than Arya Stark's lessons. She'd never be as great a warrior as her mother... but she could be as good a commander, a soldier, and a leader; not just could, but she would study, train, and practice until she was, no matter how long it took.

"Is it always this... exuberant? With the, the dead all around?" asked a new merchant hesitantly; the first words she'd heard him speak since a page had led the frozen, frightened man and his companion merchant to a seat at her table, next to the Ibbenese mining representatives who sat with her sometimes. Lyanna kept her snort to herself, barely; the Southrons had finally shown up, and by the Old Gods beyond counting, they were pale and shaking after just a quick trip through the dead hours and hours ago; they hadn't even had to fight!

She looked at the newcomer's thick furs and the blankets they were wearing, then at the Ibbenese and Fjornal, who gave smirks back. The miners were from an island themselves, as far north as Winterfell; they understood Winter as well as any Northerner, and they understood islands and bronze and its working and mining and finding. The other new riverlanders, primarily in the black of the Night's Watch, were also bundled up, and quiet; most looked scared... and ashamed. She wondered if any had killed men of Bear Island outside the Twins; they were no lords, but the fitter and younger would have been in the Frey army.

"Unless it's right after a big battle, aye," she answered them, putting her musings behind her. Now was the time to fight the dead with words and alliances instead of bolts and flame.

"There was a huge battle yesterday!" exclaimed the newcomer.

Lyanna had to laugh along with the other veterans sitting at the rest of her table, then spoke, "That wasn't a big battle. We were only engaged at one division, and while we used the trebuchets, even my ballistas didn't get a chance to do much; the dead stayed out of their range, the cowards. There were only a handful of giants and mammoths involved, too; we've seen hundreds of them attack at once with White Walkers, and when they first showed up they encircled us completely, pressing on every side at once."

The two looked at each other, then the elder looked at her hesitantly, but with clear interest and growing respect, "You said 'my ballistas', and you carry weapons and wear armor, my Lady. Are you a warrior? I did not think there were women warriors in Westeros?"

Lyanna tilted her head slightly as she nodded, unaware that she'd adopted the habit from watching Arya, "The women of my family has always been warriors; my mother was a great soldier and leader; I command all the siege engines; Fjornal, here, is my second, and a deadly spearwife. Lady Winter is in overall command, Lady Stark commands all the the archers, Queen Daenerys fights on her dragon, and there are many other capable women warriors here. Why do you ask?"

"My name is Ulinaayee; my companion and I are metals merchants from Kayakayanaya. It is a great relief to be back in civilized society! We have not seen so many warrior women since we left home. In the cities that can trace their heritage back to the proud Patrimony of Hyrkoon, only those who give birth are permitted to take life at will."

"That is a long way to the East; how did you come to be on the caravan from the Neck?" asked the senior Ibbenese.

"We have been living in King's Landing negotiating trade deals for the Great Fathers for many years. Since King Robert died, things started getting worse. Once that pirate Euron and his fleet showed up, may the Black Goat take him, we knew it was time to find greener pastures, so we packed and rode north. The tales we heard were unbelievable, and then traveling atop snows as vast and desolate as the Red Wastes, but..." the man trailed off, gesturing vaguely outwards, then drank the rest of his ale ration in one big gulp.

A few minutes later, Lady Mormont looked up as soon as she caught Arya moving out of the corner of her eye; she'd picked this table not just because it was next to the windows, making it easy for her people to enter and exit the halls without bothering with the doors, but also because she could watch the high table easily, but not obviously. Arya Stark was just now standing, and Sansa Stark too. Even Bran Stark was sitting up and paying attention; this would be the announcement she'd heard about at the Small Council meeting, then.

Lyanna watched as Arya spoke; the commander was using her battlefield voice to cut across the crowd and get their attention, sharper and harsher than her mother's battlefield tone had been.

"To all those who have just arrived and have not joined the Night's Watch, welcome to Winterfell, central stronghold of the kingdom of the North. You have seen the army of the dead with your own eyes; that is what all the living will face until they are returned to true death, or the living are all killed. Any page can guide you to a tower or building where you can look out on them yourselves using a Myrish far-eye. The library tower has lessons all day and night in three watches, taught by merchants and Maesters, acolytes and warriors, engineers and pyromancers. Also in the library tower you can write raven scrolls which we will send out as we can. We would be most grateful to any who would ink signed affidavits to send out attesting to the truth of our warnings."

Arya continued, looking out over the crowd steadily, "I also welcome to Winterfell all those from the Riverlands who have come to reclaim their honor, and to offer their lives, and risk their deaths to fight the Night King and defend the living. As our Master of Laws, Lady Mormont, has wisely said, it is the old way that those who join the Night's Watch leave behind their crimes, even the most heinous of crimes, kinslaying and breaking guest right."

"I personally slaughtered every Frey who took part in the Red Wedding. Roose Bolton is dead," said Arya, her voice suddenly cold, making the sign for you to Sansa at Roose's name; she'd goaded Ramsey into killing his father, though Sansa was still coming to grips with Fat Walda and her newborn's death, "Years before, I killed the man who sewed Grey Wind's head to my brother's body, and the Hound and I killed every Frey soldier we came across in our travels. My vengeance for the treachery of the Red Wedding is complete. As Justice in the North, and the Vale, and the Northern Riverlands, I rule that for all those who turned on wedding guests outside the Twins, joining the Night's Watch is a suitable, appropriate, complete, and final sentence. Having sworn the oath, and keeping faith with the Night's Watch, is their atonement for their sins. All shall support them in defending the realms of men, for we see what lies beyond."

Lyanna saw her commander turn her head to look at Sansa Stark now; only her head moved, nothing else. She wondered from who Arya had picked up that mannerism from; none of the rest of her family had it, and she'd started noticing her own mannerisms had shifted, too. She raised her hand, just as her mother and her sisters had, but she'd picked up a few of the mannerisms of her commander, as well. She was a Mormont. Her family had served the Starks for thousands of years, but never, she suspected, as closely as she did now. She turned her attention to her Queen as Sansa Stark's voice rang out, more majestic and less biting than her sister's.

"Our father always told us that in winter, we must protect ourselves, look after one another. Winter has come! The Second Long Night descends upon us, and I am proud to say we are indeed working together, looking after one another! We have heard from every kingdom and city in Essos, receiving support and questions. The work all of you, and all of our people and allies have done has allowed us to send out experts - trappers, farmers, warriors, housewives, crafters, knappers, diggers, and spearwives - to help them survive the Long Night and prepare for the army of the dead, should it get past us. All of Westeros not under Cersei's thumb is with us! Princess Sarella of Dorne arrived first, and more of her forces and supplies just arrived with the caravan!" said Sansa, her eyes roaming the hall; she noted a chorus of 'Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken' from some of those at the Dornish tables; Sarella was making good progress on their plan. She continued without pause; the room was with her, and Littlefinger has taught her not to waste an advantage like that.

"Queen Daenerys Targaryen arrived next, with the leaders of her armies and her most trusted and valuable advisors, as well as her children, the dragons Drogon and Rhaegal," Sansa said, noting Tyrion's lone, quiet statement of 'Fire and Blood', "Thousands of her Unsullied warriors and Dothraki mounted archers are approaching with the next caravan as we speak, along with their own supplies! Cersei is waiting, and her ally Euron, but my brother Theon has rescued Queen Yara Greyjoy, and Queen Yara and her ships has arrived at Pentos to refit with siege engines and escort the fleet east, providing wights and knowledge and picking up passengers and vital supplies and ships from all over the world."

"Thank you all for the lovely song," said Sansa, her voice carrying easily to the far reaches of the hall even as Arya grinned widely while she watched Varys intently, "While I would enjoy hearing the songs of the Vale and the Riverlands as well, at the moment, my brother Jon has an announcement he wishes to make."

Jon stood tall, looked directly at his Aunt Daenerys and her encouraging smile, and spoke, "I am Jon Snow. Some of you named me your King, and I'm told many of you wondered who my mother was, as I have my entire life. I am proud to call Ned Stark my father, and proud that his blood runs through my veins. That blood comes not from my father, but from my mother, his sister Lyanna Stark, who was secretly married to Rhaegar Targaryen. While I acknowledge the truth of my blood, I have never had the name Stark, nor the name Targaryen. I have decided to vow, here and now in the sight of gods and men, to take no crown and hold no lands, and my decision is final. I support my Aunt, Queen Daenerys Targaryen, in her campaign to take the Iron Throne and rule from the Southron Riverlands to the Reach, and I will keep the name Jon Snow."

"To our brother Jon Snow!" called out Arya and Sansa, raising their cups... both noting Lord Varys turning even as a page approached his table with a folder of copied documents. His face hadn't shown any reaction, but still they gave the sign for success to each other.

"To my nephew Jon Snow!" called out Daenerys, raising her own cup.

"Jon Snow!" came the rumbling reply from throughout the Great Hall.

At the end of the meal, a page a little older than Emira came up to her, "Emira? I'll take you to your quarters now."

"Thank you, m'Lady."

As they jogged off, the older girl spoke easily, "You don't need to call me a lady; I'm just a bastard. My name's Deranna Rivers; I'm sworn to Lady Winter. You can ask me or any of the older pages if you need anything. You're the hare warg's page, aren't you? You'll be rooming with some other first watch pages for Queen Sansa, Princess Meera, Lady Winter, Lord Clegane, the Three-Eyed Raven and some of the other wargs; you get the top bunk in the back, it's the only empty one. I hear you speak ice-river but you got adopted into the Nightrunners! My brother and I were adopted into Skamund's ice-river clan; aren't the Free Folk amazing?"

************************

"Queen Daenerys to see you, Your Grace," announced her guard quietly.

"Send her in," replied Sansa, dressed in a thick robe rather than her usual armor, as she stirred the dye into the warm water on a small table she'd set in the middle of her solar. She looked up as Grey Worm inspected the dark room, shielding his eyes from the two lit candles to peer into the corners, and then left. Her own guards inside the room she sent out as well; this was not for them to see.

"Your invitation was cryptic," remarked Dany, dipping her staff as she entered, glancing over and narrowing her eyes as she saw Sansa stirring a pot on a small table; she was reminded instantly of her surprise forgery lesson. The rest of the room was again different; there was a portable stair of three steps up and three down, two piles of very dirty peasant laundry, a pair of buckets full of ashes, a table with uniforms and a pair of staves. She set her staff in an empty spot on the rack by the now-closed door, making sure not to damage the fragile dragonglass any more than she had already the few times she'd bumped it on furniture and doors and stairs over the few days she'd been carrying it everywhere. Thankfully, she was getting used to it quickly.

"It was meant to be. I want to offer you a chance to join me in hearing what my subjects say and do when there's nobody of importance around. No lords, no ladies, no kings or queens. In all honesty, it's not something I've done before, either, but Arya insists that I head with my own ears what is said when there are none of high birth to hear it. She says it will be good for me," said Sansa with a fond but exasperated tone.

"My brother Rhaegar went out among the people; Ser Barristan told me about it. Tyrion has gone out in Meereen with Varys, too, as does Grey Worm and Missandei," replied Daenerys.

"Many of my lords and ladies go out among the smallfolk, as do I, for that matter. But how many of my smallfolk do you think speak their mind - their true mind - around Lady Mormont, or Lord Manderly, or Uncle Sandor? How many did around your brother Rhaegar, or around Tyrion or your other advisors?" asked Sansa as she finished stirring the pot, wrapping a towel around her neck and leaning forward to dip her hair into it, ladling the dark water over her scalp carefully. She still wasn't entirely sold on this, but her sister hadn't budged, and it was true she heard many things as Alayne Stone in the Vale that she'd never heard before, and while she truly trusted her sister, hearing things for herself, seeing how her smallfolk and subjects acted and what consensus they formed, or didn't form, without any highborn present would be valuable to her; none of her spies had her sense for politics. Even if this was a colossal pain in the neck.

"More than did to my father or Cersei, I suppose. Are you dying your hair? What will you tell people tomorrow?" asked Daenerys, considering. Her brother had gone out to play music for the people, but as a prince with a famous Kingsguard present, ready to enforce anything the prince said, or the father had commanded. Tyrion was perhaps the most obvious Hand ever, Grey Worm always wore his uniform, and Missandei was extremely distinctive as well. Varys seemed distinctive, but she was sure he wasn't - he'd found far too many things out to not be subtle, but how much more did he know that he didn't tell her?

"I am, and I'll tell them nothing. This mix will wash out easily and completely after only five or six rinses, even on my hair... or yours. It's a good mix in winter, since there won't be any rain to wash it away early, though it's only good for a few hours at best. So, will you be joining us?"

"Who is us?"

"We'll be meeting our... paramours... as played by Arya and someone else she's found. She refused to say who, other than that she'd have to report on their performance to their teacher," replied Sansa, keeping her aggravation out of her voice. Her own spies had failed to turn anything up, and she know it wouldn't be Kitty. Perhaps one of Arya's little mummer's troupe, perhaps someone else; her sister did like her little japes.

"Paramours," said Daenerys flatly.

"Paramours, yes. If you accept, we are to be simple maids who have accepted an invitation to dinner at one of the makeshift taverns in the courtyard nearest the Bole camps; it's popular with many of the regular servants and workers, and some of the lowborn soldiers, too, but it doesn't attract great lords and ladies. It's a good spread of people, as Arya said," replied Sansa, not mentioning that her own spies had said the same, "Even some small group leaders go there sometimes. Podrick, Brienne's squire, had mentioned it a time or two," replied Sansa easily, gesturing, "Could you bring that towel over, please, Queen Daenerys? Some help wrapping it around my hair wouldn't go amiss, either."

"I see," said Dany, unfolding the towel and helping Sansa with her hair, continuing on with the decisions she'd made, "Well, I don't suppose I have anything else to do. And please, just call me Daenerys. We both care for Jon, though in different ways, and I have learned quite a lot here. As... uncomfortable... as it's been, especially at first, we should be friends as well as allies."

"Call me Sansa, please, Daenerys. Arya will likely still call us both too slow, naturally," said Sansa with a smile, taking up a small bowl of powder and stirring another handful into the mix carefully, "To tell the truth, I'm glad you accepted. I won't feel like the only novice with you present - if Arya's bringing someone, it's someone she's sure isn't going to give the game away... she'll be looking to tease me about it for years if I do, though. If you are going through with this, you'll need to tell Grey Worm he can go; any guards would give us away. Arya said she'll escort you back."

Daenerys cast her gaze back to the table she's gotten the towels from; there were a pair of staves there, roughly shod in iron with pitch and dragonglass flakes, leaning against the table next to a pair of well-worn but clean maid's uniforms. She looked back; the pot and Sansa were placed where they would be out of side of the door when it was opened.

"Open the door for Queen Daenerys," called out Sansa.

Dany smiled at her friend, her family, "Grey Worm, thank you for escorting me here. I'll be here for some hours; you should go and spend the time with Missandei. I'll be with Queen Sansa, well guarded."

"You will need protection coming back. I will stay," said Grey Worm.

"Jon's sister Arya and her guards will protect me on my way back. Go; you and Missandei spend too much time worrying about me and not enough enjoying yourselves," said Dany warmly.

"The First Sword? Very well, my Queen," said Grey Worm, before he continued, "Thank you. You know we are both happy to serve you. We choose to serve you."

"I know; now go. I expect to see you smiling tomorrow!" said Daenerys as she closed the door.

"You'll want to bar the door, then undress and put on that robe; I know it's cold for Southrons, but while the dye washes out of hair easily, it doesn't wash out of all fabrics. The robe will soak up any drips."

Sansa slid her fingertip through the dye along the bowl, making sure the powder had dissolved properly, then wiped her finger off on a rag and beckoned the other woman over once she'd finished changing, "Your costume has an extra two layers of wool; you can be from the Riverlands or the southern coast of the Vale. I can't have our best dragonrider freeze to death in our castle, can I, Daenerys?"

"Definitely not," said Daenerys, dragging her fingers through her hair slowly to undo the style Missandei had helped her with that morning. When she was done, she leaned over the pot, letting Sansa ladle the water over her hair, darkening it quickly, "Thank you for speaking with Jon. He's been... well. I care for him, and he was... uncomfortable... for awhile, after he learned about his parents. He still is, but less so. I only had Viserys, growing up, and he was only ever concerned about what he wanted, so I don't really understand, though I'm glad Jon has you all, had you as his family growing up."

Sansa let herself draw in a breath, let it be noticeable as she again remembered her past, let her regret fill her and color her tone as she turned Daenerys's hair black, "I was a stupid child, I'm afraid; I was awful to him, growing up. It was Arya who was his favorite, and he hers; he'd help her practice with her bow, or with swords, or go off riding instead of to needlework lessons. He's forgiven me, though, and I do support him now. I'd threaten you properly, but there's no point; if you hurt Jon - truly hurt him - Arya will get to you long before I have a chance. Stay here; I'll get the towel."

Daenerys looked up, her back stiffening and anger coursing through her that Sansa would insult her, would say that she would hurt Jon, would threaten... and then she jabbed two stiff fingers into her side and breathed in slowly, then out again. Jon's sister was threatening her, yes, but as a parent or a sibling would, and she certainly didn't mean to hurt Jon, didn't want to hurt Jon. She strove to keep her anger out of her reply as she asked, "Isn't that speech supposed to be given to the boy by the girl's parents?"

"Yes, but the girl's supposed to be inexperienced, and the boy's supposed to have the power. Tell me Jon's more experienced and has the power with a straight face, and I'll buy your drink tonight," replied Sansa dryly; Daenerys wasn't nearly a good enough liar to survive King's Landing, not yet, but she was improving quickly.

Daenerys laughed, "I'll have to depend on my paramour for that drink, I suppose. I didn't bring any coin, and I'm sure I couldn't say that with a straight face! He's..."

"I don't want to know," snapped Sansa, then shook her head ruefully, wrapping the towel around Dany's hair to pat it dry carefully, "Just a few words is already far more than I want to have ever heard on the subject of my brother's 'experience', thank you very much. Let that dry a bit and watch how I dress; you need to dress exactly the same way."

Once they were properly attired, Sansa didn't even try to suppress her grimace as she strode to one of two piles of dirty laundry, well away from her books and scrolls. She re-checked to make sure her things were covered, then lifted it carefully, puffs of dirt coming up at her face and down her dress, "Do as I do, if you want to come along. I'm reliably told that the simplest way to look like a maid at the end of her watch is to have done the same things as a maid would have."

Daenerys giggled, picking up her own pile and following Sansa up and down the tiny stairs, her knees knocking into the laundry and smearing more dirt on the dress, "Try riding in a khalasar all day when there hasn't been any rain. Even at the head of the khalasar, everyone's filthy. In the middle, where I often rode, you couldn't see anything but dirt, smell anything but dirt, even taste anything but dirt."

"Thank you, no. Arya would love it, I'm sure... she never worries about getting dirty, not now, and not as a child," said Sansa as she returned on the same path, then set down the laundry and picked up a large pail full almost to overflowing of ashes from fireplaces throughout the castle, retracing her steps, ashes spilling out in dribs and drabs, asking the next question carefully; she still did not know how Daenerys felt about that part of her life, "Did you know how to ride before?

"Not very well. The first few days were... very painful, even though Drogo had given me a magnificent white mare with a wonderfully smooth amble as a wedding gift. Ser Jorah helped me learn to really ride and to eat horse meat, and Doreah helped me with, well, learning to please my husband," said the silver-haired woman fondly before her voice turned hard, "Before she betrayed me in Qarth. The warlocks are not to be trusted, Sansa."

"Even after they travel across the world to come and see the army of the dead with their own eyes, you would advise against trusting them, Daenerys?" asked the Queen in the North seriously.

"Yes. They stole my children and kidnapped me, chained me up in their tower to augment their magic with my children," said Daenerys, angry at the betrayal.

"How did that end for them?" asked Sansa calmly.

"In fire and blood," replied Daenerys with a vicious smirk, setting down her last load of filth.

"Good," replied the redhead, taking a rag and a splashing a small amount of water on one end, then brushing herself down, using the dry or damp halves as she needed to, showing Daenerys how to do the same, speaking with a sly tone, "We're expected about now... but if we're to be courted properly, should we show up on time... or make our would-be paramours wait?"

"Oh, we should certainly make them wait," replied Daenerys, casting her gaze at the training staves next to her own, "This room is big enough for a training challenge, is it not?"

Sansa picked up one side of the small table, "It is. Help me with this and the little stairs. Training armor's in the corner, I'll get it. You haven't been training for long, though - this might hurt, though I know Arya wouldn't have given you a staff to carry if you didn't deserve it. Arya didn't let me get out of public matches, and I'm sure she won't let you, either."

Dany picked up the other side, helping to move the objects out of the way while Sansa raised her voice to tell the guards they'd be training. They slipped on the training leather comfortably, then Dany caught the lightly padded staff Sansa tossed at her while the redhead flamboyantly spun her own training staff around with a smirk. The Dragon Queen narrowed her eyes and quoted her teacher as she raised her staff without fanfare, just as Drogon bared his teeth, "All the better to learn now; every hurt is a lesson, and every lesson makes you better."

"That's what she says," said Sansa as she deflected five rapid attacks from Daenerys carefully, forcing the attacking staff low as she skipped back quickly and tapped the silver-haired queen's throat with the tip of her staff, "You need to practice against someone taller."

"Clearly," scowled Daenerys even as she defended herself from a quick series of thrusts, all made from outside her own reach. Quite a bit outside, and that made a much larger difference; she'd been used to having more reach than her training partner, and now the flame was in the other mouth. Her nostrils flared as she drew in a deep breath, then set herself and smashed the incoming attack to the left, sweeping her right foot forward as fast as she could, turning her block into a thrust that her opponent batted away with a whistling upward strike that combined attack and defense and nearly caught her on the shoulder, at a range she'd have to do a thrust to make contact from.

A little over half an hour later, they'd finished training, cleaned up, put on some makeup to disguise their looks further, including a few scars and a small mole or two, and were approaching the gate leading to the courtyard, dark hair bundled up under thin scarves, where one of the two guards halted them, "Halt! Where are you lasses goin'?"

"Out to get a drink at the Drunken Digger," said Sansa with a girlish lilt, "It's been a long shift, and our ale ration's come up!"

"Ey there... I don't know you! I don' know either o' you!"

"Pie-feathers taste like salt," said Sansa quickly and quietly, pulling a small coin purse off her belt and tossing it to the guard, who opened it and checked the mix of coins it contained, taking four and tossing the pouch back for Sansa to verify exactly which coins had been taken. That, too, was part of the challenge system Littlefinger had sometimes used - not just spoken words that could be overheard, but if the purse didn't contain exactly the right coinage each time, then the challenge had failed. Even someone watching closely would have a hard time figuring out what the correct coins would be.

Arya, of course, had rolled her eyes when she'd explained to her sister, sneering at the need for such challenges.

"Al' right. There's a pair of them newcomers waitin' outside; they's waitin' for you, or you wan' us ta run 'em off first?"

Daenerys grinned, "They're still here! Maybe we should make them wait some more."

With a sigh, the guardsman called out, "Opening up! Tell them buggers their women's here," as he opened up the gate on his side, muttering about women not being fair while they entered the small space between gates, being closed in before the door in front opened up to show a pair of figures waiting.

Daenerys looked up as a slightly chubby young man a couple inches taller than she was, wearing clean leather armor with metal strips with small metal knobs sewn on it, a longsword, a dagger and a small wood and dragonglass flake dagger, and wearing a falconer's glove on one hand swept her hand up in his to kiss her knuckles, looking down at her with eyes of unmistakable Stark grey, her armsmaster's eyes, "It is a most wonderful pleasure to see you accepted my invitation, oh beauteous Darlene! My very heart leaps from my chest as Florian's did when he first laid eyes on Jonquil!"

Their other 'paramour' approached Sansa, his skin of polished jet, hair swept around his head under his hat, wearing thick merchant's furs and no weapons but a regular dagger and a full dragonglass dagger, even as his slender hands under reached out boldly as if to take her own hands in his before glancing at her staff and sheepishly pulling one hand back, "Please ignore my friend Harry; he thinks himself a knight, rather than a man-at-arms not of your local nobility, and I'm afraid his head is full of tales and his mouth full of words, without considering that you have had a long day's work and are doubtless tired, hungry, and thirsty. May I buy you a drink and a meal fit for a princess, Alaya, and tell you tales of the far away lands I have traveled from?"

"You may, Sandy," replied Sansa with a prim giggle, allowing 'him' to escort her towards the small but busy tavern, Arya having suggested she give her 'maid face' a name that was a play on Alayne Stone as she'd been known in the Vale for a time, just as everyone else's names were at least superficially close to their own, to make sure even untrained highborn had a chance at responding when spoken to. If they didn't, well, that would be telling. Her escort was even darker than Xaro Xhoan Daxos had been, but the arm under her hand was slender. When she squeezed her arm through his, she felt wiry strength beneath thick furs... but not the same as Daario's or Jon's. Some kind of warrior, she guessed, given that it was Arya who had found them, but definitely a woman, however well disguised.


"Tell me, have you fought any duels, Harry?" asked Daenerys as she too looped an arm through the arm of her 'paramour' and let herself be led off, looking 'him' over, for there was no mistaking the predatory eyes of Arya Stark. It was very much as if she saw Drogon's eyes peering out of the face of a partridge; like dragonfire thinly cloaked in a candle's flames.


"I would gladly fight a duel for you!" exclaimed Arya pompously, glancing up at the... well, hoarding wasn't the right word, but it was still more than a ledge with a railing that had been added to the building's second and third floors by enthusiastic crafters on their free time, to add space to the tavern. Yes, Mariya was up there, dressed as a ditch-digger, and she'd already noticed the royals. Korb was inside, and she bet he'd notice immediately as well... Deranna and Donovar were bustling around the other side of the courtyard, working as stable hands, and neither had noticed yet; hopefully they'd spot the party soon... yes, there it was, and they weren't showing big reactions anymore, just continuing to shovel shit into wheelbarrows. Good.

"Didn't you listen, Harry? You have to buy a purple feather before you can get yourself beat into the ground by a bravo. You haven't fought a real fight in your entire life! Training isn't the same, I've told you that, and you know I've seen bravos on my travels," replied Sarella in a good-natured tone, glancing sideways and up at Sansa, his voice full of pride, "I've been to Lys, once, you know. You're as lovely as their greatest courtesans!"

"And your da didn't let you off the ship to see those courtesans, did he, so how would you know?" sniped Arya, turning her head away as if to insult the 'merchant'... yes, that was Connas doing an inward guard watch up on the wall. A good choice for not being noticed, that - he was expected to be looking at everyone coming in or going out. Not such a good choice for actually spotting them in the darkness from that far away, but he still might, or perhaps when they left.

"Boys!" snapped Sansa, "We aren't here to hear your boasting; we can just as easily go to the Great Hall and eat with our friends, you know, if you'd prefer your own company to ours."

"I think fighting duels for fun, or to entertain a crowd is stupid, and they don't impress me at all," said Daenerys dourly, prompting 'Harry' to look downcast for a moment, before 'he' raised 'his' falconer's glove and started telling a story about training his hawk to hunt enemy ravens even as they started winding their way through the crowd, eventually - to the boys evident disappointment - giving up and taking a table in the center of the noisy tavern, rather than one with a little more privacy.

'Harry' finished up his hawking tales, pulled out 'his' brand new leather sheath and his dagger, starting to carve a figure into the bright red leather.

"What are you carving?" asked 'Darlene', leaning over to look at the work Arya was doing on the plain leather, prompting the 'squire' to look up at just the right angle to see down the front of her furs, 'his' cheeks flushing as 'he' jerked his eyes up to her face and replied, stammering slightly, accidentally slicing a full inch too far on the figure 'he' was etching in the leather while he did so.

"The most beautiful woman I've ever seen!"

"And who would that be?" asked 'Alaya' acerbically, arching her back and sitting up straighter, calling up her best youthful indignation at not being the prettiest girl in the room. She tilted her head a little to downplay her 'moles', and shifted just slightly in her seat to pull the maid's dress against her body, deliberately hugging her curves on the side the 'boys' were on, attracting some glances from across the tavern as well.

With a goofy grin, 'Harry' looked at 'Darlene', who in turn rolled her eyes at 'him', thought of her current appearance, the dirty, slightly greasy black hair, the stains on her maid's clothes and the dirt and ash not fully cleaned off her face, and said, "It's not a very good likeness of me. I don't have a face the shape of a tuber, for one thing, Harry, and I'm certainly not very beautiful."

Arya ducked her head as the others laughed before 'Sandy' spoke to save 'his' friend, "On the caravan, I heard some of the other merchants talking about what they heard from the men from Seagard! They said Lord Mallister is going to set his wife aside and marry Queen Sansa!"

'Harry' looked at 'him' and snorted while the serving girl approached with loud footsteps, clearly relieved to be off the topic, even while his knife wavered on the carving, "That's ridiculous. Everyone knows Queen Sansa will never marry any man who can't beat her sister in a fight. Lord Dayne, though... I heard he's going to swear himself to Princess Sarella if she names him Lord Commander of her Princessguard and names him Sword of the Morning!"

The serving girl rolled her eyes, replying sarcastically, "And I heard that Lord Dayne is going to pledge Dorne to Queen Daenerys if she makes Princess Sarella marry him, but Queen Sansa said she'll only let that happen if Lady Winter gets a dragon so she can kill the Night King herself, so Lord Mallister's going to sail to Old Valyria to be led to a dragon egg guarded by the Stone Queen by a fire vision he had and bring the egg back for the Dragon Queen to hatch using Free Folk magics Lord Snow learned from King Rayder, in exchange for Lord Mallister getting Lord Theon's blessing to marry Queen Yara even after Lady Winter broke his heart by rejecting his proposal. Show me your coin and tell me what you'll be ordering, folks, you can't tell me anything I haven't heard already."

Hours later, escorting an again silver-haired Queen back to the First Keep, Arya smirked to herself, and wondered where Varys had acquired the dress he'd worn while carrying water past the tavern; her rival spymaster's wig had been an incredible fit, as well - a shaved head had many advantages, though you couldn't quickly grow your hair, but you could quickly shave your head.

************************

Qhono looked out from atop his borrowed horse; his page was translating for him, but he knew enough of the drumbeats now. The caravan was coming - his part of the horde, Grey Worm's soldiers on wheel-less wagons, the supplies and herds, and the cold enemy was gathering his forces in their path.

The horsemen of Royce and Manderly in their iron suits would force a path, then dismount and hold off the dead, with other horsemen in iron and leather suits behind them. Not iron; steel - different, better than regular iron, though it needed to be oiled just as much. Horse hides were much more practical; at least most of the warriors in this cold land dressed in sensible leathers. Warriors could never be fast enough in iron suits, no matter how strong they were, but instead of just a hat to keep away cold, a hat that protects? Horse leather could be made strong and sturdy, too, and his people would need to make armor suited to riding all day, supple and light but still enough to protect from arrows shot from city walls far away.

For now, they needed fast archers on fast horses, and those warriors were coming. If he could find Jorah the Andal and the other bloodriders, he could tell them what to do. This battle had no place for Grey Worm's men; they fought on foot, too slow. Only riders could fight this fight! He and Grey Worm had trained for more than a fortnight, had planned, had even asked the First Sword girl together and listened to her words. Strange, to have a girl as a Khal, but she was strong - strong in a fight, strong in a war, and so he there was no shame in following her in battle, just as his Khaleesi followed her in battle.

Great fireballs raced overhead, igniting three paths in fire. Even he did not know which would be used; they meant to confuse the enemy, just as a horde confused city peoples by riding to weakness wherever it was. The night turned orange, and he absently pressed in with his left knee as his horse tried to sidle away from where it should. These people across the poison water did not know how to train a horse! Not at all. He missed his horses, and hoped to see them again soon.

The horn call came, and he cantered forwards across the bridges in the middle of the warriors in iron suits as they were rolled out across the great ditches - bigger now than when he'd come, even. These city people could dig; even when the dirt itself was so solid it cracked like rock instead of crumbling like dirt, it did not stop them from digging.

He had thought hiding behind high walls and deep ditches and wearing iron suits a sign of cowardice, before, and perhaps it still was... but he had seen the dead attack, and no amount of bravery, and no amount of strength would let a warrior stand against them. His horde had not seen the dead attack, not in numbers greater than all the Dothraki hordes put together... not yet.

Looking around, he frowned, sidestepping his horse to stay a foot away from the warrior to his left; clumsy idiot city rider doesn't know how to ride properly. Worse, the night was still clear. Why was the night clear, if the enemy could bring fog and wind and solid rain down on them? The Khaleesi and her dragons would fight in the sky, or the great crossbows, but why was it still clear? Had the enemy not killed enough blood to fuel their evil blood magics? Was there some trick?

They were across the open field past the last ditch, racing through fresh 'snow', leading riders passing back on both sides after clearing only a little distance at speed to smooth the way for the horde, many of the rest using 'snowshoes'; ahead of them came lights racing down, a great bowshot ahead, flaming arrows coming from the great caravan, and the magical green fire too. Great huge beasts, bigger than elephants, and their giant men too coming, but they were too far for the great crossbows on tall walls, now; only those on the wheel-less wagons being pulled behind them and those coming from the caravan were close enough to shoot, old people and children showing that even those city-dwellers who used giant machines had, if not the strength to fight, then at least the courage to come out from their walls.

There! There was Jorah the Andal and his blood-riders, ahead of a group of warriors with flaming sword... then he flinched as a figure in their midst raised an arm and a wave of flame shot out from their wheelless wagon to burn a group of wights, even the giant dropping immediately, tree in its hand instantly alight as it fell on yet more wights before the giant had a chance to throw it. Cursed witches with their blood magic! By the Great Stallion, he hated this land, but if they were to keep the dead off the caravan, his warriors had to do what was necessary, not what was brave! They must kill without showing their strength, as fast as they could; show their strength as a group, not as individuals. The old ways had their place on other battlefields, perhaps, but on this one it would only get them raised as the Witch Khal's fodder.

"Lajak dothrakh save shiqethi lajak sen horses athaozar! Ovray! Dik! Dik! Zhavorsa loqam!" shouted Qhono, approaching Jorah and shouting to him as his riders started following - and questioning - his commands, "Horde of thousand, three deep, both side, behind iron suit! Dragon glass arrow! Fast! Other warriors ride, then do same, these ride! I hold front; you get back!"

Ser Jorah stared as Qhono hit another warrior who had wanted to attack the enemy as they had tried to attack several small bands of wights on the long ride to Winterfell; the snow wasn't very deep this close to the castle, but even having seen the defenses at White Harbor, even having trained for days before setting out... he could never have imagined this madness... but here it was, and here he stands.

"Khaleesi?" calls out Ser Jorah.

"Davra," answered Qhono shortly, reassuring Jorah as the lead Dothraki started to take rough positions behind the heavy knights who had dismounted to form a wall of large shields and spears, and the men-at-arms dismounting behind them with pikes, or using long lances.

Ser Jorah turned and rode back away from the castle to relay the instructions, the horde flowing around him easily as they rode for the castle, a wash of heat on his face as orange fire bloomed suddenly, close; too close! Three knights, armor aflame were being roughly dragged back through the snow as the line reformed to adjust with barely a glance at the burning men, sleds moving past on both sides of the horde, their snowshoes keeping them atop the snow, avoiding the channel the Dothraki had carved through it.

He sidestepped his horse as quickly approaching shouts and horn calls from the direction of the castle also sounded a warning, a small number of the cavalry from the castle forming a guard around a lane atop the snow and inside the area they were defending from the army of the dead for an outbound caravan to pass through, just as he'd been told would happen.

Atop the command tower, Fjornal peered out. Below her was Lady Winter and a continuous set of drumbeats, and out there the Southrons from across the sea were streaming past ring seven, well within the range of even the archers with flight shafts, much less her scorpions and ballista; the dead themselves were running towards the caravan like an iceberg in the ocean; just a few were there in time to attack at first, but in just a little time there would be a mountain's worth of wights there.

"Fog from the North! Watch for the Night King!" called out Lady Winter's favorite spotter girl; that one'd been adopted by the ice-river clans along with the other 'snowflakes', as they'd been named, swirling around the winter storm.

"Ware weapon," said Fjornal, swinging the ballista around to the North and then up to get the canvas cover attached over it out of the way, her crew ducking instantly. The gongs from the Scorpion Bear's tower sounded out, as she'd expected; it was her job to take over if her commander was killed. Strange, that; she'd raided the Southron island her commander came from, once, years ago, and now she was here.

Drums sounded; the Night King wasn't where he'd been anymore. Spotters couldn't see him, wargs couldn't see him, Three-Eyed Raven couldn't see him, even.

"Load Death!" Fjornal commanded, her crew carefully removing the glass ball of wildfire while the 'resting' crew replaced it with a Death's Head as soon as the green shit was out of the way. It was no different than a wolf's head, except there were many many more bolts made from the borrowed metal. And, of course, these were the ones where Lady Winter would kill you herself if you hit something other than the army of the dead with. That didn't bother her; she wouldn't hit a person she didn't want to, even if she missed.

The Night King was doing something; she could feel it in her bones, even though he was hiding. Well, she knew all about ambushes, thought Fjornal as she tugged her hood down when the bitter cold wall of fog and snow crossed over the tower, waiting and peering out into the dark.

"DRAGON FLINT FOUR HIGH HEADING NORTH!" shouted Arya, turning to the south and peering out, an astounded Jamie and Brienne behind her, "MASSED SPRING ENGINE LOOSE FIREBOLTS UP ALONG PATH, MARKSMAN SPRING ENGINES VALYRIAN AND DRAGONGLASS PLATECUTTER, WAIT FOR A SHOT! THREE HUNDRED YARDS UP! FRIENDLY DRAGONS TO MORMONT TWO LOW!"

Her commands were repeated and the siege engine crews were responding; above her the ballista rapidly swung to the south, ready for anything, while she heard with her ears great wingbeats coming rapidly closer... right for her tower. A rustling noise from the dragon, as if...

"WALKERS ABOVE!" shouted Arya as she sprinted over the stone roof and leapt up off the rail, grabbing the rope as she flipped herself up onto the ballista platform above her command level, closing the lid on the wildfire ball chest with her foot as she drew sword and throwing dagger, "COMMAND TOWER CREW TO THE GROUND! WALKERS INSIDE! ABANDON COMMAND TOWER IF YOU CAN'T FIGHT WIGHTS! DRAGON ABOVE COMMAND TOWER! LOOSE FIREBOLTS!"

Fjornal pulled her dragonglass dagger out with one hand, ignoring the pain as she smashed her knuckles hard between the grip of the dagger and that of the ballista while she swung the big weapon up and to the north, squinting against the snow being blown into her eyes. Lady Winter had gone still, while most of her crew was already sliding down the ropes. Markath had plucked one of the Valyrian steel bolts out of its rack and steadied it on the platform, aimed up; good boy! He'd only get one chance, but there weren't any crossbow mounts up here, since they'd have interfered with the ballista's field of fire. There was a blur from above; she swung the ballista to the side to get out of the way.

The first three White Walkers to actually land on the command tower shattered on the southron edge of the platform as they did so, one having taken a Valyrian steel throwing dagger to the balls, another landing on a Wolf's Head ballista bolt, and the last taking a Valyrian steel sword to the ankle; they all had actually shattered in midair, as soon as they were hit.

The next seven, however, hit the platform intact, weapons in motion. The fourth was killed by that same Valyrian steel sword, while the fifth's strike was caught by Arya's dagger even as she covered her face and neck with her bracers. The sixth missed the rapidly moving Fjornal, his weapon shattering the wooden ballista and the iron Death's Head bolt alike, splinters and metal fragments striking all present. They failed to fully penetrate Arya's armor, though she took an iron shard through the ear, while Fjornal ignored the slivers of wood and iron sticking out of her cheek and the larger fragments that had punctured her hands; her belly and chest had been protected by her own armor. Outside, the sky lit up in orange in a narrow line over their heads as the massed scorpions and ballista loosed flaming bolts up into the snowstorm, trying to find the wight dragon.

The boy cried out as the fragments peppered him, one shard lancing through his right eye, and the followup strike from the weapon that shattered the bolt cut him in half even as Arya finished off the fifth with her sword and Fjornal ignored her wounds to stick her dragonglass dagger in the back of the sixth's neck, while Arya engaged the seventh and eighth at the same time, moving between them in a rapid flurry of cuts and jabs, not giving them time to muster up an attack; Jon had been quite clear that they were extremely strong, though he'd also said they were arrogant, and these two were anything but arrogant... on the other hand, they weren't trained to fight together. They were barely trained to fight, at that, but they had a lot of strength, a lot of reach, and they weren't exactly slow.

Fjornal backed away from the fight, clutching her dagger; the only thing she could do was give Arya space to fight. Looking up, she saw a great shadow moving northwards in the sky as a wave of orange light moved behind and above it in the fog and snow; she heard the twangs of some of the other spring engines as they loosed on the shadow; mostly scorpions, with only a few ballista; her own would have been one, she was fast enough, but nothing seemed to hit, and she had no ballista here, not anymore.

As Arya stepped quickly to the left while she attacked, the ninth and tenth White Walkers landed on the north edge of the platform, their weapons shattering the wood below them even before they landed, dropping down onto the level of the command tower where one cut through a boy with a crossbow who has stayed behind even as Mariya's own dragonglass crossbow bolt sailed past its head with a wicked whirring, while the other's blow was blocked by Oathkeeper; Brienne's arm shivered; they were stronger than the Hound was!

Brienne stepped back once, then again as they both turned their attention on her, ignoring Jamie and his one hand and Mariya, frantically attacking the windlass to the crossbow she'd plucked off its mount... or, perhaps, they turned their attention to the only Valyrian steel present, which she used to mount the best defense she could. A shield was what she needed, but any normal shield wouldn't protect her from the ice weapons, there weren't any Valyrian steel shields in all the world, and the weapons the White Walkers had gave them immense leverage wielded two-handed... though they hadn't slipped the weapon or used it one-handed, like she'd remove a hand from her longsword to gain a little reach for attacks that needed it.

Brienne blocked upwards and ducked down to deflect a massive sideways blow over her head, then spun and half-handed her sword to deflect the downwards thrust from the other walker past her as she turned her body and stepped away from the fresh hole in the hoarding, angling her sword so the other Walker's weapon glanced off, suddenly grateful for so many training matches with Arya; she didn't fight that way naturally, but she knew swordwork, knew footwork and knifework, and she knew very well how it felt to attack someone you could never actually hit, someone you could crush with just one blow if you could get it in.

She'd just deflected the other ice weapon once again when Jamie lunged forward with his dragonglass at the walker who was just starting its attack, baiting it into a wide, fast swing at him. She turned her full attention to the Walker before her whose weapon was out of position, slicing up and back just under the gray armor, her Valyrian steel's unnatural sharpness going through through whatever the White Walker wore as clothing, shattering it as soon as Oathkeeper hit flesh, freeing her to turn her full attention on the other Walker before it could skewer Jamie.

Above, Arya deflected the Walker on her right's weapon into the other's weapon, darting to the right and close, piercing the defenseless walker with her dagger before dropping to her knees under the remaining Walker's sweeping strike, thrusting swiftly into the last Walker's heart while ice shards were still falling, immediately moving to the other side of the platform to pick up, wipe off, and replace the throwing dagger she'd used in her bandoleer.

Outside, several more thumps sounded to Arya's ears, along with shouts of "WALKERS INSIDE!" from the guards below even as crossbows loosed dragonglass from the walls into the courtyard, and even from the command platform's mounted crossbows, one at a time.

Brienne continued a rapid assault on the White Walker with Oathkeeper, half-handing her sword to block a heavy blow entirely as she shoulder-rammed the White Walker, sending it back a step as it drew its weapon back to recover, and she struck downward with all her strength, forcing it to block her even as Jamie scrambled forward to plant his dragonglass in its ankle, prompting a great screech as it slowly turned to ice from the legs up, then shattered, its weapon falling to the hoarding.

"Fjornal, send the command crew back up, ask for a healing Maester to come check on you and them, especially your ear, and send a page for Archmaester Marwyn the Mage and Grand Maester Wolkan; we've got bits of White Walker and intact weapons to examine. No one touches them until I say so! Brienne, I'm coming down. Valar Morghulis," commanded Lady Winter as she slipped a flake of dragonglass into each half of Markath's body before she jumped down through the hole the White Walkers had put in the platform, likewise pushing a dragonglass flake into the dead boy with a murmur of Valar Morghulis before glancing at Jamie and Brienne "Mariya?"

"No change; caravan's still coming through. Storm's letting up," replied the tall blonde, just finishing winding the windlass while seeing her liege lady calmly wiping off her weapons and sheathing them, settling into utter stillness for a moment.

Fjornal translated what the Stark had wanted, reaching up to check her ears, suddenly wincing as she drew wet fingers away from the right side of her face; she hadn't even noticed that happening. She pulled the backs of her mittens up, wincing as splinters were yanked out of the backs of her hands, then shoved them in a pouch to repair later while she grabbed a rope and slid down to carry out her orders.

Arya listened carefully; the last twangs sounded below, then she heard calls for Maesters as the castle, town and camps were again stirred to a full search as she nodded, "Seven below, all close by, ten up here means this was the target. Night King doesn't need the storm anymore; it was to disguise his picking up White Walkers and circling around to come at us from the south. He might try that again, but losing seventeen walkers isn't something to take lightly, either. Brienne, you got both of these?"

"No, my Lady, Jamie distracted one so I could get in the final blow, and killed the other while I kept its attention. Thank you, my Lady, for training with me so often," replied Brienne while her heavy breathing started to slow again, bowing to Lady Arya, continuing with an odd tone, "I'll have to thank Lord Clegane as well. Fighting them reminded me of fighting him; they're even stronger than he is."

"Don't listen to her. I was barely able to very bravely try to stab one in the foot from behind. My finest hour, to be sure; but Brienne, she fought both of them at the same time the whole time."

"Good work, both of you. Thank you, Brienne - I agree about their strength; we'll have to pass that on to the Maesters... and remember, I'm not a Lady," said Arya, clapping her on the shoulder, ignoring the fragment of iron sticking out of the hard leather armor on the back of her glove. Sansa was going to give her hell about how much work it was to repair, she just knew it, "Enough playing around with the ice men, boys and girls. Back to work! Jamie, if the dead pursue the caravan into spring engine range, how should the engines be split, and why?"

As it turned out, how Jamie and Brienne answered was academic; the dead did not pursue. Ayra watched as the air quickly cleared and the caravan entered; they'd taken losses, and those losses were mounting higher the longer the wights had to concentrate their forces, but still very light. The giants, mammoths and White Walkers had withdrawn after the attack on the command tower had failed... but piecemeal at first, before the rest retreated in pointed unison. Again, that difference... she'd have to see what their guests thought.

"Wight dragon?" asked Arya. The wargs hadn't ever made contact with it, and Bran hadn't seen it; the Night King was blocking Bran, and blocking him well. Hopefully between that and the storm, he couldn't be doing much greenseeing or other magic of his own.

"Don't know. Last seen retreating northwards after attacking you," replied Mariya without so much as taking her eye off the big far-eye, simply wiping a finger over her left eye to keep the dripping blood from impeding her vision; one of the splinters from the platform above had bounced off a post and made it under her leather helmet which had two splinters of its own sticking out, while her furs bore a slight resemblance to a porcupine's back.

"Dragons out to Mollen thirteen, prepare to make a low flame cleanup attack out along the corpses to Mollen twenty and then circle left to return towards Mormont ring three; Mariya, watch for the Night King and keep Jamie and Brienne informed. Jamie, you make the call; if there's no sign of the Night King, or the Night King's too far out, they proceed, otherwise call them back," commanded Arya.

"And where will you be?" asked Jamie.

"I have guests to greet," replied Arya, hooking her arm around a rope and vanishing downwards, "You have the command tower, Jamie."

"Spring engines and archers rest in place, food and water to the army. Watch for friendly dragons. Dragons to Mollen 13 low, prepare to attack wight corpses on the wing. Red fire good, blue fire bad. Sweep the castle and all the camps again; check everywhere for hidden White Walkers," commanded Jamie steadily, before lowering his voice slightly and commenting to Brienne, "Did she really have to wait until the tower was half destroyed before handing it over to me?"

"I think it's fitting," replied Brienne.

"Fitting? I grew up with the best of everything, and now look at it! Splinters all over the floor, the roof leaks, not a single tapestry anywhere and not a drop of wine nor golden goblet to be seen," complained Jamie with a slight smirk.

"Fitting. You survived dragonfire once; now dragons breathe fire on your command against a greater enemy. You are the sword in the darkness, guarding the realms of men," answer Brienne seriously, "Though perhaps you're more of a dagger in the darkness, now, really."

"Hey!"

Brienne leaned over the edge and watched Lady Arya jog off, then met Jamie's eyes and smirked as the drums sounded, followed by the distinctive horns that passed on orders to the dragons. "She doesn't trust many people, you know, Jamie. It is a great honor to be given command, and a greater honor that those you have fought against respect your skill and your character enough to follow."

"They don't follow me. They follow her."

"Do they?" asked Brienne, "I didn't know her father, but I've been here long enough to know how the lords and ladies are, here. Would they follow you if they truly didn't trust you? What if Lord Eddard would have done the same things his daughter did, given the same command? Or would some of them have argued, even refused?"

Arya jogged to the outer wall, then up and along the wall until she reached the camp outside the walls where Sansa was receiving the newcomers; they'd decided that for this caravan they'd do the greetings in ring one, between the inner moat next to the walls and the ring one moat separating it from ring two. The Unsullied and Dothraki leaders were just being greeted, and... there were the ones she was waiting for. She scrambled down the rigging over the inner moat, then strode forward, cloak swirling around her as she changed her face.

No One moved ahead carefully on the gods cursed icy ground, listening to whispers of 'Jorah the Slaver' while well ahead of her, that man accepted bread and salt from Sansa. She stepped around a group of Dothraki arguing with Qhono; only one of the newcomers still had a purple feather, and he'd already drawn his arakh, challenging Qhono. No One smirked; the new warrior didn't have much of a chance for victory; Qhono wouldn't have the shortest hair of any blood rider for long... very likely he'd have the longest of them all once again, and will have proved his strength to them again.

"Thank you, your Grace, for your hospitality despite your father's sentence and my crimes. If I may ask after my cousin, and your sister? I heard she was in command of the siege engines, and Lady Winter was in overall command. Did they escape injury in the battle?" asked Jorah, unsure of where they would have been while the battle was happening.

"I would thank you to commit no more crimes in any of my kingdoms, Ser Jorah. If you do so, you will be tried and sentenced by the laws of that kingdom. My father's judgment stands, but we will hold your crimes, and your flight from your sentence, in abeyance from now until one month after the Night King and the army of the dead is defeated, or for as long as you continue to defend the living, whichever comes first. Lady Mormont does indeed hold that position, as well as that of Master of Laws, and she executes all her duties with great diligence and honor; I thank you for your concern over her and my sister. The attack was only on my sister's command tower; she has only a few scratches, while your cousin is untouched."

"Thank you, Queen Sansa. I swear I will commit no more crimes in any of your kingdoms, on my honor and my life."

"Then take bread and salt, and be welcome in our home," replied Sansa, holding out the heavy platter to him.

No One watched Dany's advisor follow a page towards the Targaryen camps, her eyes narrowing as the followers of the face of the Many-Faced God called R'hllor approached. The one in the lead was an old woman wearing a glamour of a beautiful Volantine priestess, wearing an Asshai necklace with a red gem in a tall hexagon pattern fairly screaming power to her senses, deaths bound to it; many deaths, many more than Jon or even Beric.

As No One in full vestments, hood up, passed a startled Queen Sansa, he laughed derisively as four large men who smelled of fire and destroyed wights started to put their hands on their swords and close ranks around the priestess at the fore, their heartbeats quickening, before the lead priestess made a small but noticeable gesture and they halted; No One snorted at the theatrics which only pretended to be subtle. The Red God was a face given to trickery above all, though it had real power. It was but one face of God, and its servants were often arrogant beyond belief... like the Red Woman.

The most skilled of the guards spoke with deferential respect, "No One, the First Servant of Volantis Kinv..."

"Not you," interrupted No One rudely as he waved dismissively at the woman he knew as Kinvara from the intelligence reports on the Lord of Light's priesthood, continuing past the party in the lead and towards the remainder of the fire god's delegation; there were others who carried deaths with them fewer than the Volantine one, but one... the plainest looking of them all, in plain red furs, with but a small red gem on a thin, plain necklace of iron... she carried more death with her than any Valyrian steel No One had yet been able to sense and yet that power was muted, leashed, half-hidden.

Her features were ones that almost no one present could place, features of a race that Arya had seen only once in her life, in the Hall of Faces in Braavos, near to the faces of the First Faceless Men - a race similar to the Yi Ti, but subtly different in the shape and cast. The woman's glamour, too was incredible for having been bound to such a small gem; such a gem couldn't carry nearly as much power, which meant either the remaining power came from her, or she was incredibly skilled. Or, No One suspected, both, as he continued, pointing at the woman who had used deaths to pay for life for centuries uncounted, "Her."

Sansa suppressed her irritation, keeping her responses calm; her sister had not only interrupted one of the most important greetings of the entire night, she had done so without any hint, without the slightest warning, and not just interrupted them, but did so in as insulting a manner as possible. Was she trying to start a war instead of getting potential allies to work together? It should have been so easy; they'd come here on their own to work with their kingdoms, the only thing her sister needed to do was not to insult them.

And yet here she was.

Insulting them.

Priests.

Sansa kept any trace of her indignation away from her features, calling up a regal calmness as she turned her full attention on the priestess Arya was dismissing, looking to see how much trouble her sister had caused. The High Priestess of Volantis seemed only mildly upset and insulted, though - well hidden though it was - and highly startled under her attempt to disguise it, as if Arya had said something she had thought well hidden; it was a look she knew well. There was something very strange about her... and then she saw the priestess's image waver as if behind a great fire's heat... an old, old woman under a glamour! And the one Arya was pointing to... Sansa looked hard, watched every detail, one after the other; plain cloth, no make-up, graying hair in a simple style, one plain necklace... wait.

Just a hint of a shimmering, now and again. A glamour, but one she could not pierce; cold winter air did not behave that way, nor would the pale moonlight cause anything of the sort, the torches were behind her own lines, nowhere near the woman. She'd spent far too long in darkness to be fooled; that shimmer was real, but it was not natural - a glamour she could perceive, but not pierce. If she'd learned anything from Littlefinger, it was that it was much, much harder to have power and not show it, than to be like Cersei, displaying her power for all to see... and plan around. After all, if nobody knew who you were or what you wanted, they wouldn't know what you planned to do next. Hiding behind a cocky, showy priestess who likes to act as if she's in charge? This one was not to be trifled with or underestimated.

The younger members of the Red God's delegation looked at each other, confused, while the plain woman replied, her voice rich with amusement and devoid of any insult, "No One."

"Viealu, First Servant of R'hllor in the Shadow Lands... and in all the world; called the Shadow Flame," replied Walder Frey's voice, looking over the glamour with a blatantly lecherous smirk, though his tone was one of grudging respect for a fellow High Septon of the Many-Faced God... even if she let fools like Melisandre run free in the world.

"No One, First Faceless Man of the Many-Faced God in Westeros, First Sword, and greatest dealer of just vengeance in all the world; called Lady Winter, Right Hand of Death," replied Viealu somberly, inclining her head deeply.

Ignoring the startled looks from the youngest of the priests of R'hllor's face, and the considering gazes of the more experienced of the party, including the guards, No One returned the deep nod to exactly the same degree, then grumbled, "Your girl Melisandre made a mess of things here. Are you or your other girls here to make a bigger mess?"

"Daenerys Stormborn is Azor..." started First Servant Kinvara of Volantis from behind Arya, before the apparently older, plainer woman simply glanced at her, stopping her statement cold without so much as a gesture; there was something that had passed between them, No One thought, but whether it was a subtle sign, the look itself, vast experience with each other, or some kind of change in their magical patterns used like a secret sign, No One could not tell.

"It is a common failing of the young that they believe they and only they can and have divined the one true meaning of the visions R'hllor has sent in his fire," said the Shadow Flame.

"Heh heh heh. Kids get full of themselves. Some grow out of it; maybe this bunch can. Melisandre hasn't... and giving people to the Many-Faced God because some young cunt thinks she can see the one true face of God, giving innocent children the Gift in painful ways, buying slaves... she has gone too far, and vengeance is called for."

The First Servant of the Red God in the world shrugged slightly, "Not all the young understand the wisdom of R'hllor before their time in this world comes to an end."

"And what do you think the one true wisdom is, hmm? You got someone you're going to harp on being Azor Ahai?"

"No," replied the ancient priestess calmly, "I have seen visions; I believe the Great Other waits outside in the dark beyond these walls, in the company of his terrors, returned to the world to continue his futile quest to extinguish the Light. I have summoned our most skilled priests and warriors, brought seeds and shoots, medicines and magic and obsidian alike, to aid Azor Ahai in the fight against the Great Other... but I do not pretend to know who it was I saw in the flames, or when, or where, or if the vision I saw is what will be or what might be, only that I believe we are needed here."

"Hah!" exclaimed No One, "Very well. Maybe the Lord of Light's face grants great powers, I'll admit it; if you're here to help us find victory over the Night King and his army, you're welcome in these lands and in our halls; the flame in the House of Black and White is available to you and all your party if you wish to pray, and if you would be willing to consecrate the fiery heart, I would take it as a favor. Practice necromancy or commit a capital crime - say, burning people alive - and who does it dies. In these lands, the One True God will take people when it is time, and not before. Valar Morghulis."

"Thank you, No One. I would be honored to perform the consecration myself as the sun rises tomorrow," her voice didn't get any louder, but command was clear in her tone, and her words carried easily in the cold air, "Those who break the laws of Westeros, in Westeros, face the justice of Westeros. Valar Dohaeris"

No One nodded deeply; they had an accord. The Red Woman's life was forfeit, the other servants of the face of the Lord of Light would not cause overt trouble, though they would certainly preach. Well, preach they could, but the Many-Faced God's temple and the pile of dead wights atop its land was still a very potent showing of Death's power in the world; they wouldn't be able to claim having magic made their god real, not here, not with so much other magic around.

With that, he turned and carefully made his way out of the way, on the opposite side of the new arrivals from Sansa as she made the official greeting, her little courtesies entirely intact, nearly no sign of her irritation showing. He was doing these things, at this time, to serve the interests of Death, not those of the living; though Arya Stark's face would no doubt hear some angry words very soon. That, however, was Arya's problem to deal with, and was of no concern of No One.

Emilee entered the courtyard and stood against the wall, murmuring the message for Lady Winter that had been given to her; her liege lady's hearing was beyond anything she'd ever imagined, so she didn't even try to approach, "The Unsullied are forming camps, as are the Dothraki. Qhono won one duel and told him how you defeated him, but the others are challenging him to prove his strength tomorrow after being beat by a girl and speaking foreign ideas, or they will not follow him; he has asked Missandei to tell the tale of the Seven Duels. Grey Worm is with them. No trouble. Queen Daenerys and Lord Jon are checking on her armies; bread and salt is there in plenty."

The constant sounds of the drums and calls of the horns continued in the background; No One knew of the larger issues as well; the dead who had attacked were burning, the Night King had again been spotted two miles away by the Three-Eyed Raven and the wargs both, and the siege had returned to its former state. The Dragon Queen and the White Wolf would doubtless be here soon, as well.

Sansa finished welcoming and giving bread and salt to the servants of R'hllor; she suspected she might actually have some sympathy for Cersei's troubles with the Faith of the Seven soon enough. Before her was another contingent in colorful silks in the fashion of Yi Ti, half in primarily yellow, half in primarily sky blue, over furs from an animal she wasn't familiar with, long-haired and sleek, with warm hats each topped with curled animal tails, similar to those of a cat... but within that one contingent were two entirely separate groups.

The leaders of each approached her, in exact step with each other, but three yards apart, coming to a stop at exactly the same distance, each with two guards behind them, also precisely in step; their attire was rich and clean, while their hats each had fully four animal tails atop them, while none of the rest of their delegation had more than three. Monkey tails, she remembered, hoping they hadn't brought any of the beasts, as they bowed briefly but deeply, also in unison.

"I most humbly convey greetings from the 17th Azure Emperor, the one true God-Emperor of Yi Ti and rightful ruler of the Glorious Empire! The Emperor in his boundless wisdom has commanded I, His insignificant servant, convey the most ancient scrolls and tomes in all the world here, along with his most insightful scholars and obsidian treasure, that the Blood Betrayal shall finally be put to rest and the Lion of Night appeased, that the sun might return to us!" proclaimed the left hand YiTish envoy.

"I most humbly convey greetings from the 69th Yellow Emperor, the one true God-Emperor of Yi Ti and rightful ruler of the Glorious Empire! The Emperor in his boundless wisdom has commanded I, His insignificant servant, convey myself and these others of his most puissant sorcerers here, along with enchanted artifacts and obsidian treasure, that the Blood Betrayal shall finally be put to rest and the Lion of Night appeased, that the sun might return to us!" proclaimed the right hand YiTish envoy without a pause.

In unison, the two raised their voices further and proclaimed, "I spit on the pretender in Trader Town, and most seriously must inform you that this man," they said, each pointing at the other, "is the worthless traitorous servant of an illegitimate pretender."

Sansa recalled Arya's briefing on Yi Ti; the 69th Yellow Emperor was an exiled sorceror lord, but he controlled only the legendary city of Carcos on the Hidden 'Sea' - more a large lake - far, far to the east, bordering the northeast corner of the Shadow Lands, though that city he controlled fully. The 17th Azure Emperor, on the other hand, weakly ruled large parts of old Yi Ti, competing with and 'ruling over' dozens of smaller holdfasts, castles, and cities, each with their own prince.

Three major leaders - the 1st Orange Emperor was the one in Trader Town who had not yet sent aid - and if these two perfumed courtiers thought their polished delivery and lofty titles would see a young Westerosi Queen show uncertainty, they would be waiting until they died. She had been trained in politics when there were not merely three rulers, only one or two of which might demand one bend the knee, but during the War of the Five Kings, when there were three rulers who simultaneously demanded all bend the knee or die, plus Robb who was King in the North, plus the raider 'King' Balon preying on the weak, not to mention the King Beyond the Wall... and if they thought the other rulers of Westeros would be intimidated by their show, well, she knew Cersei's response as well as she knew her own, she'd met Daenerys and Sarella, and Yara's brother was her brother.

Here and now, she'd had reports on them from the time they debarked their separate ships, and had both the envoy's rooms in the castle and their follower's camps housed far apart, in places where there was no natural intersection of routes of travel to the places she expected them to be going. She didn't need confrontations from rival factions happening in random streets or courtyards, or worse, on the bridges between divisions outside the walls. If she'd had to fill up one or two courtyards and their gatehouses too with supplies to ensure that, so be it.

"Welcome to Westeros," Sansa said, using her very best courtesies, along with a fractional incline of her head before fixing her gaze on a point exactly between and above the envoys, "Please convey my deepest gratitude and thanks for the aid you have brought from the true and rightful Emperor of Yi Ti. With the Emperor's generous aid, and no doubt your own worthy contributions, I am certain that together we will defeat the Night King and survive the Second Long Night."

Sansa nearly sighed as her sister again stalked forward like a nonagenarian killer, both cautious and precise, vestments on full display, hood up. The YiTish guards - for both envoys - instantly raised their hands to their waists, palms out, took three steps away, and proceeded to do nothing. Arya hadn't said a thing about that, though it was clearly as ritualized as the rest of their actions; her wolf bitch of a sister had known this would happen and hadn't said anything. Sansa needed a better spy network, and more time to study, if Winterfell was to host delegations from every power in Westeros and Essos.

Even the ones who had clearly decided that envoys, at least, weren't worth so much as a word in their defense when a Faceless Man appeared. She supposed there was some reason to that, after all; it's not like anyone had ever truly stopped the Faceless Men before, though they could be held off, for a time... but only for a time. Better to lose only the target and nothing else was clearly the idea in Yi Ti. She wondered how many Emperors they'd lost before they decided on that course of action, or if their guards had decided on their own that facing the world's best assassins wasn't ever worth it. She just hoped Arya could somehow manage to avoid creating a major political problem.

"Necromancy is forbidden by the laws of gods and men alike; make no attempt to practice necromancy. We are here to destroy the blasphemer called the Night King in Westeros and his army. Any attempt to control his army rather than destroy it is also necromancy," commanded No One flatly.

Both envoys bowed deeply; more deeply than they had for Sansa. No One spent another moment seeing them and their escorts, then gave the barest head tilt as acknowledgment and then returned to her place; he said much the same to the band of sorcerers and bloodmages from Asshai, and did so again in even stronger terms to the warlocks and necromancers, also from Asshai. The last were the reason Arya had decided to include Varys in keeping an eye on them; the castle was filling up with many magics from around the world, including actual necromancers, and not all of them meant to defend the living. Some would doubtless be here for their own gain, some in combination with putting down the blasphemer... and some to supplant him.

No One slipped out a gate as a band of merchants approached, Arya Stark appearing on the other side and jogging over to a newer granary, nodding to the guard and entering, climbing up the steep, narrow inside stairs, gesturing to Donovar and Mariya and the two large puppies they had with them to follow her as she reached the top, where the rest of her troupe and another two dogs were guarding a long, narrow chest, fresh from the caravan, the thick, fine YiTish rug that had been used to disguise it rolled up higher on the landing at the top; this building wasn't sturdy enough, nor tall enough, for a siege engine atop it.

"Any trouble?" asked Arya, inspecting the chest she'd left in White Harbor for the weapons to be transferred to, using a key on one of the most difficult to pick and most delicate locks she'd been able to lay her hands on. It needed a very light hand to avoid being damaged, even with a key... but, in a cunning design, if it was damaged much at all, it would no longer open, and the chest would have to be destroyed to get at the contents.

"No reports of trouble," said Korb.

"I didn't notice anything," replied Mariya, while the rest of the troupe shook their heads.

"They seemed very interested in the money when we paid them," reported Emilee, gaining a smile from Arya at her more confident report. The older woman was finally coming into her own, gaining true confidence in herself.

"Utihawee's pregnant," reported Deranna as Arya started opening the chest carefully, one of her lockpicks slipping into the crack before she turned it, feeling the correct resistance before opening the chest far enough to disarm the spring-launched, poisoned dart, present in case a truly skilled lockpick did open the chest... just as between the layers of wood were a variety of poisons, present in case someone tried smashing the chest carelessly.

"Make sure she sees the Maester of her choice, or whoever Wolkan, Sam, and Sarella agree on if she doesn't care. The clan adopted us; it's our duty to care for them in turn," replied Arya, propping the lid open and withdrawing a long, slender, slightly curved blade of an unusual style, drawing it from the sheath and inspecting it carefully.

"Valyrian steel!" exclaimed Donovar, "No wonder you wanted us to guard it so well!"

"That's not a type of sword I recognize," said Connas, looking at it carefully.

"It wouldn't be; it's Valyrian," replied Arya, putting it through a set of forms fit for the confined space at her full speed; she stopped suddenly, closing her eyes and truly feeling the sword, its balance, the deaths bound to it and the strange kind of life it had before re-sheathing it and handing it to Korb. With that, she set an axe aside and pulled out one other sword in the case, a longsword with ancient runes etched into the blade; the hilt had fresh cord wrapped around it, simple and practical.

"I know it's Valyrian; only the Valyrians made Valyrian steel!" groused Connas, gaining himself a poke and several laughs.

Arya looked at each of them and smiled warmly, handing this sword to Connas and tossing each of them a heavy coin purse, saying quietly, "You've all been doing excellent work, and there's goods from all over the world, now. Here; spend it however you like. You deserve it."

Deranna and Donovar's eyes widened the most, but none of the troupe had expected five golden dragons plus mixed other coinage adding up to a sixth; they could each outfit themselves in Korb or Connas's full kit plus two horses and have coin left over with that.

"The other ninety-four gold dragons is on your personal accounts with the Iron Bank; here's the details on how to spend that, either here or anywhere in Westeros or Essos. Feel free to have a Maester send a raven if you want something delivered," continued Arya with a grin as she watched their expressions change.

"All right, enough of that, I'm short on time. Korb, Connas, with me. Keep those swords under your cloaks. The rest of you and the dogs, get the axe to Gendry and the rug to Sansa," commanded Arya, jogging quickly down the stairs and back to the greeting area where Sansa was finishing up with another group of merchants. She was just in time, for her brother and Dany weren't actually present yet, while Bronze Yohn and Lyanna were already speaking with Jorah in a corner; Arya went to join them, amused at her cavalry commander having accompanied her siege engine commander to meet her cousin.

"How's your leg?" asked Arya as she lowered her hood as she approached.

"It's fine, except that the Maesters have cost me the chance to join the battle, Lady Winter," replied Lord Royce, looking over her roughly cleaned face and ear, "You were hit?"

"And I agree with them, as you know; recover first, fight second. We need your mind as well as your sword and lance. Don't worry about me; a White Walker decided I needed my ear pierced. I put some rum on it, and I'll see a Maester before Sansa gets to me about it," said Arya, then tilted her head slightly, "Or perhaps we don't need your sword after all. You Royces are like us Starks; can't keep hold of your swords properly."

"Lady Winter?" asked Bronze Yohn, not cautiously, but clarifying a point, "You wish for my sword?"

"I do," said Arya, ignoring Lyanna's extremely sharp gaze and curious expression, as well as her cousin Jorah's puzzlement.

Lord Royce drew his sword with panache, offering it to Lady Arya hilt first. He did not know what she intended, but he did not need to. Nothing she would do with his sword would dishonor either it, or his House, and he had no desire to play children's games of guessing what someone might do. He would follow her orders and wait to see what she required.

"Connas," said Arya, taking Bronze Yohn's longsword in her right hand, her left taking the longsword and handing it to her cavalry commander.

Lord Royce took the sword formally, his eyes widening at its weight... or lack thereof. Arya had presented him with a Valyrian steel longsword; even as a loan for the duration of the war, that was a kingly gesture! At Arya's encouraging nod, he drew the blade... and froze at the sight of the same runes of the First Men as were on his ancestral bronze armor decorating the blade.

"Do try not to lose the family sword again; you make Lamentation sad every time you lose it," japed Arya with a wink at Lyanna, whose lips were pinched together tightly to keep her own expression serious, rather than, Arya suspected, giving in to a fit of giggles she felt was unbecoming, while Ser Jorah simply waited with the ease of long experience waiting, or guarding. Yohn himself wordlessly shook his head at her for the terrible jape.

"Thank you for the warning, Lady Winter. We will be sure to pass it on as the sword is passed on, for all time to come," he replied dryly, with a glance at Lyanna, who nodded seriously and quirked a smile as he winked at her. He hoped she would be able to convey the humor of the situation, and that his grandchildren would understand the humanity and the honor of Arya Stark, as strange as they were. He continued much more seriously.

"House Royce is honored beyond belief at the return of Lamentation, Lady Winter; I have no words to express how much this means to my house, to my grandchildren, to their grandchildren and their grandchildren's grandchildren, and to me personally. This is a priceless, irreplaceable heirloom of our House. What can I possibly do to repay you?"

"I merely arranged for it to be dug up, given a workable hilt, and brought here, then carried it from Connas's hands to yours, Lord Royce; you need repay me nothing. Bran is the one who found it, and he cares little for anything within the realms of men. If you wish to do something, then have Gendry reforge it if need be, and certainly put whatever fittings on suit you best for the fight against the dead, and make sure it will always be passed down to those with both honor and practical wisdom, no matter what shape it wears," said Arya with a slight smile and a hearty clap on his armored shoulder, her leather armor smacking against the leather-covered plate armor.

Lyanna watched Arya Stark and her guards turn and head across the courtyard as Queen Sansa was greeting what appeared to be another non-military delegation from... somewhere in Essos. Northeastern maybe? Eastern? Definitely not Braavos, Myr, or Slaver's... Dragon's Bay, at least; she'd spent a little time going over Essosi politics, but not much; as Maester Russal had said, she could use her age, being a Westerosi, or even her military position as a reason for her ignorance. She definitely wouldn't be using her age. She wasn't however, part of the formal reception, since they'd thought the Night King might press an attack. She snorted; the Night King had, at that, and look what it bought him.

"She gives very generous gifts. That's the commander of your armies?" asked Ser Jorah. During the days he'd spent in White Harbor, he'd heard many unbelievable tales, participated in the training programs that it was said she created. She was a sword prodigy; Qhono had confirmed she'd bested him in a duel, but he'd wondered if she was being used as a public face by others. Now that he'd seen her, he knew that girl wasn't to be trifled with, and Lord Royce, whose reputation he knew well, treated her with honest deference and respect. She didn't have the fire Daenerys had... but like his Khaleesi, she has steel in her spine, if chilled steel, like any Northerner.

"She is the overall commander of all military forces," replied his cousin Lyanna, "Not just our own armies, but our navy, and all allied army and navy forces, including the dragons your Queen and Lord Jon ride."

"Jon Snow is riding Rhaegal?" asked Ser Jorah, stunned. He'd never expected any but his Khaleesi would ride a dragon in his lifetime.

"He is. He's her nephew, after all," said Lyanna, looking up immediately at a complex whistle imitating her personal horn call identification; that meant that it was time to meet the small military delegations, and she and the other unit commanders were expected, "Be well, cousin. Come and visit as you can, but make sure you're out of our lands before the abeyance expires. I'd hate to have to see your execution."

Jorah Mormont watched the young Lady of his house go towards the Northern Queen, and commented, "She's serious."

"Of course she is. Mormonts are famous for their honor," said Bronze Yohn as he, too, turned to limp off to join his Queen, Lamentation held in his left hand, delivering his parting words over his shoulder in a deliberately insulting display towards the cowardly slaver who had dishonored Lady Mormont's great house, "All but you."

Jorah straightened and turned when he heard her voice; his Khaleesi was here, safe and sound! She was healthy and hale, Jon Snow moving away from her to stand with his sisters, Qhono and Grey Worm and Missandei behind her. She had new clothes; a rich black and red cloak, wearing leather armor over her furs and carrying a dragonglass encrusted staff like so many he'd seen, like a true warrior Queen. She came over towards him, moving more gracefully on the icy ground than she had when he'd last seen her, weeks ago in White Harbor; he exchanged nods with Grey Worm and Qhono, then wrapped his arms around her, careful of the staff, as she gave him a brief hug before speaking.

"Jorah! It is good to see you again. Are you well? Are my men and horses healthy? The herds and supplies intact?" asked his Queen, leading him through the castle with a sure step.

"You look very well, Khaleesi; you're becoming a warrior, I see. Don't concern yourself. We lost a dozen Unsullied and two score Dothraki on the journey or the way in, and a few score are down with injuries, the cold sickness, dysentery, frostbite, or other sicknesses. We lost two dozen animals; the men appreciated the fresh meat. Tyrion picked up your household guard, said he was going to bring them to the First Keep," he said, falling quiet at that. He did not want to continue further, not with so many ears around, especially since here they wouldn't belong to Varys.

Daenerys was likewise silent for a ways of their journey, through closed gatehouse after closed gatehouse, leading him up and down and around and over mountains of supplies, even more than he'd seen in White Harbor for being concentrated in a much smaller amount of land, until she finally smiled up at him and spoke, "You'll have to train with me, Jorah. I know you'll teach me well, and I need practice against a Westerosi swordsman... and against someone taller."

"Someone taller?" asked Jorah, looking at the knotted grid of ropes going up the side of the First Keep, a small figure scrambling up the top two stories and onto the platform above the roof even as they passed through the front gate of the First Keep, guarded by one Northern guard and one Unsullied soldier. Inside, they passed dozens of Unsullied and Dothraki unpacking crates and barrels and bundles of supplies, claiming bunks, unwrapping their bedding and guarding passages, doors, and stairs until they reached a large, well guarded chamber with a few Unsullied unpacking some of Daenerys's favorite decorations and cushions.

"Leave us. I need to talk with Jorah," commanded his Queen, who then waited until they had gone and closed the door before beginning to speak quietly - much more quietly than he could recall her ever having done before. Her fierceness was still present, but more controlled, more tempered. She was truly growing into a woman and a Queen, and he was glad he had the chance to see her grow.

************************

 

[Epic Reader]

Daenerys smiled at Jorah's question as the men exited the room, closing the door behind them.

"Someone taller, yes. Jon's sister Arya took it upon herself to be my weaponsmaster, and she's... rather short. I had the chance to train with Sansa, and I had a hard time getting close enough to be able to hit her. Sit, please. You must be tired - I know I am after a battle, and Drogon and I have barely fought at all, while you've spent all day riding as well," said Daenerys to Jorah quietly, once she couldn't hear the footsteps of the men unpacking the freshly arrived decorations in her chambers. She smiled a little, gesturing to the simple chairs she'd been provided by Jon's sisters, carefully setting her staff down on the cushioning rags and sitting herself; he wouldn't sit until she did.

"Did they hit you, hurt you, Khaleesi?" he asked, instantly concerned as he looked her over in the dim candlelight. Training in wartime wasn't an easy or pleasant thing, and he had certainly seen enough to see that these people weren't playing at training... and why they weren't.

"Of course they did," said Daenerys in a huff, sitting up straight and staring at him, "If they didn't hit me, I wouldn't learn very well, would I? Every hurt is a lesson, and every lesson makes you better, says Arya. Repeatedly, even! Relax, my friend, the staves are padded, and I wear either training armor or my riding armor, the same as everyone else being trained. I get bruised, the same as everyone else, even her sister. Wights were raised inside the walls, Jorah, before we got here! Inside the castle, inside the godswood, inside the town. There is nowhere safe, not on the ground or in the air, and I will not be a helpless maiden!"

"Forgive me, but I worry, Khaleesi," said Ser Jorah, sitting down and continuing on to his second concern for his Khaleesi learning to fight, "I have heard of her prowess with the sword, but even the greatest sword skills don't allow a man to properly wield a staff. You may be overestimating your skill even if they are training you properly and truthfully, and that gets many a warrior killed."

"Sansa invited me to a tavern to meet more of her bannermen and to watch Arya duel once, you know. I accepted, because it was a chance to speak with Jon's family and the Lords and Ladies of my allies in a casual setting, and because as little as I like watching fights, I did want to see if she really has a chance to kill Cersei for me. I saw her fight with just her sword alone against Qhono and best him. Then I saw her fight with a short spear against Lady Chella, Sansa's own weapons master, and I recognized no small few of the moves she did from my own training. Grey Worm said they were both excellent, better than all but the best Unsullied with the short spear, but I will ask if you can watch. He and Qhono think with surprise she'd be able to cut through two or four even very good guards," said Daenerys, giggling briefly as she remembered her 'paramour', inches tall and chubbier than her weaponsmaster, trying - without skill or success - to beg a kiss, "And I assure you, she will certainly have surprise."

"Most of the Unsullied aren't exceptional warriors one on one, Khaleesi, as we found with the Sons of the Harpy. It is their discipline in the shieldwall that is exceptional; but if Grey Worm says she is excellent with a spear, I will believe him. I would be honored to help train you to be a warrior."

"Viserys was no warrior, nor was my father," mused Daenerys contemplatively, "My brother Rhaegar was said to be, though he lost at the battle of the Trident to the us... to Robert Baratheon. My ancestor Aegon led the conquest of the first Six Kingdoms on Balerion, but it was my ancestor Visenya who was the great sword fighter of the family. I have already exceeded my brother Viserys, not that being better than him is difficult.

She looked at her most loyal advisor seriously, thinking back on the history she'd been learning from books as she studied her strange homeland, "Do you know how and why the Kingsguard was founded, Ser Jorah?"

"No, Khaleesi. I know it was founded by King Aegon, but that's all," replied Jorah, settling back and listening to Daenerys continue the tale.

"Once, Visenya drew her sword Dark Sister and gave Aegon a cut on his cheek, and she did it so quickly that none of his guards had even reacted before he bled. She called them slow and lazy, and formed the Kingsguard to better protect him," said Dany, watching her oldest true protector. It was true; even as he had reported on her to Varys, he had always protected her, even from her brother.

She stood, standing before him as he also rose, and spoke with all the sincerity she had in her, "Ser Jorah Mormont of Bear Island, I ask you to be the Lord Commander of my Queensguard, to aid me in selecting the other members, to sit on my Small Council, and to be the overall commander of all my forces."

"Of course, Khaleesi," replied the old bear. He had nearly given up on her forming a Small Council, he was exiled forever from Bear Island and the North, for she did not seem to wish to war with the North, but to hear this from his Khaleesi? Being a Kingsguard was a position held for life; he would defend his beautiful Queen until his last day. He was home, and would always be home, he realized, because his place in the world was wherever she was, and would be until the end of his days.

"I'm glad you're back; you truly are my most trusted advisor; you have given me wise advice, and I have more need of your wisdom than ever before. You once told me it's tempting to see your enemies as evil, all of them, but there's good and evil on both sides in every war ever fought. I didn't understand what you meant, then. Maybe I still don't understand everything, but I understand more, now. Have you heard what happened when I arrived here, in Winterfell?" asked Daenerys quietly, gesturing for him to sit again as she did the same, recalling her shock and outrage as everything she had expected to happen when coming to the North was taken from her.

Jorah sat, and looked down for a moment, then shook his head and met her eyes again, speaking sadly and quietly, matching her tone, glad to be in her presence again, "No. But soon after you left on the dogsleds, I did hear that you were not Queen here, nor in the Vale, and I had no way to warn you in time. I'm sorry, Khaleesi, for failing you yet again. I should have noticed that the Lady Manderly never once said White Harbor was yours."

"You haven't failed me, Jorah. Suffice to say I was... unaware of the situation when I arrived, even after Jon's sisters had come out to meet us while he and I were scouting ahead on Drogon and Rhaegal. They... played me, very well, and their brother, too. I had no idea what was happening until I'd entered the gates."

"Khaleesi, forgive me, but you seem to be taking that rather well," he said, carefully. She'd been upset enough at the lectures on Littlefinger on the way up; he couldn't imagine how she felt when she realized that she had not, in fact, gained the North when Jon Snow bent the knee.

Jorah looked, really looked, at his Queen. Her eyes had a fierce look, but her tone was rueful, her voice still quiet, and her body was relaxed, enhancing her beauty. She was comfortable, he thought, despite what had happened. She'd changed, in his absence, and was an even better ruler than she had been before.

"I'm not angry, you mean. I was, then, very angry, shocked and surprised, caught in a trap without my armies. I could not escape, not even with Drogon and Rhaegal. That's how Starks fight; they set an inescapable trap, and by the time you notice it, you're caught like a sheep in a dragon's jaws, hundreds of feet in the air, unable to harm the dragon, unable to escape the jaws, and if you could, you'd fall to your death. I kept my temper, even managed to get them to give Varys guest right when they accused him...," said Daenerys, trailing off as she considered what she'd done in light of the lessons she'd been learning, thinking through the situation in the lens of what she'd been learning about politics from the Stark sisters, from Tyrion, from Varys.

She'd asked for Varys to be given guest right, in public, with all that implied about who ruled here, about her being granted a favor. Trapped again, and she hadn't even noticed at the time, or in the days and weeks afterwards! Not until now, not until she'd talked about it with Jorah. To think she'd thought she could rule the Seven Kingdoms as Queen, be able to deal with people like Olenna or Littlefinger. 'Be a dragon' indeed; the Tyrell had wanted revenge, yes, but had cared nothing for anything else, or anyone else, or for the suffering that might be inflicted on the people.

Sansa and Arya Stark, too, had their own wants and desires, too, that she needed to account for. She couldn't ignore them, not if they were to be her neighbor to the North - and a neighbor with powerful allies and a strong Northern border of their own, after the Night King was destroyed. Their primary desire was independence, which would and did prevent the North and the Vale and some of the Riverlands from bending the knee to her. On the other hand, the Starks had never expanded South, and these Starks in particular had no desire to, none that she or Varys or Tyrion could detect. On her Southern border Sarella was the same, whatever last name she used.

Both would benefit greatly from trade and peace, though, as would her own kingdoms in the middle. Not just the highborn, but the smallfolk as well, and not just in the Long Night, but after. Dragon's Bay, too, could benefit - the Masters may not have slaves any more, but she'd seen quite a lot of trade deals happening, and her command of the Dothraki would allow her cities, and other cities, to greatly expand their activities - farming, mining, hunting, building, and trading... which required trade partners, like those in Westeros. The so-called Free Cities that still practiced slavery were poor trade partners at best... at least they were when she'd left. That might change, during the Long Night.

"Khaleesi?" asked Jorah, watching as she sat for a moment, deep in thought, but not angry, or frustrated.

"They played me then, too, and I was too foolish to see it. Too angry to notice, but what's done is done, and there are other opportunities now. That, Ser Jorah, is part of the evil on my side of the wars I've fought, the evil inside me, my anger. It's a good thing here I'm a Queen; were I a Khaleesi, I'd have had to cut my hair after Sansa defeated me in a battle I didn't even know was happening. They could have killed me as easily as Drogo killed Viserys, but instead, they not only do not contest my claim to the Iron Throne, they train me to master politics and to master myself, which I found I needed. You are of Bear Island; what do you know of bear warriors?"

"Bear warriors? Berserkers, you mean?" he asked, and at her nod he continued, puzzled as to why she would ask, "They are legendary warriors who lose themselves in battle lust and rage. Their rage gives them such strength as to make them nearly unstoppable on the field, though they can be dangerous even to their own people. Why do you ask? Have you found such a man?"

"Not a man, no. I'm a berserker, Jorah," she said, her voice low but intense. Her anger was warm and comfortable, and she wasn't scared of it in the slightest... but not being scared of it itself scared her. She needed to be the Queen her people deserved, and she needed to never, ever become her father. Her friend could help her, she knew.

"I have that rage inside me, not just in battle, but also on the training yard, in the courtyard, and in the throne room. Ser Barristan warned me; he told me the Mad King gave his enemies the justice he thought they deserved, and each time it made him feel powerful and right, until the very end. I don't want to feel powerful and right, I want to help people, and be just, and sometimes even merciful. To do that, I need advisors who will tell me when I am making a mistake, when I am letting my rage control me, instead of my controlling my rage. Tell me, Jorah, are you afraid of me?"

"Never," replied Jorah with utter certainty and absolute truth.

"Good. Then when I become angry, if I don't control myself and my anger quickly enough, I need you to tell me so. When I am about to do evil, even in the name of a greater good. When I forget mercy in the name of overly harsh justice. I need you to train with me, and train hard, to push me, to show me where I am weak, to find others to train with who can tempt my rage and battle lust safely. Every time I lose control in training, I need you to knock me down and force me to regain control. I need you to make sure Tyrion and Varys are showing me everything I need to not just rule, but to be a good and wise ruler, to tell me what I lack. To counsel me on what the smallfolk say and need, in Westeros and in Dragon's Bay. To tell me the truth, as you have before."

She took a breath, then asked, "In Dragon's Bay, the people loved me, and the Masters feared me. What do I have, what can I do so the people of the North love me enough to bend the knee, Jorah? To be loyal to me, or even fear me enough, or respect me enough, or need me enough?"

He looked at her; she was truly different than she had been. Just as fierce, and not exactly calmer, perhaps, but steadier, more confident. Like the difference between a blooded veteran and a fresh-faced new warrior, someone whose confidence comes from real experience, not just the training yards. She was truly becoming who she was born to be, and he was proud to serve her. She'd asked the truth from him, and he would give it to her, as he had before, even if it wasn't what he wanted to say, or she wanted to hear.

"In Dragon's Bay, the Unsullied and the freedmen owed their freedom to the Breaker of Chains, the Dothraki were in awe of the Unburnt, and all feared the Mother of Dragons, but here? Magic isn't extraordinary and legendary, it's almost mundane, and many have fought magic beings in the flesh, while the Starks have the Three-Eyed Raven, and their allies have wargs. You have dragons, true enough, but one of yours fights for the Night King. Too, they know how to fight dragons, they practice fighting dragons; they will not bend the knee for something they know how to kill. Too, Lady Winter is a Faceless Men, they say, and Faceless Men have never feared dragons."

Dany nodded and placed her hand on his, feeling no anger while he spoke, only a little sadness at the death of Viserion. He'd been her child, and she'd lost him, seen him raised, and it was horrible, just it was horrible for everyone whose family had been raised against them.

He assessed her expression; she was listening steadily, unsurprised and without questions, so he continued, "The Boltons ruled through fear, and were cast down and destroyed. You have powerful armies, but few of them are suited to the cold... and those equipped for it are almost all here, vulnerable. You have Dragon's Bay, but the Starks have strong, close allies in Essos as well, without the enemies you've made. Lady Winter and the Red Wolf have prepared them for winter, for the Long Night and the Night King. You could, perhaps, kill the Starks, but the last family thought to do that was hated, not feared, and then wiped out. The smallfolk are cared for as well as they can be without leaving their lands, and they know as much. I'm sorry, Khaleesi, the Starks have claimed the loyalty of the North before you had a chance, Daenerys. Even if they had accepted Jon Snow bending the knee, they would always have been loyal to the Starks. Look to the Iron Throne, and the south; there they suffer under Cersei, and their own leaders have not taken care of them, have not protected their people while they played their games for power. There you can gain respect and loyalty, by bringing the common people together, protecting them, feeding the people during the winter and keeping them warm."

Her knight had spoken truth to her, gently, but truth, without equivocation or trying to placate her or hiding things. He did not have the political skills to be her Hand, but she very much needed him on her Small Council, and she had the perfect place for him.

"Thank you, my friend," she said as she smiled slightly, her tone lightening as she japed, "So, no secret toasts to the rightful dynasty, all across the lands?"

Jorah smiled back, shaking his head and replying in kind, "No secret toasts."

"There are toasts, though, you know," she said as her smile grew mischevious, "To me. Not secret, nor reverent, but toasts nonetheless. How did the one go... let's see. 'To the Dragon girl, who roasted a giant and saved my brother' I think it was. And another, I think, 'To the White Wolf and the Dragon Queen, who scared off the Night King's dragon' - though most of the tavern then had a toast to the Scorpion Bear, your cousin, for scaring off the Night King's dragon. I joined that one!"

"You... joined a toast to my cousin in a tavern?" asked her companion, looking puzzled as Daenerys actually giggled, "But not the toasts to yourself?"

"Of course I did," grinned Dany impishly, "It wouldn't have been playing the part not to, after all, since I was there in disguise!"

Alarmed, he sat up straight. If she was in disguise, it meant she could not have had Grey Worm or Qhono with her to protect her!

"Khaleesi, it's not safe to go out without guards! You could be hurt, or killed, or captured! Why did Grey Worm let you go?"

She rolled her eyes at him, "Relax, Jorah; I told Grey Worm I'd be with Sansa, and I was... while we were being guarded by Arya herself and one of her people, so I was safe enough. I do ask that you not tell anyone, not Tyrion, not Varys, not Qhono, not Jon, not anyone else at all. You are the Lord Commander of my Queensguard, you have always cautioned me that the people who inhabit my lands care little about the powerful, and I am telling only you that I need to hear what they say when I am not there, when they think no nobles are present. I will hear what the common people say, and I will know their hearts, so that I can not just rule, but rule well, and know what the high lords seek to hide from me."

He shook his head and relaxed, though he did frown at her, "I see there are many things I am unaware of, Khaleesi. Many things have changed since we parted, you most of all. You have grown wiser... and less careful of your life."

"There were many things I was unaware of until I arrived as well," replied Daenerys with a tinge of anger; she should have been told, should have known. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, calming as she looked at Jorah and continued, "I've been reading as much as I can when I'm not training, but the books... they don't account for the peasants, the smallfolk. The authors are all highborn, like the Masters, and they do not care for the people, not like I do. Sansa was - she says - getting her first lesson in what her people say in private, too, and I heard exactly the same things that she did... and that Arya, her Master of Whisperers, doubtless already knew."

"She says?" asked Jorah, noting the qualification. His Khaleesi rarely minced either word or deed, though her flash of anger had been brief indeed. Rather, there was respect there; perhaps begrudging respect, but respect all the same.

"It has come to my attention that much of what appears to be is not actually as it appears, and that failing to recognize that can be quickly fatal, or worse. I came here certain of how things were, underestimating Jon's sisters, and was entirely wrong on all counts. I will not make, cannot afford to make, the mistake of underestimating others with their own agendas again... and I must not make the mistake of assuming that just because their agendas are not mine doesn't mean they can't be good and necessary allies. Allies are not subjects, or slaves, and will have secrets, just as I will. I need to understand their desires and wants, and be watchful of betrayal, but not let that control my thoughts."

"Very wise, Khaleesi. What did you hear, that you would not have known otherwise?" asked Jorah, curious. Arya Stark may not be the kind of guard Daenerys needed, but she would, at least, be no more dangerous in disguise with her than anywhere else in these kingdoms. And if his Khaleesi learned more of what the common people thought and felt, that could only be to the good.

"Many things. I'm apparently the second least frightening of the rulers of Westeros; I rate as scarier than Princess Sarella, ruler of Dorne - they're independent, you know - but a very distant third to the Red Wolf, who is in turn a distant second to Cersei. I learned that to prevent the winter sickness, apples are tastier but bulkier than lemons, and the mosses are often quite bitter but very good with some salt pork," she said, enjoying the simple comfort of how Jorah nodded absently at the comment about apples; he'd grown up in the North, after all, and had lived through more than one winter. Thinking about it, she felt more at peace here, she realized, surrounded again by Dothraki and Unsullied, with Jorah by her side, and Missandei and Grey Worm nearby. She continued more quietly, basking in the feeling of her family and her people around her.

"They all recognize winter is here, and they're glad to be well fed. There's some envy of the rich still having exceptional food, particularly at the brothel's dining hall, but not real resentment, just the kind of griping any warrior of a khalasar has about the Khal's table. Even at a tavern for the lower of the smallfolk, there are some spices, even foreign ones, and the people know that everyone is subject to the same rations, even the high lords, even the Queen. There's no doubt of that. There are bets on how many years it'll take Lord Manderly to stop losing weight, and how many months until I've gained some!"

"Most Northern men prefer their women to be... not quite as slender as you are. Surviving winter is always on their minds, and in winter, food is short," said Jorah, flushing a little, though his voice turned somber, "I've lived through many winters, and this is already one of the worst I can remember, no mind that we've barely started it. I worry, Khaleesi."

"As do I, which is why I'll need your help. Are you familiar with glass gardens?"

"A little. Bear Island has none, but Winterfell's are famous."

"And you're familiar with Valyria?"

"More than I'd like to be," replied Jorah with a wry smile, "It's not a pleasant place to visit."

"The Riverlands are too cold to grow food any more. Hot springs are rare, and without them or something like them, glass gardens aren't going to help without enough sunlight. I've commanded that Dragon's Bay begin paying every person who wishes to work in the fields a fair wage, to create new fields if there aren't enough for the workers. I've ordered Lord Tyrion to begin working on plans for glass gardens in Old Valyria, to safely use the heat of the Fourteen Fires to grow food, rather than forge weapons and magic. I wish for you to assist him in this task; you know more of old Valyria than anyone else I know, and you are of the North - you understand winter."

"Of course, Khaleesi. Being able to provide food during the Long Night will go a long way to earning the gratitude and the respect of the North, and all your own kingdoms as well," he said. His Queen was thinking in larger terms than just Westeros, and this winter, this darkness was unlike any other outside of legend. She wasn't just thinking of the North or Dragon's Bay, not at all, he thought as he continued, "Or of anywhere else that needs food in the years of winter to come. The people will know they would have starved, otherwise. Some of them, at least, and they won't forget that."

"I wanted to break the wheel, but that's already done, in a way; the Seven Kingdoms are broken already. Princess Sarella rules Dorne, and has declared independence - Dorne will bend the knee to no Queen or King. The Vale and the North bent the knee to Sansa; the Twins will join them, without doubt; Lady Frey is Sansa's declared sister. Seagard has officially bent the knee to Sansa as well; Tyrion and Sansa's Hand, Lord Howland Reed, are discussing borders, though I will not allow any final agreement until their design has been brought to my Small Council for discussion."

She continued quietly, "You once told me that I would not only be respected and feared, but I would also be loved. I am here, defending the living, and I have gained respect. Providing food is not only the right thing to do, but will help gain the love of those whose rulers prepared less well, in those kingdoms I will rule from the Iron Throne. You spent time in the South, became a knight; I need to know more than the books tell me about the people of the south, and of the lords and ladies there. I can memorize houses and sigils and words, but those aren't enough. I've watched Meera and Sansa in conclave, and they know every one of their bannermen, not just from records and reports, but personally. I will need to do the same in King's Landing, and your experience will help me."

"Varys and Tyrion know far more than I, Khaleesi."

"I still value your advice, Jorah, and you see things differently than they do," she said, then looked at him somberly, "I don't want to be feared so much that people believe trying to rebel against me or assassinate me is their best choice. My father burned men alive for questioning him, strangled sons in front of their father for demanding reparations for the apparent kidnapping of a young woman. Tell me, were I to order the Unsullied, or the Dothraki, to burn some of my bannermen alive without any reason, would they?"

"Without question," he said, starting to see the path she was headed down.

"And if Sansa ordered your cousin, or Lord Royce, or her other bannermen to do the same, without any reason, would they?"

Jorah sighed, "Lyanna and Lord Royce are leaders of great honor, like my father was, and would rather join the Night's Watch than obey a dishonorable command. Unless the reasons were obvious, most of her other bannermen would at least question the order, those that didn't refuse outright."

"I'm sure they would refuse quite vocally; the conclave here is... very loud, and the lords and ladies not shy of stating their opinions, even to their rulers," she said with some amusement. She was quite happy not to have had that type of court in Dragon's Bay, and Tyrion and Varys had assured her that the Red Keep was more... civilized. She continued contemplatively, "When I go south, how do I convince the people and their leaders to follow me willingly? How do I get them to believe, truly believe, that I am not my father? Just by arriving, I'll have their fear, but how do I gain their respect, if not their love? Can I get some to love me, as well, and if so, how will others respond?"

"That is going to be a long discussion, Daenerys," he said.

Daenerys raised her voice, "Guards, send in the maid, please."

A sharp-eyed, strong Northern girl entered as her guards opened the door, and Daenerys greeted her, "Leriah, please have my and Ser Jorah's supper sent in, please."

"Of course, Queen Daenerys," replied with maid with a curtsy, "Would either of you like a meat ration from your herds?"

"It's not my day for meat rations, I'm afraid. Ser Jorah, would you like some after your long ride?" asked Dany. He responded exactly as she expected.

"When I can, I'll have mine when my Khaleesi has hers."

Jorah watched the maid give a curtsy before she left, unsurprised that Daenerys had chosen to be on the same rations as everyone else, just as she had eaten no more than her share when their tiny khalasar was starving to death in the Red Wastes, before they reached Qarth. She had always been an exceptional ruler and leader, always willing to sacrifice of herself for her people, not feasting while others starve. Even when the Sons of the Harpy made that difficult, she kept working to feed the freed slaves.

"I have plenty of time to hear your counsel, Jorah," said Daenerys fondly, "Jon won't be back for some hours. Unless something happened since the raven you sent just before you left?"

"Nothing, Khaleesi. The merchants from Dragon's Bay, the lords from the Stormlands, the Riverlands, the Reach, and the Crownlands who traveled to White Harbor to see you will call upon you tomorrow morning, here in the First Keep. They are aware that you were fighting the Night King with your dragons when they arrived."

"Good. Then the most important thing I can do right now is listen to you until my nephew returns."

"Your nephew Jon Snow," said Ser Jorah flatly. He'd been shocked when his cousin had named Jon Snow the nephew of his Khaleesi last night, and he still wasn't comfortable with the notion. Even if he was a Targaryen, she was his Aunt, and they were...

"You're not surprised," said Daenerys, then let herself sigh; Jorah was the only one here to see. She'd hadn't expected him to know already, but he had surprised her.

"My cousin the Lady Lyanna told me, last night, just before you arrived."

************************

Sansa looked out over the Great Hall as the last of those who had come for the normal breakfast exited, and those who had come in on the caravan last night were starting to enter in large numbers, as were many others she'd invited. Pages jogged back and forth to direct people to the tables and places she'd chosen for them, distributing furs to keep the guests warm in the hall, servants bringing water out to replace the breakfast food. She suppressed a sigh as Arya, rather than using the door, decided to once again drop in through the window, followed by Lyanna and Fjornal. With a murmur, she sent one of her pages to race over and invite all three up to the high table. Her sister sent her the sign for progress as expected, which she returned; there were no changes of note, so they'd continue as planned.

"Lady Mormont, Fjornal, I'm sorry for the loss of Markath and Jaamis from your crew; their sacrifice will be remembered and honored. What did the Maesters say about the other injuries?" Sansa said as they arrived, grateful that Arya had been able to tell her their names last night, after the lines had been reestablished and the fighting was over, and let the Grand Maester see to her injuries. She'd tried to convince her sister that if she already had a hole in her ear, she might as well finish out the piercing process for jewelry, and gotten nowhere, as she expected.

The Night King had tried to kill her sister, and failed because even when Arya was a commander, she was also No One inside, the best in the world, and still caring enough to have sent her own people to safety first... or to have tried to. Sansa couldn't say if that had helped her chances by clearing the platform to fight, or hurt them by allowing the enemy to focus on her and depriving her of allies, but her sister had not only survived but triumphed.

Arya had said that the weapons her brother had forged had been the only thing that allowed her to win, and for that, she owed him, very much. The fact that the attack from the air by so many White Walkers had failed so spectacularly meant that not only was her sister nearly unharmed, but that the tale was being told widely, enhancing the power of her sister's fighting reputation. Hopefully the Night King would also take such a total defeat happening in mere seconds to mean that type of attack was a lost cause, and not try it on any other targets, where it would certainly achieve at least local success before being destroyed even here, and in the South, it would be devastating until they prepared properly.

"Thank you, Your Grace," replied Lady Mormont, "They ignored the order to evacuate the tower, and chose to stand and fight with great honor and valor, Markath even succeeding in killing a White Walker. I can only hope to do as well should it be my turn! Fjornal will have some scars, but the Maesters gave her an ointment for that, and she will have full use of her hands "

"Scars show I tough. Scars from White Walker good! Kill White Walker far before. Kill one close now! Will have many marriage challenge. Maybe pick new man, maybe pick chief and join clans, make bigger clan," answered Fjornal with a grin that Sansa's younger self would have called frightening... and one she knew would be causing Fjornal pain. Stretching the skin around cuts and scrapes like that always hurt, but there was no sign on her face of the pain, only the joy and pride in having killed one of their greatest enemies, the enemies that had forced the Free Folk to flee south.

This woman wasn't one of her subjects, but Sansa was proud she'd chose to fight against the dead with the rest of them, and glad she had helped Arya in her fight. That she was considering another husband was an interesting footnote, but the fact that she was considering joining clans... that was new to her, and interesting. Fjornal was one of the highest-status clan leaders, now. While her clan wasn't very large, and hadn't had the resources of the ice-river or frozen shores clans before, they were famed for their archers. Since coming to Winterfell, they'd turned into experts on siege engines, not just shooting, but also ballistics, construction, design, tactics, strategy, leadership, and integration with other forces.

"The ointment also cleans the wounds and prevents infection, Fjornal. Make sure she uses it, Lyanna," said Arya, grinning as she gave the spearwife a hearty clap on the back, "We need the bravest damn ballista archer in the world up and ready, not in a sickbed because she got infected!"

"Fjornal, you are a great ally, and you fought at my sister's side," started Sansa

"Technically it was at my front, but behind their backs."

Sansa rolled her eyes at Arya's interruption, "If you have need of me, just ask, and I will do what I can."

"When over, want scorpion sled for clan," answered Fjornal immediately, "Garron team, dog team."

"When we've defeated the Night King and the army of the dead, you can take your pick of the two dozen best scorpion sleds. I will provide two and twenty garron teams, and I will also provide two dog teams, one at a time, as the Stark pack grows large enough," said Sansa. The dogsled teams would be difficult, and greatly increase the future danger of her Bonehands clan... but they would also show trust, and a dangerous clan was a much better ally than a weak clan. They would have to stay near rivers or shores to feed the dogs, or they'd have to trade. If they were to trade, well, the close working relationship and friendship she and Lady Mormont had was something to nurture. When you fought with someone at the end of the world, that would be remembered for generations.

She pulled a pair of folded leather gloves out from the inside of her cloak, handing them over to Fjornal, "For now, please accept these; they're armored on the back like Arya's, so your hands are better protected in the future. If they don't fit perfectly once the bandages are off, I'll be happy to adjust them myself."

Sansa watched as Fjornal nodded in thanks while she accepted the gift, then jerked her head at the window for Lyanna to see before she turned to go up and take command of the siege engines again without another word. Lyanna looked up at Sansa, clearly wanting to return to her table and suffer through the rest of the introduction, and just as clearly uncomfortable and somewhat unsure, seeming almost disgraced. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Arya make the sign for me; she'd seen it too.

Lady Mormont hadn't faced the enemy herself, the way her family had for a thousand years, and was ashamed that her second and even some crewmembers had. That could be dangerous, but it wasn't something she was equipped to understand; she wasn't a fighter by temperament. Yet she herself had faced the dead in Winter Town with her own spear, so Lyanna was probably a little envious... nothing she could say would help, but Arya did understand, and could help right now, before others noticed and might try to take advantage.

"Thank you, Lady Mormont. This should go quicker than last time, you'll be able to see to your crews and check on repairs soon enough," said Sansa kindly, dismissing Lady Mormont with a smile.

Arya reached out to grasp the small bear's arm, tugging her back into the dark corner behind the head table, where the light from the fire would make it even harder for anyone to see their lips, leaning in close and murmuring just loud enough for the young woman to hear over the increasing noise of chatter in the hall, "You feel ashamed, but you have no need to be. I know you, Scorpion Bear, and had the Night King attacked your tower, you would have called for evacuation with your hatchet in your hand... and if you were lucky, and dodged quickly enough, you might have survived to be the last person off the tower. I'd rather you evacuate faster, but only you answer to your own honor, and your crews respect you for your honor, for caring about them, and for your skill and ferocity. You wish you'd fought the White Walkers yourself."

"My mother fought the Ironborn, she fought the Free Folk, fought the Lannisters, died fighting at the Red Wedding. So did my sisters; they stood their ground and fought. Lord Clegane fights the army of the dead, Lady Chella fights them, Lord Jamie and Lady Brienne and you and Fjornal and her crew fought them. Only I do not fight! How can I uphold the honor of my House?" asked Lyanna Mormont, blinking back tears even as she stared into Arya Stark's grey eyes, "What would my family think of me?"

Arya squeezed her arms hard enough to be felt through the leather armor, letting her face show enough of her own actual feelings for Lyanna to notice, show her own sadness, uncertainty, and the underlying determination to carry on regardless, "Better than mine would think of me, I think - I am an assassin, not a Lady, after all. From what I've heard, your family truly cared about their people, about the North, and were great leaders and warriors both. You will never be the melee fighter your mother or your sisters were; if you train hard, you'll be very good, but never great. You are already a great leader and a great student. You will become a great Master of Laws; you will become a great politician in the mold of Bronze Yohn if you wish. Here I stand are the words of your house, and here you stand, steadfast in the face of the army of the dead. In all of that, you fulfill the most important ideals of your House, and of the North."

Arya thought for a moment of her lessons in Braavos, her lessons with Tywin, like when he'd asked if she thought he'd be in his position if he'd lost a war, then continued, "Tell me, who's killed the most White Walkers?"

"You have," said Lyanna instantly, having heard about how Arya Stark had killed six - SIX - White Walkers in seconds from Fjornal! Watching her commander's expression carefully and seeing the lack of expression that meant she was incorrect, she thought back to previous battles as well, "No, that's not right. Princess Sand has killed the most."

"Better," said Arya, nodding, "But only from the point of view of individuals or personal heroes. Sarella's personally killed more White Walkers than any other person in eight thousand years, but she could never have done so without Meera killing the wight giants and mammoths that were protecting them. Even last night, soldiers with bows and crossbows on the walls and in the courtyards killed more White Walkers than I did! Our other archers and siege engine crews as a group have killed many White Walkers, and that's thanks to their equipment and skill, which you arranged for them to have. Even if you did face one, without Valyrian steel, nobody can block their weapons - standing up to them face to face takes special skills and Valyrian steel weapons and for them to actually get within your reach. In this war, it's the archers and the siege engines that do the real killing. Do you know why I picked you for siege engine commander, Lyanna?"

"No," the small bear replied. She'd never quite understood that, and had never asked, but sometimes she'd wondered. She wasn't be the best archer or crossbowman, not then, not now. She hadn't had much experience, and her pride in her people had outstripped their skills - she had so much to learn still, and back then? She'd been woefully ignorant of everything she needed to know to do her job. She'd done her very best, pushed herself as hard as she could, learned as much as she chould, but why Arya Stark had picked her, she had never asked.

"I didn't pick you because you could kill the dead yourself, nor that you had excellent veteran soldiers under your command. I picked you because you had ordered, allowed, and encouraged your smallfolk to become a great killer of wights and White Walkers, not individually, but as crews who worked together to make a cohesive army. You listened to Maester Russal's advice and had different winches for different people, and you formed your people into three separate groups, so they could support each other... or, if needed, so some could sacrifice themselves to save the rest. You didn't discard any of your people as unable to contribute, and you were wise enough to see the difference between the face of honor inside you and the face of glory others might see. You chose honor and efficient killing over personal glory and songs."

Arya continued quietly, "With the weapons Gendry forged me, tailored exactly to my skills as a dancing master, I can slaughter White Walkers face to face, if they come to me. Brienne with Oathbreaker can fend off two at a time, and with only a tiny distraction, kill them. Bronze Yohn and Jon can kill them one on one. Meera could take one with my spear. Chella could take two by herself if she had Sansa's spear, maybe even three, she's quick and willing to retreat as far and fast as it takes, and used to fighting a group. There's a handful of others who could face Walkers one on one in melee, if they had the weapons."

Arya shook her head dismissively, "But there is no way for us to win the war that way, not against even against a mere hundred White Walkers, much less the numbers we actually face, and hundreds more at White Harbor. Even the siege engines and the crews you command, Meera's archers, the pyromancers and their flames, the Maesters, the moats, the walls, all of that power together couldn't stop the first attack, not without the shieldwall at the ramparts. That shieldwall would have fallen in minutes if not for the archers and the siege engines both. The caravans would be defenseless against the wight dragon without the sled scorpions, and vulnerable to wight giants and mammoths. None of that matters without supplies and knappers and engineers and craftsmen, cooks and smiths and carpenters and fletchers. Do you know what the most important thing you do is? What the one thing that does the most to guarantee we can fight the Night King for months, years, and decades is, Lyanna?"

Lady Mormont considered; another trick question from her command. The first answers were obviously going to be wrong... decades, that was the important part of the question, and a hint. Decades meant generations, and if they were still fighting the army of the dead generations from now, they'd be taking losses every caravan that went in and out. The Night King would have kept trying different attacks, against the outer defenses, and trying to bypass them, perhaps by throwing spears or some new magic, and more and more men and women would die.

"Training? Passing on our knowledge?" answered the young woman.

"Correct. The most important thing you can do for the war is what you started with Melaane and Jaycobb of the Flints, with scores of others when you make sure they are trained. When you find those with the talent and get them the lessons and training they need, when you personally train them. When you make sure your second is not just a great shot, but a war leader who can step into your place on a moment's notice, and that she in turn has others to take over, so there is no one weakness that can doom us all. When you make sure all crews can calculate their own aiming tables, can create their own setting circles quickly and accurately. In most times teaching would be the duty of our grandparents or parents, as it is Lord Royce's and Lord Manderly's, but in this war, for so many of us, it is ours, and we cannot afford for knowledge to be the province only of a handful of vulnerable men and women," said Arya seriously.

She heard Sansa move slightly as the hall started settling down, clapping Lyanna on the shoulder, "And that, too, you do well. You are doing everything that you must, and that you can, to fight the army of the dead. I am glad to have you with us, Lyanna Mormont, and you do me, your House, your kingdom, and all of the living proud. Get to your seat; it's time to start. The sooner we start, the sooner this dance is over and we can get to the work we do best."

Arya strode back to the high table, looking out over the nearly full hall while Dany and her much enlarged group were taking their places, having come over just after the official greeting ceremony in the First Keep. She watched their placement; Sansa, she was sure, would see great meaning in the exact seating arrangement within the Dragon Queen's tables, though at least the most obvious greedy lords were far from the center of things. With another glance, she sat just beside her sister, turning to her and making the sign for good, receiving the sign for thanks in return.

Sansa only briefly took her eyes off the movements and groupings of people as they entered, sat, and talked. Most was as she expected, but not all, and it was what she didn't expect that was most important. Sarella's table had grown slightly with the addition of a pair from the Summer Isles, and ravens had indicated there was a small fleet of swan ships coming as well. She asked quietly, "Mariya?"

"She's doing fine; just a gash over her eye. Bloody, sure, but not dangerous outside of a fight - a Maester stitched it up so finely it might not even scar. It'd be a shame to mar that pretty face! A few pricks on the back of her neck and arms from steel bolt fragments, not serious, but none of the wooden splinters made it through her furs. Brienne and Jamie?"

"Both just fine; the leather covering their plate's scratched up, but the plate armor itself isn't not even dented. None of the guards were injured," replied Sansa just before she stood, the hall starting to quiet immediately as those who noticed began to hush their neighbors... which took a couple minutes, in some cases. Once it was quiet enough, she spoke, her voice ringing out strongly, as Cersei had taught her.

"To all those who arrived on the caravan last night, welcome to the Winter Kingdoms, comprising the North, the Vale, and the Northern Riverlands! I thank you all for coming, and apologize for the tight quarters, lack of a feast, and the difficulty in moving around, but as you can see, we have a slight wight problem," said Sansa, ending with a gesture towards the outside, prompting many from her own kingdoms and others who had fought the army of the dead to laugh... and many of those who had just arrived to look incredulously at the men and women laughing, though the Dothraki and Unsullied leaders remained simply serious. Good! Let them see that her people and their fighting allies were a breed apart, that they were not cowering in fear at being besieged by the largest army anyone living had ever seen. She continued steadily, projecting her voice to the far corners of the Great Hall.

"I would like to again pay respects on behalf of myself, my bannermen, and all our allies for those who have sacrificed their lives fighting the army of the dead or breaking through the Night King's siege. Those warriors, drivers, cargo handlers, translators, and everyone else who died gave their lives so that others may survive, that the living all over the world have a chance, and they will be remembered for it. To the remaining delegates and merchants from New Ghis, I offer my condolences on losing half of your group on one of the lost sleds; Grand Maester Wolkan will meet with you after we are done here so that you may send any ravens you need on their behalf," she said, bowing her head towars where the remaining people from that city were seated, next to those from Vaes Tolorro, Vaes, and Elyria, near the other people coming from the lands surrounding Dragon's Bay.

She continued after a moment, gesturing to Howland, who stood briefly, "This is Lord Howland Reed, my Hand in the Winter Kingdoms. By Westerosi custom, the Lord Hand is the second in command of a ruler who is responsible for more than one kingdom. He and I will be conducting meetings to provide any who sign up at the Library tower the initial overview for survival in the Second Long Night, as well as a chance to meet us in person; many other Westerosi leaders will be doing the same in their areas of expertise. My Hand and I will be covering food preservation, menus, increases in food consumption in the cold, packing and storage for winter sieges, crop choices and hunting changes, glass gardens, clothing design and materials, exhuming and burning buried dead, and heat conservation for castles and buildings. Anyone desiring more knowledge on those topics may ask after the overview sessions, or contact the acolytes in the Library tower to join more detailed sessions taught by experts."

Sansa looked over the hall; the reactions were mixed, and seemed to vary somewhat by geography - the delegations from Qohor and other more northerly cities were intent and serious. They'd had ravens waiting in White Harbor or Winterfell after their voyage, with tidings of shortening days and cold more intense than anything known before. Not a few of them had been given clear instructions by their leaders to find out everything they could, either before they left or in additional instructions sent by raven during the long trip. Some would thus want to come and learn, some would want to come and see the various leaders in person, some would want to try and get a head start on their own agendas. In every case, they would at least hear what she and the others had to say, and she would have an excellent chance to evaluate their reactions to her and to each other.

In contrast, some of the more Southron groups were more emotional - outraged or scoffing at burning the dead, though as she watched, that never became a consensus, as others who had traveled with them reminded them of the siege they had broken through - the corpses had to come from somewhere! She glanced at Arya, making the sign for good, which was returned; they wouldn't need to get involved. She continued speaking after her brief pause, gesturing to the Targaryen group with a smile.

"We have many other great rulers fighting with us. I am pleased and honored to introduce Queen Daenerys Targaryen, rightful holder of the Iron Throne, who is our great ally against the Night King. She herself has fought atop her dragon Drogon, as well as providing vital supplies of dragonglass without charge, in the interest of the survival of all the living! She has also brought the best of her armies of Unsullied and Dothraki to fight with us against the army of the dead, and has personally gone beyond the Wall and fought the Night King's army there!"

Sansa applauded as she sat and Dany stood, her own Dothraki leaders also cheering for their Queen as her Unsullied leaders tapped their spearbutts on the stone floor, the others at her table applauding.

Queen Daenerys stood, gesturing for Tyrion to stand as well while giving Missandei a small headshake; she was in another's land, and would handle her introductions herself, with less pomp, "I am Queen Daenerys, current ruler of Dragon's Bay and rightful holder of the Iron Throne and the Crownlands, and the Seven Kingdoms of the Stormlands, the Reach, the Southron Riverlands, the Westerlands, Yunkai, Astapor, and Meereen. This is my Hand, Lord Tyrion Lannister."

She waited for a moment, watching especially the looks on the faces of those from her Westerosi kingdoms... or, she corrected herself, the Westerosi kingdoms she wanted to rule. Daario and Jorah had been correct; she needed to be a conqueror to remove Cersei from power, as she had needed to conquer to remove the Masters from power. She also needed to be a better ruler than she had been, and a better politician, if she didn't want all the changes she'd made to vanish after she died. She saw some consternation and quite a bit of what she was sure what plotting, while most of the rest had neutral expressions she couldn't read.

"Dragonstone is mining more and more dragonglass each sennight, in quantities great enough that is also available for sale for coin, or in trade. Additionally, dragonglass will be provided at reduced cost or even free of charge to those who make investments in farming in the dark, cold days to come in this, the Second Long Night, in the lands far enough South, or with the heat of hot springs or volcanoes wherever they may be," said the silver-haired Queen, looking out over all the people in the hall. Not just her own people or the other Westerosi, but contingents from all over Essos, and every one of them with people who would starve to death if more food wasn't found, food like she could provide.

"Without a great deal of new farming, we will all be facing starvation soon, so my Hand is hard at work harnessing the Fourteen Fires to provide food in this cruel winter for not only my own people, but also for export, and all of my lands are gathering as much food as possible while they still can. All of our peoples will need our leadership if we are to survive the Second Long Night, and to that end Lord Tyrion will be conducting overviews on our progress on volcano heated glass gardens, as well as the other supplies Dragon's Bay can provide, including wool and fish. I will also be providing an overview of fighting alongside dragons during the military session," said Daenerys, her voice strong and confident. She had not freed her people from slavery only to let them starve or be slaughtered. She and her children may well need to fight with some of these people's armies; it was best if they knew in advance how to coordinate. That they would also know how to kill her children was not something she could stop, not anymore.

Up at the high table, Sansa stood once again as Daenerys and Tyrion sat, gesturing to the Dornish contingent. She'd already confirmed the plan with both Sarella and Daenerys after the first White Harbor caravan had come in past the siege; now it was time to proceed with the next part of their plan. Westeros would be divided amicably, and they would support each other not only now, but also after Cersei and Euron were removed from the game; she would make sure of it.

"I again thank Queen Daenerys all her contributions to the survival of the living. Winterfell was sited here specifically to use the heat of the hotsprings during winter; doing so elsewhere is vital to feeding all our peoples. The Winter Kingdoms have also had the honor of hosting Princess Sarella Sand, ruler of Dorne, acolyte of the Maesters, inventor of the technique to capture wights from shipboard, and a master archer who has personally fought with us against the dead when they attacked us from without and within. I had the honor of meeting her father, Prince Oberyn Martell, in King's Landing, and I can honestly say that Princess Sarella had her father's best qualities - she has his intelligence, his curiosity, his bravery, his honor. She came North to fight of all the living, with her bow and supplies of food and shafts that we fit dragonglass from Dragonstone and elsewhere to stop the dead, as you have all seen!" said Sansa, appreciation for the Southronmost ruler of the continent clear in her voice as she saw that the critical portions of the audience were supportive, and continued with a smile.

"I never met Prince Doran Martell, but I have heard much of him, and I believe she has her Uncle's wisdom and talent for leadership as well. From this day until the end of her days, the Winter Kingdoms hereby recognize her as Princess Sarella Martell, a true daughter of House Martell!"

Daenerys joined the cheers and applause quickly. She knew Sarella was well appreciated here and among the many allies from her trip to the tavern. Her smile grew; she'd have to tease Jon's sisters again, since the patrons had generally considered herself and Sarella as more exotic beauties than the Starks. In the hall now, those of the North and Sansa's other kingdoms stood and applauded, as did her own people who were following her own lead and that of her Small Council and advisors. Grey Worm had told the Unsullied of Sarella's discipline, and the Dothraki leaders she had brought had a keen appreciation of a blooded master archer, even a female one.

The silver-haired Queen stood once more as the noise started to die down and Sansa looked over at her while she sat. Her ancestors had fought war after war against Dorne, and lost every one; if Dorne wished for independence, she would seek them as an ally. If Aegon Targaryen himself had not brought Dorne to heel atop the Black Dread, then she and Drogon did not need to, either. Dorne could supply food even during the Second Long Night, and that was its own reason to ally with them, too.

"I, Queen Daenerys Targaryen, have heard many stories of Dorne; of their martial prowess, their wise traditions of inheritance by the eldest and tradition of both ruling Princes and Princesses, of how they fought off my ancestors time and again. I have met Princess Sarella, and she is a true, good, and just leader of her people. She is a great warrior as well, as I have seen and heard!" said Daenerys strongly, before turning and bowing her head to the Princess in orange.

"I have also heard of the wrong my brother did to Elia Martell. On behalf of my House, I apologize for the wrongs House Targaryen has done to Dorne, and I apologize for the wrong my brother Prince Rhaegar Targaryen did to Princess Elia Martell and her children. I acknowledge that Dorne is an independent kingdom, and I recognize its leader as Princess Sarella Martell, a true daughter of House Martell!"

Sarella smiled and stood, looking across her own tables first; Edric Dayne was, as usual, directing his entire attention to her. She was sure that the politics at home were still going to be complicated and deadly, but the arrival of the wights she'd captured in addition to the constant missives from Sansa's kingdoms meant her half-sisters were safer now than they had been before, and that she had far more actual power than those who had propped her up had ever anticipated. Those men and women sitting with her now had seen the army of the dead with their own eyes, seen defenses beyond imagining, seen full-grown dragons, and heard reams of evidence of her suitability as a leader. She had passed their examination, she thought; she had the respect of warriors and politicians both, and they, too, were applauding, both those who had come with her, and those from the two caravans that had made it through the siege so far.

"Thank you, Queens Sansa and Daenerys, for your kind words. Thank you as well, Queen Daenerys, for both your apologies to Dorne and to House Martell, and on behalf of my kingdom and my House, I accept them. While I appreciate your support and recognition, as an independent kingdom, only my own people can truly legitimize me," said Sarella with her Alleras half-smile, looking across at her people, "So, what do you say?"

"To Princess Sarella Martell!" exclaimed Lord Edric immediately, raising his glass to the beautiful warrior Princess.

"Princess Sarella Martell!" came a ragged, but exuberant, chorus.

"Thank you all," said Princess Martell once her people sat again, with a flicker of a glance up at Sansa Stark, who had been the mind behind the plan they had spoken in the secret passage weeks ago, "It is my honor to lead Dorne as a legitimized scion of House Nymeros Martell. Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken!"

Sarella joined the toast with her cup of blood orange-flavored water, then waited out the noise again, continuing her speech.

"It is my hope that all of Westeros can continue as amicably as we are now for not just decades but also centuries to come! I will be teaching introductory classes on the changes to naval trade routes the current winds and weather are causing, and a view to how to best use the information from the wargs and the Three-Eyed Raven to avoid Euron's pirate fleets. I will also be teaching classes on Dornish exports including but not limited to lemons, blood oranges, and other fruits that can help with scurvy, which will be prevalent in a much larger geographical area than in winters past if steps are not taken to prevent it. Dorne is working on increasing food production as well; legend has it that we are far enough South that the rivers did not freeze during the First Long Night. I will also be teaching classes on Dornish techniques and crops that grow well with limited water."

Sansa stood while Sarella sat, gesturing over to the tables where Skamund, Fjornal, Tormund, and many other Free Folk leaders sat.

"I am pleased and honored to present several leaders of the many Free Folk clans who have joined us in fighting for the living. For those new to Westeros, the Free Folk live north of the Wall, and were the first peoples to start fighting the Night King and his army. They are the source of our knowledge about the army of the dead, about how the fight, and they are the leading experts in the world on true cold weather survival. The dogsleds come from their river and shore clans, nearly all our wargs come from the Free Folk, all our knowledge of knapping dragonglass comes from them, and they have been instrumental in preparing us for the both dead and for the worst winter in eight thousand years, possibly the worst winter ever. Without them, we could never have survived this long."

The Free Folk leadership who had chosen to attend the meeting stood, Tormund stepping forward and speaking first.

"We promised to fight with you when you Southrons let us through the Wall," said Tormund, grinning hugely, "Here we are, fighting with you! We've got our own languages, so either learn all of them or get used to translators! We'll be teaching you all how not to die in the snow and cold so fast!"

Skamund stepped forward next as Tormund stepped back, "We show sled; big sled, small sled, fast sled, cargo sled. Many sled! Go very fast on frozen river, frozen sea. Good on many kind snow! Will trade. Scorpion sled! Scorpion sled fight wight giant, wight mammoth, wight dragon. Need be strong, light, good balance, good crew. Shoot dragonglass, fire, wildfire. Dogs, horses need train with scorpion sound, not startle, not scare. War sled with archer, need when many wight. Need discipline! Will show. Will trade, send expert - driver, crafter, fisher, hunter."

Sansa stood again, noting that the pattern was expected now, nearly everyone in the hall looking at her as soon as the Free Folk leaders were done. She pushed down her pleasure at being acknowledged as having the power here, in being in her own castle, in her own kingdoms, with other rulers under her roof, and continued steadily, gesturing to Wolkan.

"Despite numerous messages from Maesters of the North and the Vale, even including Samwell Tarly's personal recollection of his experiences, the Archmaesters of the Citadel have rejected our pleas for their assistance, all except for Archmaester Marywn," she nodded her head in thanks to the Archmaester, "Who has joined us here recently, adding his own knowledge of magic to our other experts! Thus, the Maesters of the Winter Kingdoms have broken from the Citadel at Oldtown, forming a new organization. Grand Maester Wolkan is the first Grand Maester appointed by this group."

The old Maester stood, speaking, if not loudly, then at least well enough to be heard through most of the great hall, "We Northern Maesters have been making extensive study of the army of the dead for many months, aided by the knowledge and attestations of many members of the Free Folk, by the direct study of wights captured using young Acolyte Sarella's methods, by the expertise with fire of the pyromancers, and many others, including young Gendry the smith. Queen Sansa has generously granted us leave to use the entire Library tower for meetings, lessons, and research. There are lessons being taught at all hours, and we welcome any who come to learn or to teach. Mathematics, literacy, agriculture, and the sciences of fire and warfare against the dead are offered at all times, and many other disciplines are also taught freely. I will personally be holding a class on the progress of the Second Long Night across Westeros and Essos this evening and our current projections for the future, and I would be most grateful if any of you with updated knowledge of temperature and precipitation in your homelands would provide that, in particular with the date and time it was recorded."

As he sat, Sansa stood to introduce the next person, wondering again if she could manage to get someone with a stronger speaking voice make the announcements without unduly insulting her Grand Maester, and gesturing to the table of Braavosi, "The Winter Kingdoms are also honored to host Keyholder Tormo of the the Iron Bank, with his staff, who have been invaluable in providing financing for the the fight against the Night King. Without their assistance, many of the defenses protecting our cities would not have been possible."

The Keyholder stood, his precise enunciation reaching to the corners of the hall easily, "By tomorrow, the Iron Bank will have a new building open in Winter Town in addition to the current quarters here in the merchant's area of the castle. Both locations are available to conduct financial and contractual transactions of all types. The Iron Bank will continue to provide preferential rates for all activities directly related to the survival of the living, said survival of course being required for any repayments to be possible. Additional preferential rates are available for activities directly related to preventing mass starvation and weather related deaths, as those circumstances and the ensuing unrest are also detrimental to the prompt repayment of debt."

Keyholder Tormo turned to the high table, inclining his head deeply to No One wearing Arya Stark's face before turning back to the assembly and continuing in matter of fact tones, "With the capable assistance of the House of Black and White in Westeros and its excellent assassins, the Iron Bank will also underwrite many contracts and trade agreements where the numbers would otherwise be deemed to have a poor repayment forecast when the parties involved are willing to engage in a guaranteed contract, or in less severe long term outlooks, an engaged to be guaranteed contract. Additional loans for the up front funding of the assassination of those perpetrating fraud or other interference in the fulfillment of the guaranteed contracts are available with rates determined on a case by case basis. Please come to either of our local locations to inquire about the Iron Bank's full line of available services."

Sansa stood again, this time with her sister standing beside her, the both of them looking out over the hall, making the sign for good to each other. This was going well, the murmurs and whispers and small groups of consensus approving of the organization she had put into place, of the lack of fear and confusion even while under siege. Even the seeming of being in control was very powerful, especially after an experience of seeing the army of the dead for the first time while breaking through their lines... and, she thought, they had more than just a seeming of being in control. While they didn't have power over the Night King's actions, they did have counters for as much as they could manage, counters that had worked even against what would have been devastating only a year ago.

She didn't think there had ever been such a gathering of leaders from all over Westeros and Essos in all of history. Certainly the legends she'd heard of the first Long Night were of individual battles, not of this kind of cooperation, and now Winterfell, her home, had become the center of the war for the survival of the living through her efforts and those of her family. It was here that the leaders and future leaders of Westeros gathered, here that the powers of Essos had sent their people, here that the power that was knowledge was shared. Here the Night King on his wight dragon stayed nearby, here where it was known the world over that the Starks lived.

"My sister, Lady Winter, is in overall command of the all military forces fighting the dead, not just of the Winter Kingdoms, but of all the forces our allies have devoted to the fight against the dead as well. It is her we all have to thank for the training and the plans that have stopped the Night King," said Sansa, and smirked at her sister briefly, letting the assembly see the ease they had with each other, "She is a military woman, so please forgive her lack of formal pleasantries."

Arya spoke as her sister sat, her commander's voice carrying through the hall as easily as Tywin's had, her tones serious and somber, "Immediately after this meeting I will be holding a briefing here; simply stay here to attend, though clear the center for demonstrations. I'll be covering the overall defensive structure, enemy tactics seen so far, nonhuman wights including giants and mammoths, White Walkers, our training curriculum, common signals, and logistics. The most important lessons are that when the Night King comes, everyone must fight, or you will without doubt die and become wights under his control. Everyone!"

She narrowed her eyes, watching the newcomers who had not heard this speech before intensely, "Not just your soldiers and warriors, not just your highborn or your current military and guards, but your farmers, stonemasons, bakers, craftsmen, merchants, your wives and daughters and sons and grandparents, from the high lords and ladies to the beggars on the street, the whores in the brothels, the lowest of your servants, even slaves! We burned tens of thousands of corpses, and the Night King still raised hundreds of wights inside the castle and Winter Town, and even more inside the walls of White Harbor at the same time as his forces assaulted the defenses in force; no matter how well we defended the walls and moats, if our people had not defended the interior, we would have been lost. Caravans need the same, as all of your have seen - you must fight the enemy where they are, not where you wish they were. Everyone trains, everyone carries dragonglass, or you are lost once the wights rising inside your walls get a foothold, for those they kill will rise as even more wights."

She paused a moment, then moved on to the next part of her speech, gesturing to each person as she said their names, letting them stand briefly to be identified, "Brienne of Tarth will cover infantry tactics. The Hound will do a demonstration of infantry working in combination with other units. Meera Stark will cover archery tactics for bow and crossbow alike; she and Sarella Martell will join the demonstration..."

"And you, Arya!" called out Meera, causing Arya to laugh briefly as she continued.

"And I will also join the demonstration to show how master and marksman archers fight with the shieldwall. Bronze Yohn Royce will cover heavy cavalry and their primary role as dragoons when facing the dead. Skamund will cover light cavalry and caravan composition and defense. The Scorpion Bear will cover siege engines and the system for loosing blind, without being able to see your targets. Belenno Vollin will cover naval tactics against the wight dragon and Euron. Maester Russal will cover crossbow and spring engine construction and adaptation. The Dragon Queen will cover dragons in combat, particularly differentiating between allied dragons and the wight dragon. Grey Worm and Qhono will cover the differences between Essosi warfare and the Night King."

Sansa stood once again, speaking calmly, "The pages each group have been assigned can direct you to whichever sessions you wish you attend, or to whomever you wish to speak or do business with. This session is concluded; anyone not wishing to attend the military session should exit the great hall now."

"No time to waste in a war!" exclaimed Arya, hopping up atop the table and then down the other side to stride into the middle of the hall as she waved the pages and servants in, "Clear these tables away from the center, get the pulleys set up. Bring that parchment over here! All right, form a circle, get up on tables by the walls if you need to see. Outer defense is based on rings, inner defense on internal divisions; here at Winterfell we have five rings, same as White Harbor. See here on the parchment, they're not evenly spaced, because..."

************************

In the morning, long before the sun finally rose over the horizon, Sansa approached Gendry's forge, the guards outside announcing her before informing her that her brother had barred the door from the inside. She waited a couple of minutes before the door opened and she entered with the puppies, leaving her own guards behind as she entered and he barred the door behind her, setting her spear in the rack and her basket on a table.

"Hello, Gendry. You missed breakfast this morning, so I brought you some, including a little of the honey butter you like," said Sansa, glancing around at the very full workshop as she waited for him to retrieve what she'd asked him to build.

"I was just finishing up a commission," he said, turning to unlock a chest and lift out a bag, which he handed to her, "It's still a little strange, you know. I'm getting ravens with commissions, with offers of payment by drafts on the Iron Bank, and there's so many of them that I can't keep up; not even Tobho Mott was so busy! So, yes, I miss a meal or two, but the food's so rich it doesn't matter... and when I miss one, most of the time you or Arya or Sam or Kitty or Lady Keath or someone else brings me some food anyway. Even the Hound brought me food once; said he was hiding from the wolf bitches."

"I'll remember that the next time I can't find Uncle Sandor. You should expect to be busy, Gendry. You are the most famous blacksmith in the world, after all, so you should expect to have a lot of commissions. That means you should raise your prices on at least the frivolous ones until you're happy with the amount of work you're still getting," said Sansa with all the expertise in trade Littlefinger had passed on to her. When people wanted something badly enough, you made them pay more; whether it was money or other things of value didn't matter.

She opened the bag he'd handed her, spilling some of the thin rings into her hand, feeling the unnaturally light weight of them and noting how smooth they were before pouring them back and inspecting the slightly curved plates for the back of Arya's hands, and then the plates for the bracers themselves, formed to match the shape of her sister's forearms.

"I'm not the most famous; that's Master..." started Gendry, before Sansa interrupted him gently. She wasn't going to let him go on thinking he was anything less than he was, particularly when it came to his smithing.

"You are now, brother. You've reforged more Valyrian steel than anyone else since the Doom of Valyria, you reforged the blades of the First Sword of Westeros, and you invented a way to use less Valyrian steel to make a dragon-killing siege engine bolt heads than anyone ever has before," she said firmly, then smirked at him as she tapped on the bracers, then pulled off her glove to run her fingertips over the small holes along the edges, feeling how smooth and even they were, "And you're part of a mildly famous family, which doesn't hurt. All of that is by your own actions; you learned to be a smith, you helped our sister when you didn't need to; you stayed with her, chose to be her pack. You reforged the weapons that let our sister face six White Walkers and slaughter them like particularly foolish sheep. She told me that had she only had Needle and the original Valyrian dagger, she'd have been lucky to kill two before she had to retreat, and that staying to fight at all would have been a great risk."

"I'm glad I could help her, " Gendry said as he accepted the hug he was given, then changed the subject to his newest creation, "The bracers are thin, but very strong - you can put it on the anvil and I'll hit it with my hammer if you want to see. Are the holes for laces where you need them?"

"While I'm sure a great many girls would enjoy watching you using your hammer, I trust your work and your diligence," replied Sansa, watching him flush a little even as he looked downcast at the mention of girls who would not be, would never be Arya. He was getting over her sister, she thought, but wasn't there yet. She'd talk to Uncle Sandor in the afternoon, suggest taking Gendry to the brothel, even if it was just to drink a better quality of ale and have her girls flirt with the two of them. She continued in a professional tone, "The holes are just as required; I can use leather straps to bind them inside the layers easily enough, so it's warm, protective, quiet, and hidden. Is there anything else I should know?"

Gendry replied with clear interest and evident awe of the material, "Valyrian steel doesn't require much care, or any, really, either practically or cosmetically. The pieces Arya's people have sent in, they're amazing! Hundreds of years old, not stored properly, not maintained, just sitting in rivers or swamps or buried. One was even on a forgotten inlet, on the beach, half-buried where the tide would cover it and uncover it, but I can't tell any difference at all after more than a hundred years of repeated saltwater dousings when the tide came in - but no rusting, pitting, leaching, or any other kind of corrosion, not even any staining. The shape's untouched, and the edges are still sharp. Sand rubbing up against it, even, and from the tip to the quillon it was equally sharp."

"Are you any closer to figuring out how to make more?" asked Sansa. Being able to make more Valyrian steel would be an incalculable advantage, not only in the war against the dead, but also in future wars and in trade. Nobody else had figured it out since the Doom, but if anyone would have noticed anything while reforging it, it would be her brother Gendry.

He shook his head, "No. Nobody knows how anymore. I asked Arya if that was on any of those scrolls her people got from Valyria or their temple, and it's not. I asked Bran if he could see how it was created, and he said no too. Sam's already asked the sorcerer folks, they don't know either, though he said Archmaester Marwyn had some theories, all involving dragonfire, so that's as far as Sam can find out. I asked Queen Daenerys if she would lend us a dragon to experiment with dragonfire, we've only got what Bran can find and the teams can dig up, and she's all right with the idea. Exited, even, I think."

"And when did you get the opportunity to talk to Queen Daenerys? Have you been trailing after her like a puppy, pining for her?" asked Sansa archly, slipping the plates back into the bag and tying the bag to the inside of her cloak before scritching Alayne and Beth behind the ears while Jeyne sprawled out in front of the forge, tail thumping, and Gendry returned to his current project. She already knew of the woman's visit, of course, but she could only guess at what had transpired.

Her brother was, after all, well known as Robert's bastard, unacknowledged or not, and the Stormlands needed a ruler. The Lords and first sons who had come north had either been putting forth their own suits of marriage to the Dragon Queen or trying to take advantage of being the first to come to her to get declared Lord Paramount of their kingdoms. They were primarily politicians, and Daenerys would and had seen them as such, and be looking for an alternative.

"No, I'm not pining for her, Sansa! She came yesterday, asking if I wanted to be legitimized, to be the Lord of Storm's End, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands," he said, turning the piece he was working on over and inspecting it. He'd started out a bastard in Tobho Mott's shop on the Street of Steel, knowing he'd never be anything but a lone smith working for others. Now he was a lone smith, but master of a well stocked smithy provided by the strange family that had adopted him, and it wasn't his only choice. He had coin, lots of it, and work, and customers who knew his name; he could go and smith anywhere in the world, if he wanted.

"I've told you before, I'd be happy to legitimize you as well, Gendry. The decision is yours, both the name and whether you want to be Lord of the Stormlands, or a Lord in any of my kingdoms; there's plenty of land that needs a Lord. I'd be happy to include you in the lessons on politics and, if you want to take up Daenerys on her offer, to arrange a good match with an eligible Stormlands lady, if you'd like," replied Sansa, smirking at the end.

Gendry hammered on the piece carefully, "I've heard about your lessons; you might enjoy assassinating me with a cup of poisoned tea, but I'm a smith, not a politician, not a leader. I don't want some simpering lady who just wants to be the Lady Paramount, either! I told her I was happy here... with my family."

"I'm glad to hear that, brother. Now, set that piece aside and come with me to break your fast - you haven't eaten since dinner last night, and you will not skip more than one meal in a row."

"I'm not hungry yet, and I have so much still to do. I can get this Wolf's Head and another done before supper and sent off to Lady Mormont."

"All of this will still be here after you've eaten, and Lady Lyanna has plenty of Valyrian steel bolts for her crews here. We're not going to be sending or receiving another caravan for awhile, so you have a simple choice. You can come with me now, or I can pour icewater on your forge and then you will still come with me."

"And now, suddenly, I don't know why I ever wanted a family. Jeyne, you giant fluffball, you're going to be in my way," groused Gendry to the sound of Sansa's laughter as he gave the piece another three strikes before setting it aside, banking the forge fire and nudging the white dog with his foot to get her to pull herself up to her full height, a bare inch shorter than Arya, and prance delicately out of his way. He pulled on his helmet and furs before he opened the door, then put the thick fur hat over the helmet, and his cloak over his furs. He'd learned long ago that were he to dress fully in the hot forge before he opened the door, he'd start sweating before he cooled off, and then the Northerners would be absolutely insufferable. Getting wet in the cold was death, they said. They were right, he knew, but it was still not something he needed to be told - he'd been north of the Wall! He knew it, but he still got so cold here.

Sansa smiled serenely as she followed him out, the puppies behind her, Jeyne moving away and shaking the forge dust off herself only once the door was shut behind them.

************************

Once she was announced by Missandei and the Unsullied guards had opened the door, Arya entered Dany's solar, leather cloak swirling around her, Korb and her other guards behind her. As she expected, Jon was sitting with his lover, Ser Jorah behind them both, even here deep in the First Keep. She supposed being announced as soon as the Dragon Queen's previous supplicant was done was something Sansa would see as a mark of high favor or respect.

"Lady Winter, welcome! I was not expecting to see you until our training session. What brings you here at this hour?" asked Daenerys, while Jon grinned at his sister, though his smile faltered a little as she nodded somberly back at him, rubbing Ghost's head as he came to sniff her. Her poor brother was still lovable but utterly unable to see what was in front of his eyes. Now was a time for business more than a time for family, and she was here wearing the face of a formal representative of the Two and a Bit Kingdoms, in charge of the wars, not as his sister. Dany, at least, recognized that much.

"I have two things of note that bring me before you now. First, Jon carries the Mormont family blade. Lyanna may not be able to wield the blade herself, but she is willing to pass it on to those who can, and will do so on the front lines of the war against the dead. In the same spirit as my father Lord Eddard Stark formally returned Dawn to House Dayne, my sister Queen Sansa Stark asks on Lady Mormont's behalf for Longclaw to be formally returned to House Mormont," said Lady Winter ceremonially while Ser Jorah tried to hide his feelings about his family's sword, which he had at least left behind when he fled to Essos.

Daenerys put a gentle hand on Jon's elbow as she considered. This was partly for the war; a Valyrian sword did little good on Rhaegal's back, however good Jon was with it. More importantly, she owed Sansa a very public favor. She wasn't certain how a Valyrian steel blade matched up with guest right for Varys, and thus his life, but if she could repay that favor so quickly and with something that she could afford to lose, then she was more than willing to do so. But... she turned her head to look back at Jorah, who gave a slight nod. Missandei, too, did the same when she checked.

"Jon?" asked Dany gently, "Lord Commander Mormont gave it to you."

"He did," answered Jon, unbuckling his swordbelt. He'd made sure Alys Karstark and Ned Umber kept their homes, because those homes belonged to their families. This was no different, "But this sword belongs with his family, not to me."

He handed the sword that was the only thing that had saved his life at Hardhome to his sister, who in turn passed it to the older guard behind him... who in his own turn handed her another sword which he'd had hidden under his cloak, and one with the symbol of the Targaryens in black on its hilt, with bright rubies for the eyes of the dragons?

Arya nodded to her brother and stepped past him to offer the smaller, more slender sword in her hands to Daenerys while intoning ceremonially, her voice ringing through the room, "Queen Daenerys Targaryen, as the head of House Targaryen, House Stark returns to you the sword of Visenya Targaryen, lost long ago. This is Dark Sister, the blade that the warriors of your family wielded since before they left Old Valyria."

As Daenerys took the sword - her family's sword - she thought that instead of repaying the favor, she was now even deeper in debt than she had been before. Would she have received Dark Sister if she'd objected to the return of Longclaw? She suspected she would never know, and the mischievous flicker of a wink Arya gave her made her quite certain of that, though her weaponsmaster held out her hand again for the man behind her to place a satchel in it that he'd had under his cloak.

"These, too, House Stark has recovered; ancient books from old Valyria which survived the Doom. A book on the top ten families of Valyria from before Aegon's conquest, a cookbook, an anthology of fables, a manual on how to train slaves, some notes and maps of Sothoryos by Jaenara Belaerys, and a book of accounts for a merchant house," said Arya, offering the satchel to Daenerys.

Arya had read them all, if quickly, and the team had made copies for the library on the voyage back to Westeros. The book of accounts was very detailed, and made quite clear that slaves were not only immensely profitable but that their ownership was widespread through Old Valyria, listing those bought and sold from dozens of dragonlord families, including the Targaryens.

Arya supposed it was to their credit that Aegon, Visenya, and Rhaenys had given up the practice when they came to Westeros. The book of fables had the usual modern Essosi myths of the Long Night that had been told for two or three thousand years; nothing like the ancient detail present in what the Shadow Flame and the delegations from Yi-Ti had brought. The maps and notes of Sothoryos may be necessary soon enough; she had ships heading there to both forge alliances and find unclaimed land for farming or settlement if Westeros had to be abandoned in full or in part.

"A book on the top families? I can learn about my family!" said Daenerys eagerly. The fables would be welcome, just as Jorah's wedding gifts had been, but a book about her family's history would be a priceless, wonderful... she recognized that look on Arya's face. That was the look she got after she answered a question not just wrongly, but very wrongly.

"Even had that book been on the top thirty of the two score dragonlord houses, the Targaryens would not have been listed," replied Arya with a condescending tilt of her head, "Only three dragons, no sorcerers, no knowledge of how to create Valyrian steel or roads, fewer houses of bannermen than fingers on a hand, and no holdings outside Valyria beyond Dragonstone does not a great house of dragonlords make, Daenerys Targaryen. The book of accounts does include some dealing with house Targaryen, though, which you should find enlightening."

Arya watched as the silver-haired berserker frowned, started to flush... and then her heartbeat not just stopped getting faster but slowed back to a resting place; her breathing had barely deepened. She inclined her head to the bear-faced warrior who was improving her mastery of her anger and rage; her business was done, here, both Sansa's and her own, and her student had put on the face of a queen who was wise and in control of herself.

************************

Meera slowly climbed the steps to the House of Black and White's area of the castle, the faint sounds of rolling drums informing her that Arya was, as planned, leading a training session for the dragons and the siege engines both. She left her guards behind as the first guard to that area tapped his spearbutt on the stone landing, waited for him to open the thick door, painted black on one side and white on the other, and then stepped into the long hallway where an initiate silently directed her to another door. She automatically slipped through at an angle, so her gear all cleared the doorframe while she lowered her spear to fit through, then entered a small room where icons of every god she'd ever heard of, and many she hadn't stood on the floor or hung on the walls.

She came to a stop before the weirwood face, standing uneasily as she remembered her brother; how he'd laughed when he was small, how she'd always protected him, trusted him, followed him. How she'd traveled farther North with him than she could ever have imagined, and how just as they reached what they thought was a place of safety, just as they'd reached their destination, she had failed. Failed utterly.

Meera barely even started when a soft voice next to her spoke, moving only her eyes to see the unremarkable man in a hooded robe next to her.

"You do not seek the old gods for yourself," said No One.

"No. I... wanted to talk," she said slowly, sadness and loss clear in her voice.

"About?" asked No One softly, tilting his head slightly.

"I cut my own brother's throat," she said bluntly, turning her head to look over at his expression; when she saw no disgust or condemnation, she returned her gaze to the weirwood face.

A minute later, the priest said, "You gave him the Gift."

"Did I?" asked Meera, "Or am I just another kinslayer? It was my fault he was dying. My fault I didn't see the trap. My fault I didn't protect him well enough. My fault. All my fault."

"Was it?" asked No One neutrally.

"Yes!"

"If you stood there as you are today, would he have needed the Gift?"

She scoffed; that had been a pathetic trap, all in all. No White Walkers, just a handful of wights, coming out of the ice only a few at a time, and charging predictably straight in each time. She had eight and ten dragonglass tipped arrows and six Valyrian steel tipped arrows on her hip, a dragonglass dagger, a blowgun and Valyrian steel needles, and her own Valyrian steel spear; freshly forged by Gendry - the head might not be quite as long as Sansa's, but unlike Arya's, it had a distinct leaf shape. She could easily carve through the entire ambush.

She should have carved through the entire ambush, to save her brother.

She hadn't. Instead, she'd killed him.

"Were you then as you are today?" asked No One quietly, without any trace of emotion in his voice or expression.

Meera scoffed again. She hadn't had any serious weapons then, hadn't understood how the dead would attack, had neither dragonglass nor fire arrows, which made her bow useless, and her sword was plain steel. They had all been underfed, cold, and exhausted. Bran had never been a great fighter, even warged into Hodor, and Summer could only do so much. The Children had no bows, crossbows, or spring engines, wouldn't leave their magic protections, and had very poor range with their magical fire.

"No, I wasn't" she said quietly. No One was silent and still for several minutes while she thought of what she could have done differently as she had been then. No matter how she worked through the situation, not all of them could have survived. Between Bran and Jojen, someone would always have fallen behind if they went fast enough, and without the weapons to quickly and permanently put down the dead, they'd have been swarmed if they went slowly. Torches and moving quickly would have been their best chance... but then at least one of them would have been burned to death by the wights who were on fire, but not yet destroyed.

He spoke quietly after she'd come to the conclusion that there had been no way for them all to survive, "Could his wounds have been treated?"

"No," she said with certainty. She'd spent enough time looking after her archers who had been injured during the attacks and when the caravans broke through the siege; Jojen's wounds had been mortal, no doubt about it.

"Was he suffering?"

"Yes."

"Was there time to make other choices, try things that had not been tried?"

"No," replied Meera sadly. The wights had been approaching too fast, more and more every minute.

"Did your brother pray for death?"

"He did. He'd done his duty, fulfilled his visions, brought Bran to the Three-Eyed Raven and the Children of the Forest."

"Then you made the best choice you could have, giving the Gift and answering his prayers. Did he suffer less because of your actions?"

"Yes."

"Then you also gave the Gift well, reducing his suffering," replied No One approvingly.

"Does it hurt much? Getting your throat cut?" asked Meera. She'd done it out of instinct, but... had it really been the best way?

"Many bravos who make their way to the House in Braavos request the blade, to the heart or the throat. It hurts, as all cuts do, but it is fast and dignified, and bleeding out quickly, in the presence of one who loves you, is a peaceful death," replied the Faceless Man.

"Thank you," said Meera, praying to the Old Gods. The next time she noticed, he wasn't there anymore. She stayed in front of the weirwood face for a long time... but it wasn't as painful, not anymore.

************************

"What is it?" asked Cersei.

"Thank you again for repaying the Iron Throne's debts to the Iron Bank in full; the gold has been received in Braavos, and a full counting has revealed you provided precisely the correct amount. Your arithmetic is excellent, your debt is paid. Here is your receipt," said Tycho Nestoris, passing over a raven scroll with his usual small smile, "That scroll also contains the full details of the new investments provided to the Golden Company on your behalf, as well as the interest payments, the first of which was also included in your shipment. Your Hand, Qyburn, is quite the capable man of finance."

"He is, isn't he. Do you have something else for me?" asked Cersei sharply. Qyburn had already informed her of the ravens; this one she knew all about, and so she took it and set it aside without reading it, giving the vulture before her a slight smirk as she sipped her wine, waiting for his next words. He had received two ravens from his superiors, not one, but the second had been in a code even Qyburn could not read, and one, apparently, that the Braavosi had needed neither parchment nor quill to decode, according to her own spies.

"I'm afraid that while your hospitality has been exemplary, I am being recalled to Braavos by the Iron Bank. I will be happy to continue investing in the Iron Throne's endeavors on the Iron Bank's behalf by raven at the current rates... and, of course, for any endeavors intended to fight the army of the dead, at extremely preferential interest rates," said the Iron Bank representative.

"I'm told the army of the dead is currently occupied fighting in the North, and that the two remaining dragons are also occupied there, so I don't see that I will need to worry about any of them for some time. My armies are rebuilding now, and once they are prepared and trained, I'm sure my own current endeavors will be more than successful," replied the Queen. Why this vulture persisted in mentioning the war to the North she didn't know, but whatever was happening with those creatures she'd seen was happening in the most rebellious kingdoms, and she had larger concerns.

"Your father's daughter indeed. I regret to say that I must also inform you that the Iron Bank will look upon any endeavors which interfere with the war against the dead, including but not limited to disruption of dragonglass mining or transportation anywhere in the world, including from Dragonstone, disruption of food production or transport anywhere in the world, extremely unfavorably. I am happy to say that we have had inquiries into how much pork, beef, chicken, mutton, fish, grain, wool, timber, and furs you would like to allow the export of, and at what rates, if you would like to arrange for the highly profitable sale of any of those products."

"My Hand will discuss the details with you before you go," said Cersei, maintaining her smile as she dismissed him. Inwardly, she seethed; how dare this vulture tell her what his nest of vultures would look on unfavorably. She was the Queen, and she would do anything she needed to do! She was the last true Lannister, now, the only one who mattered, abandoned by everyone.

Her father was dead killed by her imp of a brother, her beloved first son Joffrey was dead, killed by that old hag. Her sweet and pure and good Myrcella was dead, killed by the Dornish whores. Her poor, simple Tommen was dead, twisted and turned away from his loving mother by that whore from Highgarden and that blind fool of a High Sparrow. Her brother, her twin had left her, for his selfish, foolish honor! Left her all alone.

She'd gotten her vengeance on most of them, oh yes she had; on all of them except the vile Littlefinger, her treacherous little dove Sansa, and her despicable imp of a brother Tyrion. Now they were all in one place along with that little Targaryen bitch... and Highgarden had yielded gold beyond even what her moron of a husband had borrowed, gold which she was putting to good use.

Her vengeance on those who had betrayed her would come, oh yes.

Cersei admired the color of the wine, so like the color of blood, and smiled as she took a deep drink.

They'd be sorry.

So very, very sorry.

************************

Tyrion knocked on the door to Varys's chambers absently as he smiled at the Unsullied guard by the door. Ser Jorah and Grey Worm had gone rather far beyond what was necessary here in setting guards starting the very hour the caravan had arrived; there were Unsullied on each door, and Dothraki patrolling the halls and the outside of the keep, more than they'd had in Meereen even when the Sons of the Harpy were running rampant. Well, that was little concern of his. Why they needed guards like that so far inside the keep he didn't know; it wasn't like a White Walker would appear out of nowhere.

"My Lord Hand, please do come in," said Varys as he opened the door.

"Varys! No need for titl... what is that smell?" asked Tyrion, wrinkling his nose as the air from inside the Master of Whisperer's room came forth, carrying a particularly pungent odor.

"I believe it is dung, my old friend, though from where I am not sure. I removed the chamberpot, the maids have cleaned the room entirely, changed the sheets and pillows, and the smell is as bad as it was before," complained Varys.

"Your mattress, you haven't changed it?" asked Tyrion. Now that he thought about it, the smell was certainly dung, but not just any dung, as he knew from his time with the hill tribes. This was sheep dung.

"No, I haven't. Should I have?"

"Perhaps you should have! You, my friend, have been sheep-shifted," replied Tyrion, smirking up at Varys, "Have you upset anyone in particular lately?"

"Not any more than usual... though you are intending to tell me what sheep-shifting is, aren't you? After you finish enjoying yourself at my expense?"

"I know something that you do not? That you actually care about? My, my, you're slipping, Varys. Sheep-shift, of course, is the vulgar term for sheep dung," said Tyrion with a wide grin.

"Of course," replied Varys, rolling his eyes. However fond he was of his friend, when Tyrion got in a mood like this, waiting out his fondness of excessive dramatics was the only option. Not for the first time, he wondered what kind of career Tyrion would have had as an actor.

"Have you inspected your mattress? Did it, just mayhaps, smell more strongly than anything else?"

"I inspected everything, but if you'll notice, the whole room smells of... sheep-shift."

"Then please allow me to solve your mystery!"

"By all means, consider yourself allowed," replied Varys.

"Your mattress has been cut open, the sheep dung has been placed inside, and then your mattress was sewn up again... probably by someone small, sneaky, and not very happy with you enjoying your stay in her family's castle."

"Fascinating. And which of your no doubt many little birds told you of this, hmm?" asked the Master of Whisperers.

"Her sister, who told me the story of sheep-shifting many years ago while walking through the gardens in King's Landing. You have experienced the revenge of Arya Stark, my friend, and more than that, you have lived to tell about it!" exclaimed Tyrion, his smile dropping off his face as he continued the thought, "A rare feat, I suspect."

************************

Arya barred the door to Sansa's chambers, taking off her military face as she let herself slump down and show her exhaustion while she began disarming, setting her weapons on a long table, glancing over at her sister, who was sitting at her table tidying up the papers she had been reading by the light of a single candle.

"Have you finally decided to stop living like the smallfolk, in sweat and squalor?" asked Sansa as she stood up to help Arya once her papers were in order, "I bet you don't even have any wine in your quarters."

"Bah. Water's more than enough, as long as you bring your own rock to break the ice with. The bugs just mean you don't need to eat as many rats," snarked Arya as she handed Sansa her bracers, unmarked Valyrian steel visible through the many deep scratches and cuts in the leather over the top.

"You think armorers work for free, girl?" replied Sansa sharply, inspecting the damaged armor, "Gods, what were you doing to these poor things? I'm going to have to replace the covering leather entirely. And you got it wet again, though at least Valyrian steel doesn't rust, so I won't have to keep replacing the steel anymore like I did on the last set."

Arya shook her head as she removed the rest of her armor, "Practicing deflecting arrows again, actual broadheads, not training arrows. Be happy I had training armor over my usual, or you'd be repairing the embroidery on the breast piece as well. The act of cutting through the leather makes a difference in the rebound compared to deflecting training arrows," said Arya, undressing, "Any news on the political side?"

Sansa shook her head, "Nothing unexpected. We're about half-way back to a peacetime winter rate of food consumption, since we've run out of construction materials for the big projects. Knappers and fletchers are still going as fast as they can, but even working full days, they don't eat as much as the people building towers and storehouses do. But...."

Arya nodded somberly, sinking into a chair and scritching the dogs, accepting the welcoming licks to her face and letting them smell the rest of their extended pack, since she'd visited Donovar earlier. Unlike the puppies in the kennels, these three had, naturally, waited primly while she disrobed, like the good little ladies her sister had trained them to be.

Sansa set the armor down and broke the crust of ice on the pitcher, pouring a large cupful for her sister, and then a smaller drink of ice-water for herself. She'd done her best for her people, but her best was not enough, not when the kingdoms and cities she could have bought food from were unable to grow or import enough food for their own people to survive the Long Night to come, not without everyone cooperating with each other, and everyone sacrificing together.

"We're still not stocked for even a decade's peacetime winter, much less longer while under siege, I know. The next caravan's still due in three days, Lord Grafton, Lady Wylla, and Sam's mother and sister are still doing fine on the caravan, and the caravan's done some more logging on the way, in addition to the food they're bringing," the younger Stark replied, accepting the cup and drinking it all down before leaning her head back into the soft upholstery, "Wargs reported that the caravan spotted the wight dragon earlier today, but he made attack; the Night King was probably scouting. Now that he knows their bearing and distance, he's got a lot more options, for attacks and traps. The caravan changed course a little after he was out of sight, but now we just have to wait and see."

"We're still better off than most Southrons. The Ibbenese and Lorathi are extremely well prepared, so they may still be able to provide food, if we can get it. Ib sent a raven that arrived this afternoon; there's been another three ships lost to icebergs; two while they were south of Ib. Travel to Essos may become very difficult soon, even for heavy icebreakers like the Ibbenese kochs," replied Sansa, preparing for bed herself; she could attend to Arya's armor in the morning.

"You are becoming a merchant indeed! The Red Wolf of traders, driving a terrifying bargain; perhaps you'll be able to finally have a respectable career!" japed Arya, then sighed and smiled wryly at her sister, closing her eyes, "It's worse than that, though. If the oceans freeze over in the far north, we can send caravans across the ice; there'll be plenty of fish underneath... but the Night King will be able to send any forces he has in the Lands of Always Winter over to Essos while we're merely dealing with icebergs, and Braavos, Lorath, and Ib are the northernmost, all of which depend on the ocean for their defense. We'll need to send military teachers immediately, while passage is still easy; I'll arrange it tonight."

Arya's list of things to do kept getting longer; even with the Night King engaging in a static siege, she had been translating current military terminology and training to the many foreign delegations, demonstrating how White Walkers fought along with Jon and Brienne, making sure her various spymasters were keeping up and expanding their operations, working out plans for what the Night King might do next, training her commanders and herself, managing the endless stream of military logistics, and all that was just in her own face. In No One's face, she was making sure assassinations were handled, setting up the training of the acolytes and novices of the House of Black and White, and continuing her own personal training with the two full priests who had come to Westeros; she still had much to learn, as she knew well.

Sansa rolled her eyes and threw a pillow at Arya, who caught it with an economical gesture without so much as cracking her eyes open.

"You will do no such thing. You're not allowed out of this room until you've had some sleep. Even tomorrow anyone from here will have two days to prepare to leave on the outbound caravan, and Gulltown and White Harbor have trainers too, so you can and will handle that tomorrow. You're working yourself too hard, Arya; I'll send Brienne to Daenerys for her staff training tomorrow. She's nearly as good as Tormund at impersonating a White Walker; she needs practice at that, and then you can sleep in," said Sansa. She let her love and worry color her voice without pushing any of it down as she continued chiding her sister, "You keep pushing yourself and pushing yourself; we will survive without you when you leave. If you're worried, then don't leave the caravan after next, wait for the caravan after that."

"I have to go South, and soon. Cersei's still preventing the Southron kingdoms from focusing on defense and survival, threatening both us and Dorne, and completely blocking trade on the King's Road between us. If the icebergs keep moving South, we'll have to close the port at White Harbor and then we're left only with Gulltown on the east coast and Seagard on the west, which can't support each other, which makes Euron a bigger threat," said Arya.

She had so much to do, and her people were good... but not as good as she was. Sansa was right, though; White Harbor had stood off the siege just as well as Winterfell had, and she wasn't there. Her tactics were working - they just had to see what the Night King was going to do about the next caravan exchange; the first one they were certain he'd spotted in advance. Perhaps the Night King had had greenseer visions of the prior ones, perhaps not, but this time they knew he'd seen it.

Arya opened her eyes to stare at her sister, then stood and moved over to sit next to her, murmuring near-silently in the quiet room, "There's something going on with some of the necromancers and warlocks. I don't know what it is, but I can feel it, see their greed. Not the young ones, the apprentices, but the ancient ones; those aren't here to help... or not just here to help, definitely. You'll need to watch them carefully once I'm gone. Varys is watching them too - he definitely hates sorcerers and their ilk, even if he's willing to work with a magically fireproof dragonrider. If they start to use necromancy, you need to fetch No One immediately. Some of the other magic users not aligned with them, too; the Shadow Flame would be best, or even Kinvara, since the face of the Red God also hates the kind of necromancy the necromancers are likely to try."

"What about Archmaester Marwyn?" asked Sansa so quietly she herself couldn't make out the words.

"For investigation, definitely, but not against them if they're making a direct move; he has knowledge, but no serious power. Remember what Daenerys and Jorah told us; the warlocks can appear elsewhere, even behind you, while they're still right in front of you. Valyrian steel is your best bet against any magic, but you've got to recognize the danger, and then strike first, or dodge and block."

Sansa slid her hand down the chain attached to the steel knitting needle, fingertips feeling the disguising grooves and the actual joins on the steel needle both; that, even more than the spear that rested by her bed, was her personal Valyrian steel, within reach all the time. She slipped the chain over her neck and then hung it on a hook she'd had put on the headboard, wrapping it around twice so a single sharp tug would free her weapon, as she had every night since Gendry had made it for her.

Under her pillow she placed her two favorite knitting needles, brand-new and just like the castle-forged ones, but with Valyrian steel hidden within, just as her sister hid her own Valyrian steel. With their new... acquisitions... the amount of Valyrian steel used to create such small, slender blades was small compared to what was required for, say, Meera's personal spear, or the other unique weapon she'd commissioned for her sister before she had to leave. The Night King had sent seventeen White Walkers after her once, defended by the might of Winterfell's defenses; what he and his wight dragon might try once Arya was away from those defenses worried her.

The climbed into bed and pulled up the thin cover, then Sansa called for the dogs to jump up. She wasn't one of the Free Folk - unlike her wild sister - but she was a direwolf, and she'd missed sleeping with Lady, though Lady hadn't lived to be the size of these puppies. Sansa reached one arm out over Jeyne's furry neck, and the other to her sister.

"I remember, Arya. You've only told me over and over. I'm not a stupid little girl," snapped Sansa while making the sign for jape against Arya's shoulder.

"Well, fighting magic isn't really a woman's skill like sewing, so I figured everything I told you would dribble out your ears in about a day."

"Arya!"

"And that's after I've told you twenty times. I figure it only lasted an hour the first time before you got distracted with lemon cakes or flowers or needlework or espionage or running two and a bit kingdoms. You know, women's work!"

"Arya!" exclaimed Sansa as they laughed, then closed their eyes to sleep, comfortable in the company of each other and Ghost's puppies.

Less than two hours later, Arya bolted up, immediately rolling over a startled Beth and twisting as she fairly leapt off the bed, taking her sword and dagger in hand, woken by something... not a sound, nor a smell nor a light nor a taste nor a touch. She closed her eyes, turning her senses inwards to the patterns of power around her, ignoring the whining of one of the puppies as she sought what had awoken her.

"Arya?" asked Sansa, Valyrian steel in hand as she lay still in bed, waiting for word from her sister as she rubbed Beth's head with her free hand to quiet her. If it was time to call the guards, Arya would have done so already, so she followed her sister's lead.

Arya could feel something subtle; not the patterns of glamour she was familiar with, nor any patterns of glamours at all, but magic. Powerful magic, if she'd felt it at her current skill. Powerful magic close by; it couldn't be anywhere that would be noticed, and the castle was full of people, all the time, all except...

"MESSENGERS! LOCK DOWN THE CASTLE, GROUPS OF TWENTY OR MORE, STAY IN PLACE! ONLY THESE MOVEMENTS ARE ALLOWED! SHADOW FLAME AND GUARDS TO THE CRYPT ENTRANCE! KITTY AND BRIENNE TO SANSA! MEERA AND THE HOUND TO BRAN! KITTY AND BRIENNE AND SANSA TO BRAN! LADY WINTER TO THE CRYPT ENTRANCE! DAENERYS AND JON AND TWENTY GUARDS TO THE DRAGONS! PREPARE FOR UNKNOWN ATTACK, DRAGONS CIRCLE LOW!" shouted Arya, setting her bare weapons down and scrambling to don her armor as quickly as possible, hearing the shouts and the footsteps of sprinting pages as she started throwing on her armor and weapons again, Sansa re-sheathing her needle and immediately helping Arya prepare for battle.

"Magic?" asked Sansa, lacing up Arya's bracers expertly, then working on the other pieces, "Necromancy?"

"Magic. Maybe, I don't know what kind, but it's inside the castle, I can feel it below us. Keep your spear ready," said Arya rapidly, sheathing her sword and dagger, then unbarring the door and sprinting out along the shortest route to the crypt entrance, far outpacing her sister.

Whatever was happening, she was quite certain it wasn't good, and equally certain that the Night King would be prepared to take advantage.

************************

 

[Epic Reader]

Arya raced down the stairs at her full speed, then shouted ahead to make sure the doors were open before she got to the landing; she tucked her sword in as she sped around the corner as quick as she could, darting to the far left as she approached a team of six and twenty servants who had set up a bristling shieldwall across the hallway, appearing to be a little confused as to exactly how much space to leave, the two of their members who had run to the end of the corridor nearly at the closed window shutters already.

"OPEN A PATH AND THE SHUTTERS," shouted Lady Winter, as she sprinted down the hallway, barely clearing past the servants on either side as she lined herself up with the window at the end, tucking her head down and leaping out, skidding over the roof of the hoarding below her before grabbing one of the dangling ropes and kicking out to arc over to the roofline below, following that until another leap brought her to the top of the walls, the senior guard ahead warning his soldiers as he spotted her rapidly approaching figure, being much more familiar with the military leader's antics than the servants from that wing of the castle.

The drums informed her the other movements she'd ordered were happening - Sansa, Kitty, and Brienne were on the way to meet Bran, Meera, and Sandor and combine the guard detachments, while the Shadow Flame was two courtyards away, and the dragons would be airborne soon. She narrowed her eyes as she raced towards another courtyard, spotting a simple glamour of an empty section of walls concealing two figures.

"TWO MORE WITH ME," she shouted, dropping down into the courtyard as the glamour faded and No One and No One joined her inside the gatehouse, the door they'd entered closed and barred, the door on the other side opening, guards on the now-closed side wide-eyed at the two unannounced additions who had come from nowhere.

"Showoff," she murmured to No One under her breath, passing each one of her Valyrian steel throwing knives, unseen by the guards in the dark interior of the gatehouse. Everyone who paid attention would notice the empty places on her gear, so there wouldn't be questions as to where the Valyrian steel came from.

"If you practice, you'll be able to hold a glamour when scaling a wall, No One. Necromancy, well hidden," No One replied equally quietly as he followed her out, to Arya's nod.

Arya noted Viealu and Kinvara were crossing the courtyard rapidly behind one of the pages assigned to them, followed by three other priests and priestesses of R'hllor, all with deaths bound to them, and ten warriors of the face of the Red God. Very skilled warriors, by the way they walked and held their swords. Why swords, she wasn't sure, but they were doubtless confident that flaming swords - or their magic - would be enough. Whether they were right or wrong, she had only two choices; she could bring them along, or she could not. There was no time to second guess them, no time to question them.

"This way," said Arya, slowing down to a fast walk the ancients could match as she caught up to them, leading them through another gatehouse in two groups, subtly instructing No One to stay with the rear group and keep an eye on them just in case.

"Matthas, who's still in the crypts?" demanded Arya, lowering the normal pitch of her voice somewhat, inspecting the guards while the second group of the Lord of Light's followers were coming through. The guards appeared to be in good health, unharmed and alert, on the walls as well as in front, yet she could clearly feel the patterns of strange power were below her, closer; they were definitely coming from the crypts. The gatehouse that had been constructed to guard the crypt entrance was intact, without any sign of damage, the guards were who she expected to see, and none had faces that were betraying fear of her.

"Lady Winter, Joree's farming team and Maester Stefan went in together last shift; they should be coming out soon, plus the usual guards," replied the senior guard on duty in the crypt entrance graveyard.

Arya drew her dagger in her right hand, her left hand up by her bandoleer free, and nodded, calling out loudly after dragging her dagger past her throat and looking at those coming with her, "Four and twenty in the farming party, mostly children and elderly, one Maester specializing in herblore, plus four guards in two sets are supposed to be in there. Let's go in and escort them out. I don't know who called this crazy drill, but rules are rules, even ones made by idiots who don't think of how regular people like us need to get our work done!"

She then reached out to a page who had been in the courtyard, tapping a gong sequence on his shoulder and pointing at the two scorpion emplacements on the walls that would have an angle through the gatehouse, sending the page dashing off quietly as she pointed at the senior guard and spreading apart her hands, hoping he understood as she pointed at the torches on the wall, which were quickly brought over to her and the others.

"Open outer gates!" called the senior guard.

Arya suppressed her frown at the nervousness in the guard's voice and waved the team of priests to split up on the sides of the doors, No One and No One assisting her in keeping the Red Priests and their guards out of the way, and out of the gatehouse. She could hear voices from inside speaking one of the liquid sounding languages from far to the east in Essos; she couldn't follow all of it, but it was clear they weren't expecting company from this side of the gates yet, and it sounded Qartheen. It was far, far too dark for the scorpion crews to do precision shooting. She glanced at No One.

"Close outer gates!" called out the senior guard. His team, at least, understood, closing the gates on No One, dropping the bar and pulling it out instantly, opening the gates quickly and as quietly as they could, No One coming out after having painted a large cross on the door with wildfire, putting as much wildfire between the planks as possible, to weaken the wood.

"Open inner gates!" called the senior guard.

"The bar is stuck!" came the shout from inside the crypt, preceded by a surge of glamour, "Matthas, go get a hammer from the farming crew to help open it! We'll have it open soon!"

Arya looked up at the two scorpions, each now pointed directly into the gatehouse, and threw the torch at the door, wildfire igniting as the source of heat approached.

TWANG! TWANG!

Two iron-shafted, castle-forged steel headed plate cutters smashed into and through the barred inner doors, one tearing through the thigh of the second to the left glamoured sorcerer's guard inside, large splinters, a couple flaring with green fire peppering him and the other three alike while Arya and her two priests took off in a sprint, Arya launching herself in a low, flat dive through the hole in the door to avoid the flames, rolling to the right on the splinter-covered floor beyond while avoiding a spot of wildfire flame, sweeping the far right guard off his feet while her dagger punched up under the second to the right guard's ribcage into his heart, then out again as she smashed him into the falling man to his left, No One taking the far left guard with a thrown Valyrian steel blade to the throat through the open hope while No One hopped past the the flaming wood and smashed his boot into the fallen guard on the far right's head, driving it back into the cold stone before economically slashing his throat with the throwing dagger. The still-glamoured guard missing part of his thigh had already passed out from blood loss, and was ignored by No One; he was already the Many-Faced God's.

Each time Valyrian steel touched the glamour the guards were wearing, it was broken, Northern and Vale visages melting away to show Essosi features on men wearing bloody bags around their necks, the severed hands of the actual guards inside no longer able to anchor the glamour against the magic of the nearly-living blades.

Arya closed her eyes briefly to check for anyone else nearby, listening, feeling and scenting the air, reaching out with her senses. Other than the people behind her, there wasn't anyone, but she felt uneasy nonetheless - not as a Faceless Man, not as a novice magician, but as a Stark, in the crypts where the ashes of her ancestors lay, and that wasn't a feeling she had ever had before.

As Arya stood still as ice, Kinvara and the younger Red Priests lifted their hands, chanting a phrase one, two, then three times before the green fire flared up bright as day, consuming the pieces of wood utterly, melting the stone underneath like candle wax before the tiny amount of wildfire burned itself out. The Shadow Flame led the way in through the now-open gate, despite her own guards trying to get ahead of her.

"GHOST TO CRYPT ENTRANCE! Close the outer gates and bar them. If Ghost is upset by whoever comes, kill them all, no matter what they look like," commanded Arya as No One retrieved the throwing dagger they'd used, then led the way quickly through the crypts. Anyone else might have had to follow the trail of the farmers and the Maester, then follow the next trail to wherever they had been taken, but Arya could sense the strange magic growing ever stronger now, swelling rapidly below her and to the left. She was a Stark, and knew the crypts of her ancestors well, so she led them ahead, then turned right to descend a stair that would take then down three levels to a corridor that would bring them back towards the sensation. These magicians had tried to slow her down; that meant a sudden strike would be, as usual, best.

"The power is of the dead, of the forces outside," said the Shadow Flame in a voice that would be barely audible to the farthest of her guards, striding along as quietly as any Northern guards would have been, as these men also eschewed loud metal armor.

"The Night King's power?" asked Arya, here voice pitched to just carry to the greatest servant of the face of the Red God in all the world as she unlocked the gate and started the steep descent; there were no fresh tracks on these stairs, no patterns of power she could detect, and the air warmed normally as they went deeper. These necromancers were short on magic and soldiers, arrogant, or had been in a great hurry to have such a thin rearguard.

"It is the magic his forces use, but I cannot say if it is his alone," the ancient woman replied, "There are lesser magics from Qarth and Asshai with it, but they are but feeble candles compared to its bonfire."

Arya paused on the bottom level, glancing at the Shadow Flame with a finger pointed horizontally down the main corridor she was in, towards the large cavern she knew would be at its end, and received a nod from Viealu, accompanied by a half-smile; not condescending, but a similar expression to what Maester Luwin had given her as a child when she was right, but when he knew she wasn't certain.

Setting off down the corridor, dagger leading, Arya mused that the priestess was right. She hadn't been entirely certain, and even now she couldn't sense any of the two lesser magics at all. She was a Faceless Man, and a Water Dancing master, but even in those faces she still had much to learn, for all she trained as often as she could. As a user of magic, she was barely able to craft even moderately useful glamours; magic she had, but it would take decades for her to attain real skill with it, and she would die long before she even approached Kinvara's training, much less anyone more skilled. It was not the way of the Faceless Man to extend life, only to take it and give it to the Many-Faced God when it was time.

For those ahead, it was definitely time; as she passed the more commonly used staircase to this level, her Valyrian steel shattered the glamour hiding the tracks in the dust; her people were dead because she had been too slow to find the enemy, from the elderly Maester who directed the tending of the plants growing down here out of the light and freezing cold to the children of eight who had helped to water them.

Ahead, there was a blue glow in the corridor, brightening as they neared the entrance to the cavern, and an ever-growing chant in the liquid sounding language of Qarth, home of those pathetic Sorrowful Men. Arya felt a strange chill run through her as the chanting crested and stopped, the walls of the crypts seeming as they were pressing in on her for a long moment, blue light flaring up and then dying back to what it was before as the Night King's magic that had been building was spent; she'd been too slow, but she could still surprise them. She held up her left hand, showing a single finger, then pointed to the left, added a thumb in the Asshai way of counting two and pointed to the right, then made a fist, the sign the guards of R'hllor used to mean a fight.

She had considered racing on ahead with her fellow Faceless Men, both full priests easily able to run and fight blind, but while No One was far better than she with glamour, the use of magic as a direct weapon was very rare among the priests of the Many-Faced God, and those few who could had remained with the Braavosi face of the one god. She had decided it would be better to stay with Viealu and the others, and with the necromancer's magic apparently successful, that remained more true than ever. Only a fool rushed in without knowing where to strike, or without defending one's own weaknesses. Only one throwing themselves at the Many-Faced God rushed in without knowing either.

She rounded the left turn in the passage, the glow brightening again, continuing on; behind her the others were getting ready for battle in an awful clamor, even as they tried to be quiet. The passage would turn to the right about fifteen yards before the entrance, and she could already hear two mouth-breathers perhaps three yards before the entrance, and more than two dozen beings in the cavern itself, most of them getting up off the ground clumsily.

Wights. By the smell of blood in the air, freshly raised; but there was a whisper of robes as well, whose echoes were sharper; those in robes were next to bare rock. Mages next to the rock walls, fresh-raised wights in the middle, the Night King's power present, guards outside, and if she could, she needed leaders alive for interrogation - there were likely others not in the room who should also be given the Gift for this. With that thought, Arya raised her dagger in her right hand and drew a dragonglass dagger in her left; No One would avoid killing the leader.

Rounding the right-hand corner, she led the other two Faceless Men and the Red God's warriors towards the guards outside the cavern; living men, yes, but incredibly startled and apparently mostly deaf; the guards behind her ran so loudly she would have heard them coming even before the blind beggar training. Slow, too; her dagger swept through the throat of the one on the right while No One took the one on the left before either of them actually made any real noise; ahead she could see dismembered bodies laid out on the ground in curving lines converging in the middle of the cavern inside the pack of wights, in the same symbol the White Walkers were known to do for their 'art'.

Above them were standing, as expected, a score wights or more who blocked her view across the cavern. They were mostly the bodies of members of the farming party, those who weren't in unmoving pieces on the floor, though also a few in the uniforms of Qarth and New Ghis guards, and one wight in a New Ghis sorcerer's robe.

Less than a second after cutting the one guard's throat, she was in the cavern, planting her right foot for a sharp left turn, dragonglass dagger taking down two wights, No One and No One behind her already turning right; they'd spent more than enough time training her and being trained by her to know exactly how she'd react, and she them. They were deadly, yes, and better trained than she with most weapons... but this was a situation where her water-dancing skills were an excellent fit, and she was also a dancing master; she'd go alone, and they together.

To her left, just behind an outcropping of rock was a warlock, frightened at her sudden appearance and looking frantically towards the back of the cavern while raising his hands; he was clearly not a leader, so she cut his throat even as the next mage, a New Ghis sorcerer on the other side of the curving row of body parts chanted in the guttural Ghiscari language and 'threw' a shadowy blade at her; it moved strangely in the air, entirely straight, but only as fast as an out of shape sorcerer could have thrown an actual lightweight blade, so she swept her Valyrian steel dagger through it and dodged the rapidly dissipating remains entirely.

He, too, glanced at the back of the cavern - the same spot as before, so she gauged where she was in the cavern and where he must be, in a small nook, launching her left-hand dragonglass dagger up and over the wights towards where she could hear his breathing - he was drawing in a deep breath, and hopefully the shards of shattering dragonglass raining down would distract him. If nothing else, she could hear three wights stop moving with purpose and start falling as they were hit by fragments of dragonglass.

Meanwhile, she dropped down and whipped her dagger across the ankles of another three wights, instantly sending them back to the peace of true death while drawing her sword and lunging, Icicle's tip punching between the Ghiscari man's ribs to pierce his heart, then withdrawn just as quickly as it went in.

One more mage was between herself and the leader; on the other side, her priests were making quick work of the magicians as well, and the cavern lit up in orange light to compete with the blue as the Red Guards had moved directly into the middle, blazing swords cutting down the wights rapidly. Kinvara's was directly behind her, following in her path, chanting a prayer to the Red God's face in High Valyrian.

"Capture the one opposite the entrance!" called out Arya as she recovered and took down the only other wight still in reach on her way to the last magician between her and their leader, both of whom were clearly Qartheen and chanting rapidly. The man before her was both a necromancer and a warlock; from the bottom of his robes came four manticores, their iridescent green backs informing all of their deadly and useful venom. From his shoulders, though, came the second aspect of his attack; not a slow creeping insect, but two small, half-decayed rats jumping at her nearly at once, their fangs and claws both coated in manticore venom.

Arya swept her long blade through the air precisely, cutting through just enough fur for the Valyrian steel to reach skin on each of them even as she slid rapidly to the right, ducking under the poisoned corpse of one wight rat as she came at the necromancer while his manticores tried to scuttle close enough to sting, her sword already having returned to guard position by the time the necromancer's chant ended and he thrust both hands at her, shadow knives again coming at her. A simple sweep of her sword dissipated them as she dodged again to the right, keeping out of range of the manticores in case he attacked again. As she expected, he flicked his hands rapidly, another pair of shadow knives getting the same treatment from her sword and dagger, though this time she had to take the dissipating shadow of one on her left bracer, the leather blackening instantly wherever the shadow touched it, though her arm felt nothing; whether it was the leather or the Valyrian steel under it that protected her, she knew not.

The third pair streaked towards her even as Kinvara finished her own chant, a sun-bright streak of fire lancing out at the necromancer she was fighting while Arya dissipated the knife coming at her hip with her sword and the one racing for her head with her dagger, taking the right-hand one on that bracer even as the man started screaming, his robes, beard, eyebrows and hair igniting instantly from Kinvara's fire, his eyes and skin starting to melt a moment later.

In the center, the wights were nearly gone, and Arya could see her primary target, their leader, clearly. She moved to attack him as rapidly as she could, placing her boots carefully on the irregular cavern floor to launch herself without slipping. He was a tall, bald man with the blue lips Shade of the Evening use gave, his arms swinging out wide as his own battle chant finished, a virtual wall of shadow racing outwards, from floor to ceiling, concealing him entirely and spreading too fast for Arya to reverse her momentum and retreat before it could hit her, so she extended sword and dagger to lance through the approaching shadow wall and crossed her bracers in front of her face and neck; she planted her left foot and ducked down, balancing during the skid to give the shadow as small and well protected a target as possible.

The Shadow Flame's voice came from the entrance, snapping out two quick words, and the wall of shadow was incinerated in a blinding white flash. While this was happening, No One and No One took out the final warlock on the other side of their leader, then turned to the few remaining wights; blindness troubled no Faceless Man, though she could hear the guards the Red Priests brought crying out and sweeping their blades at the full extent of their reach, though they did not swing wide enough to hit their fellows; they'd trained for exactly this, she could tell, and against wights it was excellent, if tiring.

Arya was blinded instantly by the flash and ignored the pain in her eyes as she lunged forward again, leaving the wight who had sought to strike her to another fire lance, courtesy one of the younger Red Priests with Viealu. Her sword took the lead warlock through the right forearm, her dagger through his left forearm, avoiding the arteries with the narrow blades as her boot smashed down on one of his knees, then the other, shattering them easily as she wrenched his arms apart. Mage or not, he was old; very old. Deaths clung to him, nearly as many as clung to Kinvara. The wights behind her were down, the other warlocks destroyed.

"No One, get the manticores," commanded Arya. If the warlocks were going to be kind enough to give the House of Black and White in Westeros manticores to produce venom, she was hardly going to refuse the gift. She turned her head to cast her rapidly clearing eyes at Viealu's gaze, smashing the warlock's balls with her knee when he started to speak while her face was turned away.

"First Servant of R'hllor in the Shadow Lands, do you know this warlock?" asked Arya, inspecting him carefully. He used a glamour, but one so feeble she nearly had to concentrate to notice it at all; clearly his talents and training lay in other disciplines. That shadow wall; that wasn't something she'd been expecting, nor something that had been taught to her when discussing how to assassinate magicians.

Then again, No One's job wasn't to fight a prepared warlock in a ritual chamber face to face, it was to give them the Gift, which was an altogether different proposition. She'd update the records and send a raven to the House in Braavos tonight - that was a very dangerous attack in tight quarters.

"I do not, Right Hand of Death. I have heard of him; he is Kyur Klaa, who I have heard came to Asshai several centuries ago, seeking ancient knowledge of necromancy and other magics forbidden elsewhere," replied the First Servant, gesturing to the center of the no longer intact curving lines of dismembered parts, "Would you like me to close this connection?"

Arya drew in a breath, the smell of blood, shit, and burning flesh overlaying the faint scents of clean stone, cave-water and growing plants in the room. No One came to take charge of the impaled prisoner, so Arya smoothly transferred control of the weapons impaling Kyur Klaa's arms to her fellow priest. She stepped into the center, where she could hear crackling flames, the heartbeats of those who had come with her slowing as Kyur Klaa's sped up, her other priest scooping up the manticores into his robes. She could feel the air moving as the living breathed and moved, the draft from the fires stirring the air, and a distinctly unnatural chill from the blue fire in the brazier in the center, slowly burning away the root and stem of a nine year old boy; Yintol, if she had to guess. She'd have to visit his mother, and the families of the dead.

The brazier was set on the corner of a small nightstand table, in the precise center of the spiraling lines of severed body parts radiating around in the White Walker's usual artistic fashion, invisible magic spiraling around it. As she stilled herself, she saw and listened and felt; there, there was the connection the First Servant of R'hllor in the Shadow Lands had mentioned. A connection from this sacred place of the Starks up and to the northeast... towards where Bran had seen the Night King nearly an hour ago. A cold magic, but not the steady, comfortable, uncaring natural cold of snow and ice and the North, but a bitter and evil cold that crept in, seeking out the dead for its own blasphemous purposes.

The nightstand carried one more thing... a baby boy, less than a week old, silent and quiet, not breathing even as it raised its head and looked directly at Viealu with glowing, crystalline blue eyes, far brighter than the eyes of wights.

White Walker's eyes.

"Close it off," commanded Arya flatly, "Put dragonglass flakes in the pieces and the wights, but leave them unburnt for study."

Arya watched as a simple gesture from the Shadow Flame snuffed the blue flame out entirely; the crypts felt unnatural for a bare moment longer before she could feel Bran's familiar magic swirling around her; her own magic responding even as her brother's magic became more... itself, and less the Three-Eyed Raven's. A third magic, too, she could feel, thin and wispy, untested and nearly unused, poking and prying everywhere to try and sense everything; her sister's magic, comfortable in their home even as weak as it was. She was a Stark, they were Starks; here she was welcome, and she could feel her own magic, subtle and hidden, mingling with the others for just a moment before the bitter cold faded, the crypts returned to their familiar comforting feel of thick, welcoming cold.

"There must always be a Stark in Winterfell," she murmured the words her father had said so often.

Looking at the thing that had recently been a baby, she decided there was no sense risking any strangeness from dragonglass interacting with a freshly, and possibly specially, made White Walker baby when she knew very well the Night King had been made with dragonglass himself... and the Night King had arranged for this White Walker to be here, now. Arya glanced at No One, who instantly plunged the Valyrian steel throwing dagger into and through the baby White Walker's throat and spine.

She returned to the warlock pinned by her own weapons, her senses telling her about his breathing, his heartbeat, his scent, the tiny motions of his eyes and nostrils, the twitches of his muscles, taking back the hilts of her weapons, No One moving to stand just behind and to her left, Viealu moving to stand on her right, Kinvara just behind Viealu and to her right. Arya had specifically requested Viealu's presence, and had, it seemed, been very wise to do so; the ancient priestess seemed so far to be powerful, skilled, and wise. Arya flicked her eyes to the right, and nodded just enough for her to notice; the other deserved the respect of an equal leader of one of the Many-Faced God's many magic-granting faces. And Sansa would have her head if she caused a diplomatic incident, no matter this was her own home.

"You were the leader. Yes. You were the only one who knew the plan. No, others knew. Everyone else who knew is now dead. No, they aren't. They came from..."

After they were done interrogating the warlock and had given him the Gift, Arya led the group back up through the crypts at a slow, steady pace, mindful of the Shadow Flame's exhaustion. All power had a price, after all. As she approached the stairs, she could hear the faint sounds of rapid drumbeats; the Night King's army was on the move! She spoke in quick, clipped tones.

"Night King's doing something else; I need to be up there. No One will lead you out."

With that, Arya sprinted up the stairs, shouting, "Ghost! It's me! Open the gates!"

Hearing his happy barking and his claws scrabbling on the door, she smiled. He, at least, didn't need elaborate secret passwords and memorized combinations of coinage to know someone was who they said they were. She waited a minute as the men scrambled to unbarricade and open the outer doors; they had apparently taken some precautions, and she'd have to find out whose idea that was and reward them, as inconvenient as it was now.

That said, she could smell the old smoke from the destruction of the inner gates hours ago, hear clearly the drums and gongs and horn calls. The Night King was on the move, yes, but he wasn't attacking.

He was decamping a large part of his forces and starting to head South.

************************

"Lord Bran, your Lady Wife," called the guard outside the door.

"Enter," replied Bran, looking over placidly as Meera entered, setting down the tray of food from lunch and giving him a hug and a kiss before settling into the chair next to his wheeled one, her fingers intertwined with his, settling in just as she had early that very morning after they had been awoken suddenly by the lockdown.

"Sisters," said the Lady of Winterfell to her Queen and the Lady of the Crossing from her husband's side. She knew that however much Sansa liked being Queen, she preferred to act as a family with her family, and she'd rather her brother be loved and cared for than have a formal greeting every time Meera entered a private room. She thought that Sansa looked tired, even with it being the dark of midafternoon now, stars twinkling overhead. During the hours Arya was in the crypts, it had been worrisome, but then the Night King had started moving. Once her sister had come out, she'd watched from the battlements for a few minutes, then left to round up some collaborators of the forces in the crypts, and all that without enough sleep. One more attack against her family, her castle, and her kingdoms, and one more time the attack had been destroyed to the enemy's cost... and their own.

"Arya will be here shortly; I sent her off for a couple hours of sleep a couple hours ago. I've called the Small Council meeting for this evening, and Arya's called the military meeting after that. Kitty, you've decided?" asked Sansa, rubbing her shoulder against her sister-by-choice's shoulder, her tone both sad and proud. As soon as Bran had said the Night King's army was starting South, Kitty had started planning to go south and oversee the preparations of her people for the army of the dead; if Winterfell and White Harbor couldn't keep the enemy pinned, Moat Cailin wouldn't either. Arya, too, had immediately set her troupe of snowflakes to prepare the largest outbound caravans, which her little sister would lead.

She'd regained her family, only for them to once again need to leave, as she had years ago, and her brothers did soon after. Again members of her family were heading South into the lands of their enemies... yet where their father and mother had gone ignorant of the webs of plans around them, those of her family went in the knowledge of many webs and expecting even more, with battle-tested armies and well-supported spy networks. Where father had left mother and her political expertise behind, Kitty had paid attention to her lessons. Where her parents had dismissed tales of the White Walkers and disdained assassins, Arya was not just as fierce as Robb, but also the world's leading expert on how to fight the dead, and was the leading assassin in all Westeros. Still, she worried, and would for months or years at best... and days at worst, if they were unlucky.

"I'll name Patrek Mallister to represent the Northern Riverlands on the Small Council while I'm away. I haven't seen any indication he's ambitious enough to take advantage, and his father is reputed to be a fair man, not so ambitious as to order a dutiful son to actions that would be seen... badly, by you," replied Kitty, smirking slightly, "And by me, and my spies, who he's noticed. He tried offering his son to Arya, and failed; he might try offering his son to me, next, before he realizes I really will be ruling the Northern Riverlands, married or not. Or perhaps after he realizes - nobody could ever think Arya would settle for being the Lady of a castle in a place ruled by her husband, even if they've never met her."

Kitty giggled together with Meera and Sansa at the absurd image of Arya curtsying obediently to her Lord Husband, and Kitty smiled at Sansa's approving nod of her choice and her reasoning. She'd come to Winterfell a scared young woman, desperate for some place where she could be kept safe from the Lannisters, from the kind of men who inhabited the Twins and had survived, and from her father, who would doubtless be eager to sell her off again, as he'd sold her to Walder as his ninth wife. She'd brought her ladies and maids and their children to try and keep as many safe as she could, to her own credit, but... a scared young woman she had been.

Now, though, she was heading back, to face not just the Lannisters and her father and her bannermen, but to face the army of the dead while depending on the Lannister soldiers and her bannermen. Truth be told, probably mostly on the foreign soldiers - they were far better trained than any other force around the Twins aside from Seagard, and Seagard would need its own defense.

She was returning home the Lady of the Crossing, but not as she left. She was returning a spymaster with a network reaching across Westeros from the lands of the Free Folk to Dorne, a sister to the Queen of the North and personal acquaintances with Queen Daenerys and Princess Sarella and a host of Lords and Ladies and chieftains and leaders of clans. All that had been within the bounds of her imagination as she rode north, but being an archer who had faced the army of the dead personally in the line of battle with a crossbow at less than a dozen feet distance, no... much less doing so at the brothel she'd been running for her Queen!

She was returning as a leader who even in exile had arranged for not only her people's safety as best she could, but who had denied her enemies the scattered winter stockpiles remaining in her lands, as well as having incited the smallfolk into near-revolt... and guided them to stay far from the Lannisters, rather than dying for nothing without the forces to fully defeat the enemy. As a result, the Twins were nearly isolated and dependent on imported supplies, the local smallfolk having moved farther away; some to Seagard, some to more outlying settlements to fill in for those who were dead or, now, gone North. She'd sent Arya's training curriculum down, though without skilled instructors... it was still the best she could do with what she had.

Returning scared her... but mostly, now, because she knew what an immense task it would be to prepare her people for the army of the dead. She'd done what she could by raven and messenger, but with the Twins in Lannister hands, drastically undersupplied for the winter... partly due to her people having removed all useful supplies for dozens of leagues around the Twins, and partly to the Riverlands having been burned and its people slaughtered during the wars... and nearly undefended and unprepared for a true siege. She would not take more aid than Seagard and the Vale could afford to give, but as much of their aid as they could afford, she would need.

"Lady Keath has already spoken with Gendry; he's working on it now," said Kitty quietly, returning her focus to the present.

"Thank you, Kitty. I hope she won't need it, but if she does, nothing else will do," replied Sansa, continuing quietly, "I'm glad you came here, Kitty. In King's Landing, I never imagined I might have another sister, that the world might give me something rather than taking again and again. I'm glad to have spent this time with you, and proud of all you've accomplished, Kitty. The Northern Riverlands will be as safe in your hands as they can be in these times. Be careful, and remember your lessons."

"Your sister, the Lady Winter," called the guard as Kitty embraced Sansa, then wiped her cheeks dry.

"Enter."

Arya strode through the door, turned to bar it securely, then checked the warming and silencing furs, speaking quietly, "Especially remember your archery lessons! Anyone you don't like offers a marriage challenge, shoot them in the balls. You like 'em, well, grab 'em by the balls and hold on!"

"Arya!" laughed Sansa and Meera, while Kitty flushed.

"I'm not going to scare all the men off like that! I actually want to be a mother, and to have a real marriage, you know!" said Kitty indignantly through her own giggle.

"Your funeral," said Arya as she took her sword off, leaned it next to her and sat on Sansa's other side, able to relax again, "You might have a daughter like Sansa."

"I would consider myself blessed if I did," replied Kitty.

"Only after she turns twenty," needled Arya.

"Nineteen," said Meera with a wink.

"Bran, aren't you going to defend your favorite sister?" asked Sansa, narrowing her eyes at him, "The sister who clothes you, feeds you, and generously houses you in a warm castle room, away from the winds, snow and sleet that awaits... less than faithful... brothers?"

Bran looked at her placidly for a moment, then spoke, a hint of warmth in his voice, "Twenty."

"Bran!" exclaimed Meera and Sansa together, while Arya crowed triumphantly and Kitty shook her head, laughing.

She'd miss this when she went South, thought Kitty, but that was the fate of a Lady Paramount. She'd be back to attend Sansa's court from time to time, and she was sure she and Arya could convince Sansa to visit, at least when there was snow on the ground, but... this had, unexpectedly, been the best months of her entire life.

Preparing for the army of the dead. Kitty smirked to herself; she'd been in the North too long, if she thought the first months of the Second Long Night were the best in her life. She'd never catch a respectable husband anymore... but she didn't want a respectable husband who would want to rule the Northern Riverlands himself, either. She'd had that, in Walder, and that had... not been a happy time. No, a husband she would have, and children, but she would not allow her husband to rule her.

"Do we know how much time we have yet?" asked Arya, stretching briefly in her seat before leaning in to Sansa again.

"Based on what Bran's seen so far, more than a month, less than four," replied Meera immediately, "Given that Moat Cailin's around six hundred miles south of Winterfell, the Twins or Seagard are another four hundred miles or so. The Neck's frozen over almost everywhere, so it's not actually very difficult to go through anymore, not for anyone used to real winter, at least. If they end up shuffling along at ten miles a day like they did on much of the way down, over three months. If they can do twenty, even twenty five miles a day, just over a month, assuming they head straight for the Twins and bypass Moat Cailin."

"They're certainly leaving enough forces here to keep us from being able to send people out safely, so we're going to have to continue the blockade running to get supplies in," said Arya seriously, "Bran? White Harbor?"

"The same. Just like the last time you asked," replied the Three-Eyed Raven, "Hundreds of thousands of wights are shambling slowly south along the coast, but they are still under siege."

"A hundred miles a day on dogsled; much slower for horses with snowshoes and their sleds," mused Arya, "All right. If nothing changes, we'll leave in a couple days when the incoming caravan arrives. Kitty, you're with me and the advance force on the dogsleds; it'll be a bit of a rough time, but I'll take one of the big fourteen-dogs and we can plan on the way with the other leaders; no sense wasting good time. Get with Wolkan and pick out your Maester by tomorrow so they can be ready. I'll bring as many of the advance force as the dogsleds can handle - carpenters, ditch-diggers, stonemasons with winter tools they don't usually use. The main supplies and soldiers will come in on horse caravans from here and the Bloody Gates. I'll need some replacement parts for the drawbridge made, and made quickly."

"All right," said Kitty, glancing at Sansa, "I know the parts she wants; the designs are in my chambers. We weren't expecting to need them so quickly."

"Meera, please get some of the blacksmiths and carpenters on it. How long will you be gone, Arya?" asked Sansa, looking down at her little sister. She'd just gotten her sister back after years, and now they were splitting up again... but she wouldn't be the one alone in the Red Keep. This time, that would be Arya's duty.

"As long as it takes. Travel, a couple days at Moat Cailin, then to the Twins. A few weeks there to get them set up, then south to King's Landing," replied Arya quietly, wrapping an arm around Sansa and holding her, "If the Night King continues south past the Twins without them making any serious preparations, he'll come back north with an army large enough to soak up every loss we can inflict and overrun us anyway. Even if they exhume the lichyards and burn themselves alive, and the wights attacking them too, the corpses he can raise in the South outside of villages and lichyards number in the hundreds of thousands. If they don't come back North, they can still march on Dorne, or go to Essos by dragon or walk as the Shivering Sea freezes."

Arya squeezed Sansa's shoulder, feeling Kitty's arm over Sansa as well, continuing quietly, "And no matter what Cersei's done, most of those people are just smallfolk trying to live their lives through one war and trouble after another. They shouldn't be left to the Night King and the Second Long Night just because their lords have failed them again; they aren't our enemies just because Cersei is."

Meera nodded, "People need to be led; without leaders, we'd never survive a single winter, since no one would prepare for it, but people don't get to choose their leaders. Not in Westeros, at least, Arya - we aren't Braavos."

"And for good reason; Braavos was founded by a single set of escaped slaves from Valyria, and formed a government to be in power in a way they needed, with the power of their organizations and groups arranged the way they wished," said Sansa in a tone that started off as a lecture and transitioned into thoughtfulness, "Westeros isn't like that; we've our own troubles and invasions and disasters. More disasters, I think, than I believed when I was a child. It's much easier to believe in the legends of the Children of the Forest raising the sea to turn the Neck into a swamp after seeing the army of the dead with my own eyes."

"The Children are gone, now," said Bran quietly, a hint of sadness in his voice.

"And the disaster and invasion at hand is the Night King, yes," replied Sansa, looking down at her little sister and leaning in to her, "Cersei's heard of you by now, I'm sure. You'll need to be very careful, Arya; her power is limited far from her, but in King's Landing, she's taken all power into herself. She alone rules that city, and her spies are everywhere, unfettered by any need to conceal the full extent of her power from anyone, but while some are obvious, she had those who are not, too, in addition to Qyburn's spies."

"I'm counting on it, on both counts. The more she's heard about my fighting abilities by the time I get there, the better, so I plan to be especially spectacular at the Twins. The very kinds of defenses you put up against an unstoppable swordsman are the same kind of layered, archer-backed defenses you need against the army of the dead. Qyburn will never see the true blow falling, nor will Cersei, and then her having killed her competition to rule by herself and giving few audiences will have done the hardest part of my work for me," said Arya, patting Sansa on the knee, leaning her head against her sister, enjoying the comfort of her presence in the full knowledge that it would be months or years before they saw each other again.

Unlike last time, though, this time they had known it was coming, had talked about it together, and knew beyond doubt that they were a family, a pack, and that they would be working together no matter how far apart they were. Sansa would remain in the seat of her power, surrounded by family, subjects, and allies, and Arya would be bearding the lion in its den of her own accord.

"What do you mean, spectacular," asked Sansa carefully. She still remembered Arya pretending to joke about her 'list' when they first reunited, before their much more serious and open conversation by the pool, deep in the crypts, and she'd seen her little sister in action in her bravo duels. More than that, she knew her sister very well, and if her sister used a word like that, it meant dangerous. Spectacularly dangerous for her opponents, but dangerous to Arya as well.

"You've arranged for us to successfully secede from the Seven Kingdoms; that gets you enemies. You're pushing the highborn to seriously considering their girls when declaring their heirs. While that didn't require any changes to laws in the North, the push to seriously consider girls combined with the Northern Citadel's allowing women to be Maesters is different than custom. The Dornish think that's a step towards being civilized, but it makes you enemies in the Seven Kingdoms, and even in the Two and a Bit..."

"Winter"

"Kingdoms some men will feel threatened, especially the less worthy. The North and the Vale are involved in international trade, and you've personally facilitated quite a few deals. Just because they weren't trading with us anyway doesn't mean Southrons won't see it as your fault that trade is gone, and some of that trade does hurt a few Two and a Bit traders too stupid or unlucky to compensate, making you more enemies. Wherever in the South the Night King's army reaches, enough of their leaders will remember our aid and warnings to make a call for war difficult. Once Daenerys is gone, the next generation of leaders, and the one after... they need a threat, not fading gratitude, and I am your threat. If you want less wars, I need to be a legendary threat."

"And you being a threat as more than an assassin and more than a general is important, yes. While I'm pleased you've finally learned to pay attention to the politics, I don't want you risking yourself when you don't have to, Arya. Do what you must, but you don't need to impress me," said Sansa sternly, "The only thing you can do that would actually impress me would be to settle down and live a quiet life."

"As much as you've trained, Sansa, you still aren't good enough to really understand how remarkable Arya is with a sword," said Meera with a laugh, then snickered, "Or her lesser but still great skill with a bow... for the pathetically short time you can use one before you can't keep up anymore, Arya! There are small children with more endurance than you!"

"Hey! Most fights don't last more than twenty bowshots. It's not MY fault we've got a siege on our hands, and slowpokes like you finally found a war to shine in," complained Arya, sticking her tongue out at the Lady of Winterfell and making the sign for sister, late, and child to Sansa even as she finished speaking, "If I'm not just a threat to individuals but also to entire keeps, that'll make Cersei react now, and add to people's caution in the future, which will give us time to recover from the wars. We're fine for winter as long as we're fed, but come spring and we'll need to farm again. We'll be low on soldiers for a generation and more, after what we've been through; we need something to bring us through that, and I can and will take care of that."

Sansa reveled in the pride she had in her sister, pushing down her worry, and then suppressed a grin, considering the signs Arya had made. Even her warrior sister had noticed that Meera was both unusually happy and hadn't chosen the dessert ration she normally enjoyed once a month. Sansa gave Arya the signs for late, yes, yes, no in response; Meera was probably pregnant, but she wasn't sure. Kitty had, Sansa suspected, also noticed and kept quiet about it. None of the men in the family had taken note of the difference, nor had Gilly. She looked at Meera, then down at her good-sister's belly, and back up with a slight inquisitive tilt of her head, just obvious enough for Meera to notice... much mure subtly than her father had done to Robert, when Robert had come to Winterfell to invite her father to King's Landing to die.

Meera caught the look from the tall redhead and flushed slightly, raising her right hand to spread over her belly while taking Bran's hand in her left, immediately seeing deliberately, blatantly blank expressions on the three sitting opposite her. She rolled her eyes at them; leave it to a family of spies to take all the surprise out of happy announcements. Or any announcement, really. She turned to her husband, squeezing his hand.

"I'm late, Bran."

"Yes, you didn't arrive until after everyone else."

"No, Bran. I'm late; the first time since I've been eating properly again. I might be pregnant; we might be having a baby!" corrected Lady Stark, watching Bran intently, seeing the flash of human recognition in his eyes, the shocked expression on his face.

"What."

Meera grinned, "You might be a father! I might be a mother!"

She saw his bright smile, felt his hand squeeze hers tight for a moment, and to her shock felt his other hand move to pull her in close, his cheek warm against hers even as her dagger clanked against the wheel of her chair, hilt pressing into her armor uncomfortably. His grip slackened after a few seconds, but that was the longest he'd been himself that she'd seen so far, and because they were going to have a child... she hoped, at least. She turned to sit back in her chair, beaming, her sisters grinning at her like well-fed lizard-lions, all satisfied teeth.

"Congratulations, good-sister. It's been far too long since there were young Starks getting into trouble in these halls," said Arya playfully, "Running around, getting underfoot, throwing food at meals..."

"Or being well-behaved and dutiful," said Sansa, her elbow missing as Arya trapped the attempted jab, "Paying attention to their lessons."

"I'm happy for you, Meera. Are you feeling all right? Have you seen the Maester yet?" asked Kitty excitedly, "When are you going to tell Gilly? She's probably got a lot of advice that might help in ways the Maesters wouldn't think of.."

The Lady of Winterfell gave her husband's hand one last squeeze, then went to hug her good-sisters and Kitty, "I'm fine, Kitty, I'm just late. I'll see the Maester and tell Gilly tomorrow, but I wanted Bran and you all to be the first to know. Apparently you all already knew!"

Kitty grinned at Meera's huff, then smirked, "You'll just have to return the favor when I get pregnant! You're the Lady Protector of the North; you should definitely be keeping an eye on the Northern Riverlands..."

"Sansa will tell me of important matters," replied Meera slyly, grinning at her Queen, "Won't you, my wonderful good-sister?"

"I will not," replied Sansa regally, standing and stepping over to her brother and his wife to hug them both, followed closely by Arya and Kitty, "You'll have to get gossip through dint of your own hard work setting up intelligence networks. And if you don't find out that Kitty's pregnant before she announces it, you'll be given remedial training lessons from me and Arya both."

Meera narrowed her eyes at her good-sister, "You are evil beyond measure! See if I ask you to babysit; I want only wholesome influences on my child!"

"You are in the wrong castle for that, Princess! Nothing but spies, assassins, and politicians here," japed Arya to laughter and giggles.

"There's another surprise if you go South on the Kingsroad, Arya," said Bran, a flicker of a smile on his lips.

"Why would I want to follow a road when there's perfectly good snow on the ground?" asked Arya, narrowing her eyes at Bran.

"Because there are Sorrowful men coming north on the Kingsroad. They just left King's Landing," said Bran.

"Who are they after?" asked Sansa, concerned.

"How many did those pathetic amateurs think was enough?" scoffed Arya.

"Cersei hired four, to kill Daenerys and Sansa. They're heading up the Kingsroad now."

"Why were there four of those sorry sons of bitches in Westeros?" asked Arya. Bran's eyes rolled back in his head, and she considered. The Sorrowful men were based out of Qarth, pandering to those unwilling to pay the price of a Faceless Man. While there were often one or two in Westeros, four was far too many to be on the continent as a whole, much less all in the same place.

Something more was happening... news of the House of Black and White in Westeros would have reached them long ago, and that wouldn't have made them happy. To assassinate two Queens at once, one a Faceless Man's sister... they might think the boost in reputation worth the risk. And, perhaps, they had bigger game than Queens in mind, too. Well, whether she herself was on their list or not, she'd deliver them to the Many-Faced God personally.

Bran returned his presence to them, saying, "I cannot see that; they blocked me. The four left Qarth together, and have been together on the journey, straight to King's Landing where they approached Cersei."

"How were they paid?"

"Gold left King's Landing by ship this morning."

"Just so. You can guide me to them?" asked Arya. If they'd gone straight to Cersei, it meant they were deliberately seeking out contracts. She'd done and would do the same; the number of people willing to pay for Cersei's death were legion, though far fewer of them were willing to pay the actual price.

"Yes," replied Bran flatly.

"I'll deal with them, then. Don't worry about it. Meera, see if Yara can intercept the payment; I object to people deliberately pushing for contracts on my sister."

Sansa raised her eyebrows, speaking archly to her sister, "Like you aren't pushing for contracts on Tyrion's sister? You will NOT get our people caught up in an assassin's dispute; Meera, you will do no such thing."

"Of course I am; just because she's on my list doesn't mean I can't get paid by others who also want her dead... and if anyone wants to object, they can try," smirked Arya insolently, "I'll give their objections all due consideration. And fine; I'll just kill them and let the payment get to Qarth. Spoilsport."

"Maybe a trip to kill some people will be good for you, Arya. Your sincerity needs work... and you shouldn't take them lightly. They may not be Faceless Men, but they will have sent their best if they're serious about making a show for their reputation in Westeros," replied Sansa as she rolled her eyes and made the signs for truth, lie, and truth. Assassins, real ones were coming for her, and Arya's response boiled down to 'fine, fine, I'll kill them on the way to killing more important people, and hey, let's tweak their entire guild's noses too'. Sansa took a moment to assess her own response to being targeted, and found that she was not afraid, because she trusted her brother and her sister to keep her safe.

The redhead squeezed her assassin sister, and remembered being lectured on assassinations. Almost every assassin relied on surprise, on being not necessarily unexpected in the larger scheme, but in the fine details. That was why Arya announcing she was a Faceless Man was dangerous to her; people could hide themselves while still knowing who and where Arya was, to strike at her. On the other hand, once Arya was on the road, she wouldn't be 'wearing' her own face, and when she did that, even Bran couldn't find her... while Bran could not only find the Sorrowful men, but tell Arya where they were, giving Arya both the element of surprise and the initiative.

Arya replied to Sansa's signs of Bran and warg with a yes. That enormous range of Bran's they were keeping entirely secret as well as his ability to warg into animals, or people, he wasn't even bonded with; it was entirely too dangerous for people to know exactly how Bran's reach could be, and it did tire him terribly to do so.

One unstoppable assassin in the family was enough, and she was made for a life of killing; active and restless. Bran wasn't; he was made for a life of seeing, of sitting by the fire and watching the world go by. No other warg could reach from Winterfell to the Riverlands, though, and hopefully nobody would expect that Bran could do so, either. She'd put up what feeble magic protections she could, but on this, a contract in her own face, she had no access to the tools of the House of Black and White in Westeros. What she did have was her skills and her magic, including the magic the Many-Faced God had gifted her, and that combined with Arya Stark's tools would be enough.

"Who are you thinking to take with you?" asked Kitty after waiting a moment to see if anyone else would chime in about the other assassins. She was the only one here who had seen Arya working, and she had no question that Arya would be fine; who her assassin liege lady was going to send to the Riverlands was something they needed to cover before the Small Council and military meetings, so they could make sure to suggest people who would be acceptable to enough of the Small Council to be approved of quickly and without spending serious political capital.

Arya nodded to Kitty, "Jamie goes to Seagard with a large section of the Night's Watch. He appoints the Dolorous First Ranger Edd to take command of the Twins with most of the rest - the Night's Watch needs to be seen to be defending the realms of men, and we're fine. We and White Harbor send some more veterans and some of the commanders to Moat Cailin, and the Vale; we've got enough men and leaders trained to start training more, and their experience will matter. Sansa, if you can spare her, I want Lyanna to go to the Twins with me; Fjornal's well respected here, but at the Twins, a highborn lady will be better than one of the Free Folk."

"And Fjornal's not likely to go that far south after the war, ever, so she doesn't need it. Done, you may take my Master of Laws as long as you return her in one piece. She should get to know more of our territory anyway, get familiar with Moat Cailin and the Twins, and make sure that the Northern Riverlands understand the changes in laws. Send her back by way of Seagard, please, for the same reason," replied Sansa.

"No guarantees in war," said Arya somberly, "But I'll try to get her to Seagard; then the Bloody Gates, the Eyrie, and Gulltown; she needs to see and be seen, and I know you wanted her taken through the Vale as well, since she'll be fostering Bronze Yohn's grandchildren. No matchmaking until she feels she's established herself as a warrior and leader, if she wants a match at all! Make sure those highborn in the Vale know. She needs to be comfortable, really comfortable, in herself first, and you don't want to see the aftermath if we have to scrape what's left of her husband off the ground after she launches him from a trebuchet when he gets pushy."

"All right," said Sansa, giggling at the idea of loosing Ramsay and the long, long time he'd have to scream, "How will we know you're all right?"

"Bran can look for me every sennight from tonight at the hour of the wolf; if I can, I'll take my face off so he can find me, and I'll talk for him to hear and tell you what I said. I'll have my troupe nearby much of the time, and I'll be setting up intelligence networks that will report back to my people; you and Kitty will get reports. The main threats are just Cersei and her Hand, and she's nearly a recluse now, which helps. Don't worry if you can't find me for two or three weeks in a row, especially early on; I have to deal with the spies Varys, Qyburn, and all the others have."

Sansa gathered up Arya in a tight hug, feeling her little sister relax and return the hug strongly. She didn't want her sister to go, but she needed her Master of Whispers to assassinate Cersei and make sure the South wasn't turned into the Night King's army wholesale.

"Come back to me alive," said Sansa, feeling Arya returning the hug, holding her for a long moment, letting herself remember the partings she'd had before; from her mother, Robb, Bran, Rickon, and Jon when they left, from her father and Arya, from Septa Mordane. Only three of them had survived to reunite, and she did fear that for all Arya's skills she might try to bite off more than she could chew, and end up not coming back. Still, while her sister was willing to die, Arya would rather live, and she would have loyal allies and companions to help her... plus she knew both the Twins and the Red Keep very well. Their intelligence networks would support and defend her sister, and she would be armed and armored to pose a threat that even a dragon must respect. Still...

"If it comes to your life or saving people south of Wickenden, Arya, save your life. They and their leaders have been sent all the information we've sent everywhere else, and you're needed here, and will be for decades to come," continued Sansa soberly, before shifting and pulling Kitty in close even as Meera pushed Bran's chair up so they could join in too, "Stay safe, and don't take any shit from the Southrons, Kitty; you are the Lady of the Crossing, Lady Paramount of the Northern Riverlands."

************************

"Will have many nightmare. Fall in snowdrift, not snow. Parchment hundred feet deep! Drown in parchment, bleed thousand thousand cut. Take all lifetime read all this," grumbled Fjornal as she casually ducked down to glance under the table before she dropped stacks of parchment down and sat at Lyanna's usual place in the war room, her small commander behind her going over the way she arranged the documentation while they waited for the rest of the military council to arrive.

"You're already reading as well as I was when I left Bear Island to fight the Boltons, Fjornal. Today, I think you'll want the personnel reports on top, then the logistics reports; Lady Winter will want to bring some people south with her, and she's going to want good, solid trainers. She'll probably also want a supply of ammunition. They don't have any full size ballistas, but they do have plenty of the Qyburn scorpions that are almost as powerful, but without proper shafts..." replied Lady Mormont.

"No bolt, only good if burn, keep warm," said Fjornal with a nod, dexterously flipping through the pages and arranging four piles in front of her as deftly as she'd normally prepare her ballista, and gave the small but growing bear woman a grin, "Want trade? You stay, do parchment, I go ride dogsled, camp in snow, fight wight giant like free woman should?"

"Oh? You want to try to get Southrons who even Southrons like me think are really, truly Southrons, to listen to you, to buckle down and learn properly, to obey instantly and without question?" said Lyanna with a slightly but fond smile and raised brows, watching the grimace cross her second's face. She'd miss Fjornal, but she was very glad to have the Free Folk woman to leave behind... to entrust the safety of her House, her people, her liege, and all of Winterfell and Winter Town to. She clapped Fjornal's shoulder comfortably and continued.

"No, you don't. I'll be fine, Fjornal - I've listened when you talked about life beyond the wall, and I'll have Lady Winter, her Snowflakes, and Skamund and his clan with me until the Twins. You take care of the crews in the North, and I'll get the ones farther south in shape to stop the army of the dead. Know that should you or your clan need anything, now or ever, House Mormont will count Clan Bonehands as our close friends and allies for a thousand years to come."

Fjornal snorted, giving the Hound a nod as he came in while barking his instructions to the big Thenn spearwife Yujeen who would take his place as infantry commander; she'd stood with the big Southron warrior on the ramparts that first night of battle and the warriors, the soldiers, spoke well of her; now that they'd gotten used to facing the dead, she'd do well. The siege engine crews were better, but the soldiers were coming alone. And wasn't that a strange thing; the Free Folk were no longer warriors, but disciplined soldiers, even crews for great war machines, across all the clans. They fought for honor and mates and glory still, but not wildly, and not without rituals... like the marriage challenge.

"Be very close if Makoon grow balls, make marriage challenge," laughed Fjornal.

"My cousin can beat your nephew easily," said Lyanna sternly, "He spends most of his time with the Maesters studying, and even less time training than I do. Still, he's a quick study, and he's got a good eye for engineering. If she lets him win, it'll be a good match - they'd have strong, smart children together."

"Strong children; Bear Island women very strong, like spearwives, bear strong babies. Is why raid so much, before. You not listen stupid Southron liars; you find strong man, make strong babies," said Fjornal, returning the clap on the shoulder as Arya's distinctive voice echoed up the corridor and Lyanna straightened and turned to face the door respectfully. A strong girl, that one, for a Southron... though not every Southron had those silly habits; the Hound just kept talking like any good Free Folk man would, and he'd been beyond the Wall himself. Maybe that put some sense into him.

Arya and the remainder of the military commanders entered, Meera, Brienne, Skamund, Vollin, Jamie, and the others taking their places at the table while Sansa, along with Jon, Kitty, Daenerys, and Patrek took seats along the wall with their guards.

"Let's start. Patrek Mallister of Seagard has been appointed by the Lady of the Crossing as the Small Council representative of the Northern Riverlands; I've invited them to this meeting since we're discussing military operations in Kitty's kingdom. Admiral Vollin, I apologize, but I won't be able to introduce you to Lord Grafton when he arrives; as the army of the dead moves south, so must I. He's shown the utmost respect for the Braavosi navy, so I expect you two will get along without issue. Does anyone have anything urgent?" started Arya. The caravan would arrive tomorrow, and she would be leaving as it came in, so she wanted to keep this meeting short... and since she, unlike Tywin, could trust her people, she would be able to.

"No? All right, then. Sandor, Skamund, Jamie, are the Unsullied, Dothraki, and new Night's Watch people ready to take part in getting the caravan past the siege?" asked Lady Winter, receiving a rude yes and two nods.

"Jorah, you agree?"

"I do."

"Good; that's my judgment as well. Daenerys, Jorah, you and your forces will spend today and tomorrow morning drilling on that. This is a daylight blockade run, so if the skies are clear, I want the dragons used more aggressively; Bran and the wargs and scouts will keep track of the Night King and seek out places without many White Walkers, far from the wight dragon; you'll attack those, one quick pass and then back to the castle. Be very careful to watch for any White Walker throwing a spear at you or using strange magic; they haven't yet, but the Night King keeps trying new tricks. If you see anything strange, dodge and retreat. Stay at maximum height for being able to hit the ground; that gives you the most time to dodge and also the widest spray of fire. It's not like wights take much to light up," said Arya, to the sounds of general laughter at her last statement. Everyone here had gotten used to the army of the dead, and while fear cut deeper than swords, humor helped men fight their fears.

Daenerys waited until the Lord Commander of her Queensguard responded with a nod, then replied, "Drogon and I would be happy to burn some wights while my armies help open up a hole for the caravans, Lady Winter."

Dany mused that what she said was true, too, though not in quite the same way it might have been in the past, with overweening arrogance combined with the simplistic battle plans of 'attack' or 'attack from inside' that had netted her victories at Yunkai, Astapor, Meereen, and a costly victory at the Rose Road... and a 'victory' that was truly a loss in the taking of a barren Casterly Rock at the expense of far too much of her fleet and far too many of her Unsullied. She'd studied, now, with Grey Worm and Qhono, with Jon's sister and her other commanders. She'd trained with Drogon, Jon and Rhaegal in concert with armies below, silver horns calling up and down, learned how scorpion and ballista bolts would fly even as they learned how dragons could fly.

She would be happy to burn some wights, but she would do so carefully; her dragons were powerful, but by no means invulnerable as the Night King's thrown spear had shown. She would risk herself and her children and nephew for the safety of all her peoples, and other peoples even; she would never sit back and demand others risk their lives while she cowered. She would not, however, risk her family's lives as carelessly as she had in the past, but with instead careful calculation, and working in concert with her forces on the ground, and those of her allies. As Jamie Lannister had told her, she was leaving her days as a hotheaded young warrior behind, and becoming a real soldier... and Qhono was bringing her Dothraki along too. She'd have to find a suitable reward for her blood rider. Perhaps a magnificent stallion and mare from each of her realms, and the best she could buy from her allies, so he could do some of the horse breeding he enjoyed.

"Just so," said Arya, turning back away from their silver-haired ally, "Three outgoing caravans; a horse caravan returning to White Harbor with dogsled scouts, a horse caravan to Moat Cailin and then the Twins with dogsled scouts, and a dogsled caravan to Moat Cailin and then the Twins. We'll send a horse caravan from Moat Cailin to Seagard immediately, long before the dead are close. Lyanna, Skamund, make sure the dogsled caravan uses only Qyburn's scorpion designs; we're going to be a very tempting wight dragon target. If we're lucky, he'll try an attack. Patrek, get with Brienne and Kitty about what Seagard needs to bring the defenses up to what's required, what's needed for any trades with the Twins after I take it, and how Kitty's other people and their hidden stockpiles are to be distributed. As always, divide supplies in proportion with people, so if one place falls, the other can survive. Questions?"

Arya watched the general shaking of heads, and then continued, looking over at the Braavosi admiral that had been acting as Winterfell's naval liaison, and would very likely continue in that role after Lord Grafton returned to Gulltown or White Harbor.

"White Harbor will be sending support to the Vale by sea; Bran reports that Euron's fleet has four scouts east of Crackclaw Point, heading north. Admiral Vollin, the fleets at Gulltown have been instructed to burn them to the waterline. However, should they evade the Gulltown force and spot the support fleet, they are to be pursued and destroyed before they can report back. Admiral?"

"Convoy escort should be two groups of fifteen to twenty warships each, eight small scouts, and another a flotilla of eight fast warships in case we have to run down Euron's pirates. The only thing better than killing pirates is killing slavers!" replied the admiral with a vicious grin, resplendent in his deep black uniform.

"Good. Daenerys, when can your fleet can leave Dragonstone with the dragonglass?" asked Arya, noting that her newest royal student had looked for and received a subtle nod from Ser Davos, confirming the Braavosi's estimate.

"Three days from today if the ravens fly by supper, for part raw dragonglass and part knapped dragonglass," replied Daenerys immediately, having already discussed this with her own Small Council.

"Just so," said Arya approvingly, "The riverlands and the lands south of that are all easy pickings for the Night King's army as they are now. The horse caravans that follow me will bring more fruits and moss, winter experts, wheelbarrow axles and wheels, more captive wights from the moats and so on, in addition to the small amounts on the dogsleds that will arrive earlier. Kitty's going to send ravens to get them to do what they can, but after being fought over for so long, the Riverlands, north and south both, aren't in any shape to repel the Night King by themselves. They must prepare as much as they can, and our aid will be the rest. Cersei at least provided her forces with plentiful amounts of wildfire; we'll need it, since we don't have enough to defend everywhere ourselves. Patrek, Seagard?"

"My father has turned out everyone to work on the defenses, young and old, men and women. We should have four rings done to match the other strongholds unless the dead are faster than expected, and the smallfolk are flocking in, for protection and to work. Forces to assist the Twins will join up with those of the Vale to be able to arrive just after you do, Lady Winter" replied the younger Lord Mallister.

"Just so. Send scouts through the south to warn as many as possible; most will have heard Kitty's warning, but let's make sure they have the best chance possible. Bring parchments with drawings of how to make sleds; most of the Riverlands homes and barns are made of wood, so whatever's survived the wars can be torn down to make sleds. After the winter, they can be rebuilt, but for now buildings abandoned to raiders do no good. I'll send Beric to Seagard on the dogsleds; the Brotherhood without Banners will help bring people in as well as organize more forces to seek out and burn every hidden corpse anyone knows the location of," said Arya before looking around sternly.

"Brienne will command Winterfell. Jamie, I'd like a small group of Night's Watch for Seagard, and a much larger one for the Twins, both stiffened with the old veterans to provide real experience. What do you think about you leading the one to Seagard, which will if need be collect and send more forces along the west coast, and Edd for the Twins, which would spread down the Green Fork and the Kingsroad as the Night King continues south?"

"First Ranger Edd has far more experience than I; he can certainly go to the Twins," replied Jamie, his tone turning very dry, "And, I suspect, won't cause nearly as much trouble there as I might, given the Lannister garrison. I would be honored to help defend the realms of men at Seagard and beyond."

"Thank you. I certainly hope him going to the Twins and its Lannister garrison is less eventful than your going. I'm anticipating a serious attack on Seagard and the Twins, then later attacks on strongholds to the south; we'll have to see what kind of wights the White Walkers can raise once in the Riverlands to see how big they are. Jaime will take overall command of Seagard when he arrives; he has an excellent mind for battle and my full confidence. Sandor and Edd will command the infantry in the front lines at the Twins, Lyanna will command the siege engines, Skamund the cavalry. Meera, who's your recommendation for the archers?"

"Lord Tybault; he's got a good head, knows when to use bows and when to use crossbows, he's been over the Twins several times so he knows the terrain, he can read the men and women, and he's got a good reputation in the South," said Princess Meera Stark.

"Good. All those coming on dogsled to the Twins will meet with me tonight after supper. Overall command of the twins will be Terrence Lynderly. Yohn, make sure he's kept up to date with Bran's latest intelligence while we're traveling," commanded Arya, noting the quiet nod from Deranna, in the dark corner behind her; her troupe would make sure the new military commanders of the Twins would be in the right place at the right time... even if they didn't yet know what the place was. It was good training for them to find out on their own, and if they failed, they would ask. To her satisfaction, they rarely asked.

"As you command, Lady Winter. Lord Lynderly will be on his way to the Bloody Gates from the Eyrie in three days time," replied Bronze Yohn Royce. He'd read a considerable amount about the young Lord Terrence's accomplishments in integrating infantry, cavalry, archery, and siege engines; while he had no experience with warships, the Twins wouldn't require any. The Eyrie would have to weather its attack without its overall second in command, and Yohn had faith that the Warrior would ensure their success... though only the Father knew at what cost it would be. Still, he would be remiss in his duties to the Seven, and to his new kingdoms, if he did not make this request before the command structure was broken apart. If the Maesters in Queen Sansa's kingdoms, could change their traditions, so could the knights!

"Lady Winter, one request, if I may?" asked Bronze Yohn Royce formally.

"What is it?"

"In recognition of her honor, her skills, her strength, and her prowess on the battlefield and as a commander, in the name of the Seven, I should like to offer to knight Lady Brienne of Tarth."

"Well," said Arya with a grin, "What say you, Brienne? Would you like to be made Knight of the Two and a Bit Kingdoms at supper tonight, in front of the soldiers you will command?"

************************

Meshanea Drennolis shivered, one of her servants putting another log on the fire. Moon's glory, she'd never been so cold in all her life. Still, needs must, and she needed to visit the Iranaars to make sure the deal for nuts continued properly and to see what they could work out for transport in place of inland river barges. If her husband had been here, she might have put it off to spend the day setting up a new brew in the hopes tomorrow was warmer, but with his staying in Winterfell, it was up to her to handle all the family business in her home city, even if the shallower canals being entirely frozen made travel in Braavos far more difficult than it should be.

A knock at the door prompted her majordomo to answer it; listening to the voices, she realized it was the captain in charge of the ships, who she hadn't expected until after noon. At least they still had a noon! The Moon dominated life, now, with the sun granted less and less time every day. Perhaps they'd start calling it every night... but for now, she stood,wrapped a thick, shapeless, tight-woven Ibbenese shawl in the charcoal grey of her family around her shoulders and went to see what was happening in the light of the lantern hung outside the door. It was what everyone was wearing these days; there wasn't a choice, not if you wanted to survive the incredible cold.

"What is that?" she asked, stopped as soon as she could see through the door; a long, low sled, she could see, like those they had been building based on what the many crews had seen in Ib and Lorath and the North... but this one was lower, wider, and stronger... and had eight dogs in front, not the usual horses or ponies.

"Is dogsled. Good real winter! You sleds... pah! This good sled. Make more!" said the man in a light set of mottled white furs, checking over the dogs.

"Valar morghulis," the lady of the house said, flushing slightly as she belatedly greeted the captain.

"Valar Dohaeris. Your husband made arrangements with the ice-river clans of the Free Folk to hire an apprentice driver and a journeyman craftsman. Additionally, he was able to negotiate with Queen Sansa for one more thing," said the captain with a wide grin, gesturing to the long, flat box two of his crewmen had brought in and were in the process of opening, "This is what the four ships of grains, beans and fruits last trip on the voyage west were to pay for."

Her questions died as the maid who had followed her gasped at the gorgeous dress in charcoal grey was pulled out of the crate; long, with a tight waist and a slender taper and some of the finest stitching she'd had the pleasure of owning, it was different... and would suit her figure well. She reached out to rub the fabric between her fingers; it was far thicker than she had expected, and the embroidered heraldry of her family was exquisite. Whoever had made this was a seamstress of formidable skills, though her husband had still drastically overpaid for it; while this was a perfect dress for even the wife of a Sealord, but in Braavos they did not put precious metals or jewels on their clothing to show their wealth, instead preferring tasteful, elegant somber, and as a result they didn't need pay the ruinous amounts the ostentatious gaudy nonsense women in other realms were forced to wear.

The captain continued with a smile, "That dress was sewn and embroidered by Queen Sansa's own hands before her coronation... and your husband negotiated an annual contract, one dress a year, made by the Queen of the Winter Kingdoms herself."

Or perhaps her husband had underpaid. She and her maid held the dress up to herself; it was close, but needed a little tailoring... and was utterly unlike anything any of the other ladies of Braavos were wearing. There were still two or three hours until sunup; no time to waste!

"The dogsled; how long do the dogs need to rest? I should like to visit several places today."

"Dogs eat many time. Places far? Dogs not all grow yet; good only five, seventy mile in day," replied the driver, who with the craftsman... craftswoman, she was wearing a fur dress... had made a tiny fire and was warming some sort of fish soup in it.

Meshanea blinked. Five and seventy miles in a single day? And she took from his speech that they would be able to do more when they were full grown? Some cargo ships couldn't even manage that in a day with a moderate wind! Nor could river barges against the current... and a craftsman meant she could build more. This changed everything; she had so much to do, but getting a head start on their competition meant their business would not just survive, but thrive during this winter!

"Saelia, fetch Melelna and Vellira to my solar to adjust this dress. Nesira, please send runners to the Iranaars, the Stassars, the Naerelions, and the Sorrens that I will be calling on them today. I believe I shall visit the Moonsinger's temple to give thanks this evening," she said, rousing the household to action.

"Captain, please pass along to the captain of my personal sloop that I wish it to be loaded with a case of each of my best vintages and sail to Gulltown with the next convoy; they are to be a gift to Queen Sansa, in the hopes that she finds at least one vintage to her taste," commanded the lady of the house. She liked to experiment, and even if the Queen didn't like any of what she had made, she was sure a woman who would trade gowns for food would find a use for everything.

************************

Arya strode across the bridge between second ring divisions, the chill northern wind whipping her brown leather cloak behind her as she passed beyond where the horse caravans were forming up behind her and moved among the dogsled caravans ahead; despite the many banners behind, the only two banners ahead were those of the wolf's head in the stormcloud, and it was there she headed. The fourteen puppies she was bringing were exchanging sniffs with their father and siblings while Donovar kept them in line and Deranna, Emilee, and Mariya were in their Free Folk furs, scrubbing out the empty bowls with snow to pour into the pot being left behind, a treat for Sansa's favorite puppies once it warmed up.

Next to hers, another big fourteen-dog scorpion sled boasted Korb behind the Qyburn style weapon loaded with dragonglass, and Connas and Mariya already watching the surroundings. On hers, though, there was something that hadn't been there before, and she could feel it from here; Valyrian steel, old, and enough for a sword... but what she saw was a post with a big crossbow on a universal mount, but without any sign of a windlass... Lady Keath was talking to Gendry, who was carrying... yes, a Qohornese cranequin! And her sister was smirking on the inside, she just knew it, never mind that Sansa was conversing soberly with Kitty.

The youngest Stark sister slipped silently behind a group of carpenters, staying in their shadow and setting her feet down as they did while the group strode past her sister, bowing and greeting their Queen jovially. She slipped out from behind them as Sansa looked away once she'd responded to the greeting of her subjects. To her approval, Mariya hadn't been distracted and gave her a nod, while Ghost and Jeyne both raised their heads to give her doggie grins from their place lolling at Sansa's feet.

"And just what is this? Yet another bizzare contraption on my dogsled?" asked Arya loudly as she set her spear and bow down on the sled, slipping them under some of the taut ropes running across the big sled by habit.

"Arya!" exclaimed her sister as she span around, followed by the rest of the family, while Arya ran a gloved hand across the overly large crossbow; a masterpiece of ironwood, castle-forged steel, and Valyrian steel in a way she'd never seen before. She'd trained on a geared cranequin crossbow at the House in Braavos, but they were rare, very rare, and that had been smaller. She'd never so much as heard of a Valyrian steel crossbow before; lifting it off the mount's cradle, it was lighter than it looked, and the bolt was a miniature version of a Valyrian steel plate cutter for a scorpion, and held farther back, kept in place by a bolt clip that would keep it on the crossbow as the sled, or she moved.

"Gendry, why is there a longsword's worth of Valyrian steel on this... and which of you came up with this abomination? Is it even a crossbow, or is it the smallest scorpion in the world?" asked Arya, lifting it to her shoulder and admiring the clean lines and how naturally the bolt's actual line matched where it felt it was pointing. The bolt was more slender than the wooden ones favored by windlass crossbow archers, but much heavier even with that. Gendry had truly paid attention when he watched her practice archery, it seemed, given how well it fit her body. And, without doubt, Meera had assisted in its creation.

Her sister answered first, "It is the smallest scorpion in the world; for the smallest archer in the world. The Night King tried to kill you once, and none of our crews could hit him or his dragon. With this, you can bring a weapon that the Grand Maester has measured as having twice as heavy a draw as the most powerful crossbow we'd had before wherever you need. I will not have you powerless to fight back against anything that might try, even including the Night King on a wight dragon in a fog at night."

Gendry stepped up to hand her the cranequin she'd use to wind the crossbow, "In addition to the draw, it's got an eight and a half inch stroke, not the six and a half of a normal crossbow; the Valyrian prod won't break or even bend that much. It's got the power to put an iron and steel plate cutter out nearly as fast as a flight bolt from a normal crossbow. It's not a scorpion, but if you can get a solid, straight-on hit, you'll punch through just about anything."

Arya moved the bolt clip to the side, picking up the bolt from the polished brass channel it had been held in and inspecting it; this wasn't just iron and steel, it was castle-forged steel with a Valyrian plate cutter tip; a masterwork of a bolt, which she put back in as she heard Sansa's pages clearing a lane towards the outer rings, where there were a few very thick straw, ice, and linen targets at different ranges, two of the farthest with armor plates, one iron, one steel.

"It's got a kick from the seven hells, Arya," said Gendry, "It works better on the post, but if you have to use it freehand, tuck the butt under your arm, or make sure you've got your armor on, maybe wrap some softer leather over your shoulder. That bolt's heavy, and fast enough that even iron would bend a little when it hits a hard target; the steel's much better; there's a slot at the back to put the fletchings in; they don't survive. We tried waxing it like that Yitish archer showed us, but like the other tests, Valyrian steel penetrates less when waxed, not more."

Arya tucked the stock under her shoulder, clamping her arm down on it, one finger extended directly along the line the bolt would take, then lifted it toward the closest, and large, target, loosing with an enormous TWANG, hitting two feet higher than she'd wanted, knocking the target back some. The geared cranequin was metal front to back; she put the metal foot on the front of the crossbow on the ground, slipping her foot into it while she took the cranequin and settled the bracket over the butt, the teeth at the top slipping over the thick bowstring easily as a thumb kept the locking wheel in the right position; she cranked the handle as fast as she could, pulling the bowstring back evenly until it caught on the locking wheel, then she cranked it fully the other way to set it for the next shot. The cranequin came off much more easily than it would have with a simple rope loop instead of the bracket.

Arya hooked the geared cranequin on the back of her swordbelt as she loaded another bolt, set the bolt clip, then raised and loosed at a target thirty and a hundred yards away in a single fast, smooth motion, hitting it ten or twelve inches lower than she'd wanted; she had the measure of the arc the bolt took now, and there only three or four inches of deviation left to account for. One more bolt punched through the thick iron armor two hundred yards away only a few inches from where she'd intended. She reset and loaded it, then replaced it on the post and did one more shot, which also was excellent.

"It'll do very nicely indeed; just like with the scorpion bolts, having bolts that don't shatter is what's needed," said Arya, then hugged Gendry and the rest of her family while another set of people whose steps she knew well approached, crunching through the remaining fragments of the thin crust from last night's snow not yet trampled down while a hand gesture sent a small pack of her pages racing out to collect the bolts from the third ring, "You'd think one of my spies would have told me about this in advance."

"But then we wouldn't have been able to see the look on your face, sister," said Sansa, reaching out to give one more strong hug, "And your spies know what's good for you, too."

"You gonna name that, too?" asked the Hound, "Like your Needle and your Icicle?"

"A Valyrian steel toy scorpion? Perhaps I will after all... its name shall be Unforgiven," Arya replied with a grin, "Come aboard, Uncle; your bag gets tied down on the front right."

"Sled in middle; too big, dogs not trained good enough. Need more miles. Get more miles, hah! You not ready lead. You ready follow! You stay in Elphen runner trails, exact in runner trails" said Meras to Donovar, pointing at the scorpion sled driven by the middle-aged expert driver Elphen, then turned to Deranna, who would be driving another sled full of their supplies and people ahead of another scorpion sled, "You stay back Donovar; follow in runner trails, exact in runner trails."

Kitty slid the strap for the weirwood crossbow she carried off her shoulder and offered it to Sansa, "Thank you, Sansa, for the loan of this bow. It was made for you, and it should stay in Winterfell with the Starks."

Sansa smiled gently, shaking her head, using a warm but carrying tone; a mix of Baelish's showmanship and her mother's love for the people she had married into, "You're my sister by choice; you've trained with it. Carry it as a weapon of war, and a symbol of my faith in you should any doubt that you are the power in the Southron reaches of the Winter Kingdoms, the representative I have selected as Lady Paramount of the Northern Riverlands."

With a curtsy, Kitty re-shouldered the bow and embraced Sansa, then boarded the sled; she could hear from the drumbeats that the incoming caravan was approaching.

With a mighty gust, Drogon and Rhaegal landed in the third ring just next to the bridge, extended on its rollers, causing a few of the dogs to bark and horses to shy, but not many. Another division beyond saw two bridges extended, and a horde of Dothraki archers and heavily armored dragoons streaming across under the Khaleesi's approving gaze to their staging grounds in ring four, while Jon slipped off of Rhaegal's neck to embrace Ghost, who had bounded over to greet him before clambering up the green dragon's wing to sit down atop Rhaegal's head, both of them peering down at the Starks while Dany stifled a giggle at the sight of Rhaegal with a white furry 'hat'.

"Ghost is on Rhaegal's head again, Jon," called out Arya, striding towards him to clap him on the shoulder and give him an embrace.

"And who taught him how to climb up?" asked Jon with a laugh, returning the hug as Sansa chimed in to instantly betray Arya, as his littlest sister had been seen showing Ghost where to step.

Behind them, Emira stopped in her tracks as the dragons landed across the moat, petting and cooing to poor Old Fluffytail who had stuck his head inside her furs to try and hide. They were so huge! Once the hare stopped shivering, she continued towards the sled behind Princess Meera and Queen Sansa and their family, her own brown caribou furs standing out against the mix of Free Folk furs before her and the finery of the royal party ahead. This would be the first time she was apart from her Da, who'd be staying at Winterfell, away from everyone she knew... but she could do it. Old Fluffytail needed her to take care of him, and she'd be translating for him at the Twins while Bjoramyr went to Seagard.

There was a Free Folk teen checking the ropes and the sele of the dogs, and a few Free Folk warriors on the sled already; she carefully checked the cage for Old Fluffytail and adjusted the ropes securing it to the sled so he could stretch out between them; the old hare liked to flop on his side to doze, and liked a smooth wooden floor with a light coat of grass or straw, not lumpy hard rope! Once he was settled, she swung her own small pack of things off her back and glanced at the Free Folk girl who looked like she was the driver.

"Packa mitten vanster," grunted the girl, flicking her glove at the middle left of the sled dismissively at the Southron girl, "Talande flicka?"

"I'm the translator for Bjoramyr, yes," replied Emira, settling her pack in and strapping it down before looking up to stare at the girl again; there was something familiar about her; like all the Free Folk today, she didn't bother with a scarf, so her face was bare to the wind, though her hood was pulled tight and the fur around the edge covered forehead and cheeks... wait! She knew that girl; that was Deranna, one of Lady Winter's Snowflakes! Whipping her head around, two of the men were also Snowflakes, and the woman on sentry duty... and the driver of Lady Winter's sled! And the older woman! And she'd thought they were all wildlings, they looked so much like the others getting the dogsleds ready!

"You're Deranna!" exclaimed Emira excitedly, "The Sno... all of you are coming with us!"

Deranna laughed, "We are! Dressed like this, I'm just Deranna of the Free Folk, Emira! You're a Nightrunner, so if you want, we'll teach you to really be one of the clans. Arya won't have much time for us on the trip down, so we'll have time, won't we, Emilee?"

"Of course we will," replied the very plain woman, smiling warmly at the young girls, "Skamund's clan was kind enough to adopt us and teach us, and we will be happy to pass that along when Arya doesn't have us on other duties. Don't look so shocked, Emira; that's the first thing to get used to. Free Folk don't care about any manners or titles from South of the wall, so Lady Winter is just Arya to any of the Free Folk... including us, when we are Free Folk. So in these furs, I'm not Lady Cox, I'm just Emilee, a woman of the ice-river clan. Now, I happened to be talking to Bjoramyr's great-niece yesterday, and she had a set of furs her daughter outgrew that should fit you; they're in the tent over there, if you'd like to change."

Emira glanced at the bunny; he was already napping, so she spun and raced into the tent. She could really be a Free Folk girl now! Maybe another warg would come to the Twins while she was there, and the new warg would be young and unmarried and have a cute animal and be a really strong warg, able to reach Moat Cailin or the Bloody Gates or the Eyrie or... she thought back to the geography lessons she'd been given at Winterfell... or Pyke or Sisterton! And she'd show him she was quick and strong and could protect him and take care of the animals really well and wasn't angry about the old raids she'd heard some of the adults from farther north talking about!

An hour later, Sansa stepped onto the small platform used to bring supplies up and stood tall as she was winched up to the top deck of the ballista tower in the first ring, looking out as Jon and Daenerys took off and the forces that would open a path through the encircling wights started moving; the Dothraki forming columns three ranks wide on the inside of the dragoons on each of the paths being opened. While the barbarians had caused quite a bit of trouble, and two had been executed for rape, even she could easily see they they were light cavalry skilled far beyond the few light horsemen she had in her forces. Her sister was working on that, but it would take years.

With the faint sounds of the clash of arms and a pattern of drumbeats from behind her, the Queen of the Winter Kingdoms watched as the trebuchets loosed fire over her head, the sled scorpions staying at Winterfell, currently far in front of her loosed as well, and the caravans started breaking through the lines in both directions, Arya's banners in the middle of the formation quickly lost in the fog rolling in as the Night King responded.

She stayed atop the tower ignoring the cold, the wind, and the incoming guests until the drumbeats told her that the dogsled caravans were through and away safe, and Arya's sleds in particular were safe, then stepped onto the platform again to be winched down, looking to the west as the fog suddenly glowed orange; a dragon attack. She hoped Jon was ok... and, she admitted to herself, Daenerys as well. She needed the South under long term, solid, allied leadership, and that meant the Targaryen Queen. She headed back to the wall so she could be winched up over the moat into Winterfell and greet the newly arrived dignitaries; this had been much easier before the gates had been not only shut but blocked by ice yards thick... but she'd seen the dead, and she would not compromise the defenses for convenience.

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[Epic Reader]

Arya stood on the big dogsled as she would on a ship during a storm, legs widespread and knees bent, boots tucked under the safety ropes as the banners snapped in the wind, keeping her torso steady, standing with the giant crossbow a yard to her left, manned by the Scorpion Bear. Arya held a warshaft loosely nocked to her bow while the sled jumped, angling upwards suddenly as they reached the edge of the cleared area, the moats disappearing behind them as fog rolled in, the Night King's encircling army ahead. Kitty and Lady Keath had their own crossbows prepared, though they were lying down, all facing to the port side of the sled, as the inbound caravan would pass down the starboard side. They'd loose if they had a good target; it was her job to make sure they didn't... and to send more of the Night King's most valuable wights back to the one true god.

She closed her eyes, arms relaxed as she leaned forward, then back with the motion of the sled. The horns were calling; the caravan turned to the right, and half the Dothraki reserves behind them charged along the safe paths to back them up in case the Night King tried following the new caravan in. With the much diminished wight forces around Winterfell that was fantastically unlikely, but Brienne was right to do so. Now that they had, finally, highly mobile archers - at least when their hooves could reach solid ground - they needed to use them, and more importantly train them, and that was now Brienne's job in Winterfell; Brienne had the overall view that she herself now lacked; it was right that Brienne command Winterfell as Arya left on the caravan, as she'd been trained to.

They were nearing ring sixteen; the Night King's forces stayed out of the range of the trebuchets now, just past ring twenty... but she was going to be in range of the main army for the first time since that first terrible night when the defenses she'd designed and the men and women of the North and the Vale had built and defended had been sorely tested, but had prevailed. She could have started shooting flight shafts two hundred yards back, as many of the other archers on the caravan were doing, but she didn't have the endurance to do that the entire trip through, and she could do something none of the others could; she could tell where the enemy was with her ears, and as Anguy had said years ago, never hold, never aim. He'd said your eye knows where it wants the arrow to go, but that wasn't quite right; all of her knew. She merely needed to know where the target was, and her body would do the rest.

She could hear a deep thumping; giant running, but not smoothly; carrying a tree to throw. Ninety and a hundred yards, three points on the starboard bow. She raised the double-curved bow, lowered her right thumb and opened the fingers of her left hand smoothly to loose the dragonglass war shaft an instant before dropping her hand back behind the dagger, right hand steady while she took another dragonglass warshaft and brought it up to the left side of the bow, her right thumb raising to keep it in place as she nocked the arrow, shifting the bow to the next target and again pulling back smoothly, dropping her right thumb and loosing again and again, changing targets each time to give her arrows time to reach the enemy, going back to whichever didn't fall that was still in range.

She used only dragonglass and dragonglass-backed castle-forged steel; there was no chance of recovering any of these arrows, and the one ready Valyrian bolt was on the cranequin crossbow on its post and universal joint, just a step away if the wight dragon appeared. Kitty and her lady didn't loose anything; they were simply ready in case something came close enough to be identified as unfriendly in the fog... then they were through the enemy, and Arya lowered her bow, half-panting and exhausted, back aching. Air comes in through the nose, out through the mouth. She'd need to change her clothes; her tunic was soaked through, as she'd expected; the tiny canvas and wicker shelter on the sled was already opening so Emilee could crawl out with her just-extinguished lamp in one hand to make room for Arya to shimmy in.

Jorah struck down another wight that had made it past the spears of the Unsullied to his right and the shower of arrows from the Dothraki behind the shieldwall; he had taken position on the corner, his left side covered only by his shield. Dark Sister returned to guard quickly; it was amazingly light, and the slightest touch downed any wight instantly. Behind him, the caravans passed each other; it had seemed to take much less time when he'd come in. He'd left Longclaw behind before he fled these shores, but through the grace of his Queen, he held the legacy of her House, and was using it in battle in her name.

Far in front of him, the fog turned orange and the sounds of the silver horn of his Queen rang down faintly from above; she'd seen a White Walker and was returning to the castle. He hoped she'd roasted it, and approved of her wisdom in retreating. He didn't really think the White Walkers had been holding back an ability to throw spears like the one that had killed Viserion, but he would always be in favor of keeping his Queen safe.

A swirl in the fog ahead, high off the ground caught his eye as the thundering sound of the last parts of the crossing caravans continued on behind him.

"COVER! TREE!" shouted Ser Jorah, his page's horn immediately relaying the short signal.

Minutes later, Arya crawled out from under the canvas that had kept the wind from her while she changed into the lamp-warmed underthings Emilee hand left for her, and then a new set of dry clothes atop them; clothes befitting Lady Winter, who then sat her royal rump down and idly wrapped an arm around a safety rope. This trip, the pleasant ease and simplicity of Arya of the Free Folk was - mostly - denied to her. The fog was gone, and the sleds were quiet, other than the incessant sounds of the sled's runners against crispy, creaky knarrsno and the sounds of the dogs. On the scorpion sled behind them, Arya could hear Deranna asking Mariya if the skies were clear, and Mariya waved her arms in the army's sign for all clear in response, sharp eyes ceaselessly scanning the sky. One by one, she checked the rest of her troupe and then their passengers.

They'd been the lead dogsled group, with the Seagard group in the rear. If the Night King had, perhaps, hidden serious forces under the snow to attack the front or rear, they could fight free and escape; if the Night King attacked the horses in the middle, the dogsleds would flank the enemy or force an opening.

"Caravan orders, four points west!" ordered Arya; she'd chosen four for no particular reason other than to make it harder for the Night King to predict the path they'd take. Emilee passing the order on via cavalry horn calls and Emira immediately passing on the message to the rear; some of the scouts in the rear would swing out to make sure nobody failed to hear and heed the orders. Caravans only worked if they stuck together, just like fleets. In this clear, crisp day, far from the Night King's fog, it'd be hard to get lost... but it was discipline and careful, precise repetition that made an army of professional soldiers instead of a rabble of warriors. This was training they needed if they were to be able to do the same during a foggy blizzard and at night.

Two miles and three more course changes later, it was time to start splitting up the caravan.

"Seagard horse caravan, break off," ordered Lady Winter; the horn calls went out, and a combination of horn calls and patterned drumbeats came back; then, when they were farther, another set of parting drumbeats.

"Seagard dogsled caravan, break off," commanded Arya, to much the same response. This time, though, she could simply look up to the bow of her sled and see Emira's nod as Old Fluffytail faithfully relayed Bjoramyr's messages; no problems with the caravans splitting so far, so it was time to continue.

"Moat Cailin dogsled caravan, break off," she said, keeping a steady grip on the rope as her sled's time to turn came under Donovar's careful driving. As with the other caravans, it was up to the caravan's leader exactly how to run their caravan; in this case, that meant Skamund himself. This time, White Harbor would have to wait to get the horses and dogs it needed to send supplies; what came in on ships would have to be warehoused for awhile. None of the strongholds were terribly short on anything, not yet, though as ever more wildfire would be a great boon... and a terrible danger to keep stored as well. Something that, ironically, the Second Long Night made less dangerous; there was no chance that an unusually hot day and a sunbeam would cause the wildfire to ignite.

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Sansa again stood just a couple steps away from the gate in the middle of the courtyard wall, the familiar silver-covered weight of the heavy platter of bread and salt in her hands. Her guards were around her, and Lord Reed beside her with the wine. To her right were the entry gates, to her left in the corner was Princess Sarella and her own entourage, and to her left and in front, across the courtyard in the opposite corner was Lord Tyrion and Daenerys's entourage. The first group in was a pair shivering in their thick furs, though they were at least wearing them properly, as was nearly everyone in the greeting line. First came a round-faced middle-aged woman of slightly above average height just behind and a half-step to the right of a younger, pretty woman of Arya's height, both appearing to be quite nervous until they spotted Samwell and Gilly behind her.

"Lady Tarly! Lady Melessa! I hope the journey wasn't too difficult; I know my sister's methods can be very abrupt, but as sudden and surprising as they are, they are also very effective. My brother by choice Samwell has told us of you, as has Gilly, and even Little Sam has mentioned Gamma and Tee. Please, have bread and salt, and be welcome in our home. Sam will show you to your rooms," greeted Sansa with a genuine smile. By all accounts, Sam's mother was a gentle woman and a good wife and mother, and had raised three children and raised them well, and his sister the Lady Tarly was a sweet maid. The North might not have been the best place for them, but she was sure they would adapt... and it was certainly the best place for them now, as long as they could be kept separate from Daenerys and the dragons.

"Thank you, Your Grace," replied Melessa and Talla in perfect unison, with equally perfect curtsys. Sansa smiled at the reminder of the formal etiquette of the South; when she'd first reached King's Landing, that spectacle had delighted her, before she realized how much rot it had hidden. It was beautiful, to be sure, but wasn't something she'd ever require or even encourage in her own kingdoms. There were far more important things for her people to be doing with their time!

After they had taken bread and salt, she waved Samwell forward, Gilly walking with him, smiling, Little Sam in her arms, wrapping his arms around them, "Mother! Talla! I'm so happy you're here. Here, come with me, I'll take you to our room; Meera had the top layer of barrels moved out so there's some more space, and Alleras, I mean Princess Sarella, had a really clever design for a folding bunkbed I thought we could try! I know it's not what you're used to, but we're a little tight on space."

"It's sort of like a ship," said Gilly as they sipped wine and greeted Howland, then moved to the gatehouse in the side directly behind Sansa, the Queen's guards letting them through with all their usual care and diligence while keeping Sam and his Ma and sister has far from the Dragon woman's people as possible, "Sam didn't like the ship when we were on it, he got sick, but that was because of how it moved."

Sansa heard the older woman's voice whispering 'what does she mean, brother by choice?' loudly as they were passed through the double line of guards protecting her personal exit from the courtyard, and turned a radiant smile on the next group of people in the greeting line, waiting to speak a moment as the battlefield reports were transmitted, the clamor of drums, horns, and gongs drowning out all dignified speech for half a minute... but all was quiet on the front, her troops were clearing snow under heavy guard while the wights, for the moment, maintained the siege. The Night King was still at Umber, two miles out. She may not know the intricate details, but if you live with the signals for so long, then anyone would learn them... such as the two approaching, since the tension they were hiding vanished as they heard the signals.

"Lord Grafton, Lady Wylla, welcome to Winterfell! You've arrived just in time; as you've heard, Arya's had to go South, and I'm sure Admiral Vollin - who has Arya's complete trust - will be happy to have some others familiar with naval matters close to hand to help educate me on what I'm missing. I'm afraid my military education isn't very good, and naval matters are what I'm worst at. Please, have bread and salt, and be welcome in our home," said Sansa. She hadn't seen Wylla since she'd gone south with her father, and the girl she remembered had grown up into a beautiful and dangerous-looking young woman. She'd known the Manderly had kept the green hair, but it was even more vivid now than she remembered! Wylla, she would certainly have seated next to Gendry at meals. He needed a match sooner or later, and Wylla wanted someone that would let her keep her name, so if they hit it off, so much the better for them, for White Harbor, for her family. Even for the North, since having a Southron smallfolk point of view in White Harbor would be good, given how much trade flowed through there.

Lord Grafton bowed deeply, taking a crusty piece and pressing the inside lightly against the salt before chewing twice and swallowing it whole as Wylla gave the Queen a cheeky wink while taking a large piece for herself.

"Thank you, my Queen. You honor me greatly with the appointment to your Small Council! I can only pray to the Smith, the Warrior, and the Crone that I may live up to your expectations during these difficult times," he said with a deep nod. The group of people around the Queen only further impressed upon him how just and even-handed her Grace was with all her kingdoms; she'd spread credit around with great honor and the Crone's wisdom while at the Eyrie, and he was certain that she would look well upon honest compliments about others, and look poorly on empty flattery especially of oneself, so he continued sincerely, "Indeed, I will be hard-pressed to match Lady Wylla's achievements as the harbormaster of White Harbor, for she has kept more fleets moving under a siege than I've ever seen in peacetime. I believe that having the same type of organization will be necessary for all our ports in the war to come."

"Lord Royce recommended you, and Lady Winter's agreement matched my own; I'm very pleased you and Lady Wylla have had a productive journey! We will need that kind of industriousness in this war, and during the decades to come," replied Sansa kindly, making sure her approval rang out, and gestured to a page who came racing over, "Uilan, here, will introduce you to Queen Daenerys's Lord Hand Tyrion, and to Ser Davos, who will be coordinating her naval forces, then take you to your rooms and continue as your page during your stay."

"Of course, my Queen. Lord Hand, a pleasure to meet you," said Lord Grafton, taking a sip of wine before following the page at the usual steady jog of the people of the Winter Kingdoms in wartime.

"It's so good to see you again, your Grace," said the green-haired woman as the Master of Ships was led off, resting her dragonglass-head spear easily on her shoulder. Sansa was more beautiful than ever, with her bright Tully hair, though she seemed somewhat less bright now than when they had been children. They were all grown up and leading, now, and even in this war the Stark Queen had called her to Winterfell; she would serve the Starks as best she could, now and always.

"Your hair is even more vibrantly green than ever," said Sansa warmly and with good humor, remembering briefly her father and King Robert joking when they'd met each other again, long ago, "Does it help your staff in directing sailors how to find you?"

"No more than your height helps you!" retorted Wylla with a grin... and just the tip of her tongue sticking out for a moment before Sansa held the platter out one-armed and pulled her in for a quick hug. Now she was sure that with Arya gone, the Queen wasn't getting enough humor, so she would pick up the slack in that line!

"Very well; let us end the duel with even honors. Meghan, here, will lead you to your quarters, and I'll see you after supper; I'd like to catch up a bit before you meet Lord Davos; he was quite impressed with your harbor, Lady Wylla, and I'm sure he'll talk your ear off once he gets started, so I'll exercise my Queenly prerogative and take your time first," said Sansa, waving the small girl over. Wylla was a valuable and loyal ally, as well as a good friend. It would be good to catch up... and it would give her a much greater insight into White Harbor and their many foreign guests. Her own spy network wasn't particularly good at naval matters, and Sansa thought that Wylla might be able to help... assuming she could learn to rule her face, as Arya might say.

"Thank you, your Grace; I shall see you soon" exclaimed Wylla, cheeks flushed as she moved on to take a large swallow of wine, rolling her shoulders in preparation to jog off. She wasn't as athletic as Arya, but she'd gotten used to the constant motion, and she'd found that the exercise certainly helped her figure, "Congratulations on your daughter's wedding, Lord Hand! We were so happy to hear the good news in these dark times!"

Sansa kept her inner grin to a dignified but warm smile at Wylla's blush at well-deserved praise and turned to greet the next in line as Wylla jogged off, a handful of Maesters and several others who hadn't obtained enough links to become Maesters; most of them, she could see, had Valyrian links, but not all. Atop the wall, a page raced deeper into the castle; not just any page, but Heimdaahl, which meant that Vigilance and the other Valyrian steel had arrived and would be taken to Gendry's workshop quietly.

"So, you think that rumor of the Sphinx being a Princess is true?" whispered one two-link acolyte of the Citadel, continuing the conversation he'd been having while he waited.

"Don't be ridiculous; you've seen him with the girls in the Quill and Tankard, and seen him shoot that monster bow of his! That thing's more powerful than my father's! No way a girl could pull it! Besides, he's got twice as many links as you," replied a novice in a harsh whisper, only to gain both of them a smack on the back of the head and a shove from the Maester behind them.

"Welcome to Winterfell and the Winter Kingdoms! Our Maesters welcome all who seek knowledge, and we're always glad to have more teachers and skilled experts. Please, have bread and salt, and be welcome in our home. Grand Maester Wolkan will show you your quarters, then take you to the library tower and explain how the Winter Maesters have made some changes from the traditions of the Citadel in order to facilitate learning," said Sansa with a courteous smile, studiously ignoring the byplay between the acolytes; they were boys of summer, and would learn soon enough... one way or another. Sarella didn't seem to be very interested in maintaining her Alleras identity; instead, she'd been nearly ashamed of it, though the Dornish leader still wore her light armor with both dresses and trousers whenever it suited her.

"Welcome, welcome; this way," said Grand Maester Wolkan as the newcomers had their bread and wine, "We could use an outside perspective on the matter of the Night King's movements; young Maester Ruufus is hypothesizing that the distance south that the army of the dead and the Night King can roam are linked to the progression of the Long Night. Maester Russal doesn't feel the evidence is sufficient until we see the dead pause and move at least twice more, with distances in proportion to the shortening of the days..."

Managing his own greeting line, Tyrion smiled at the next young Lord in line as the fool strutted forward, his chest out to proudly show off the great white horned owl on a grey field... now that the dead weren't near. A pity he hadn't been bold enough to avoid pissing himself on the run in, by the smell... and while the gems on his tunic appeared to have been freshly sewn in, there were quite a few places with rough patches, as if something had been... unsewn. Lady Mertyns wouldn't be happy with her second son, he thought... though perhaps that was why she'd sent him up here to make sure the family could claim to be on the side of whoever ended up winning. The boy was from the Stormlands, and neither his Queen's dragons nor her armies had come anywhere near Mistwood... which meant either their spies or this boy was incompetent. Or both. It could always be both.

"Lord Gerrar, thank you for making the long and dangerous journey to our Queen's court! She..."

"Why isn't she here to greet me herself?" demanded the boy arrogantly, "I say, this journey has been atrocious! First my ship had to wait for hours in queue, and then I had to leave nearly my entire retinue behind! I was only allowed... Allowed! To bring two knights and six servants, and then only after buying food from a shipful of swindlers at ruinous prices! So I brought them on the single most uncomfortable journey of my entire life! Everyone was so rude, I had to leave my campaigning tent behind, I'm freezing, and the foreigner..."

Tyrion cut him off sharply before the spoiled brat could damn himself beyond any possibility of redemption by casting aspersions on his Queen directly, "Her Grace Queen Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, rightful heir to the Iron Throne, rightful Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, the Mother of Dragons, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains, is not here to greet you because Queen Daenerys is riding on her dragon, fighting the dead alongside her armies and our allies to protect all the living, you included... or did you somehow miss the army of dead men you were just taken through? It is through her dragonfire, her dragonglass, the force of arms of her soldiers and those of our allies that the dead have been kept from overrunning the living across the entire continent and more! Tell me, Lord Gerrar, how many soldiers has House Mertyns supplied to defend the living? How much dragonglass have you brought to kill the dead? How many thousands of barrels of pitch and tar to burn them? Food? Wildfire? Tools? Craftsmen? You may wish to carefully consider the ways in which you have helped the living stay living before you question our Queen's priorities... which are on the survival of her people, which includes you, your family, and your smallfolk."

Tyrion glared at the fool boy, and continued, his voice hard, "Now, you may have managed to miss nearly everything your mother should have taught you, but you had best remember this; right now, you are not in the Seven Kingdoms. You are not in peacetime anymore. You are no longer have the luxury to be a worthless spoiled brat, but you now have the opportunity to represent your House... for good or ill. You are now in the Winter Kingdoms at the very edge of the realms of men, surrounded by the dead, with the Night King himself atop a wight dragon not two miles hence! You knew or should have known you were traveling into a war, not riding out for a bit of sport! You need to keep a civil tongue regarding our hosts during your entire stay, but especially now, before our hosts decide not to offer you guest right! I assure you, you won't survive long outside the moats, and you haven't been through Queen Stark's receiving line yet, so they have every right by the laws of gods and men to throw you out! Should you by some miracle be granted guest right, you will respect our hosts and our allies, lest our Queen send you home in disgrace... and that's the best you could hope for. You will go through Queen Sansa's receiving line, you will express how thankful you are to be allowed to stay here, and then you will return here without saying anything except your courtesies. Here you will wait silently until you can receive a proper introduction to the behavior expected of you here. I assure you, should you violate guest right, you won't live long, even if they only exile you outside the moats. If you commit a crime, it is our hosts who will judge you by their own laws."

Inspecting the boy's tunic more closely, and seeing that the garish garment would have actually been quite tasteful without the gems, he smirked, "However, I do understand having to purchase supplies suddenly to meet the food requirements to be allowed out of the port. I'll send a raven to your mother the honorable Lady Mertyns and make sure she knows that you were sent to our Queen without the means to have brought sufficient supplies with you... as she would have known was required from the many ravens that she received."

The boy had, no doubt, spent the money he'd been allocated for the journey - and the food Queen Sansa's missives had been quite clear about - on the garish display of jewelry. Tyrion knew that because more than anything else, the mention of a raven to his mother made the boy pale and open his mouth. Tyrion waved his hand sharply, more than ready to be done with the lad, "Off with you; guest right is an important tradition, you know!"

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Two hours after the caravan had left the protection of Winterfell behind, dusk was already approaching and the caravan's bird warg had confirmed there were neither wights above the snow nor signs of wight dragon anywhere around them. Arya heard the horns call for a halt atop a high, barren hill; a good location, and she could see a set of scout sleds on watch while soldiers were stabbing into the snow with long dragonglass-tipped pikes, searching for wights hiding as Meera had warned of.

Once they'd arrived at the checked area, Deranna parked the scorpion sled just behind where her brother parked Arya's sled, and they all disembarked, the troupe splitting up the duties of staying on watch and caring for the dogs by long habit. Even with the additional guests, their two sleds were acting more as a large family within the clan than a group of Southrons, since Arya's new guests were followed the lead of those who had been adopted into the clan, and of the other Free Folk.

To the young Stark's amusement, it appeared that the redoubtable Tybault was somewhat discomfited by the complete lack of any kind of formal address - especially as shown to Arya herself, but, as a good Northerner, he kept his discomfort to himself as best he could. Her sister may be Queen, but Arya had no desire to put up with a bunch of useless Princess shite.

She was sure that if Meera were here, her good-sister would enjoy the trip without any frippery as well, and then Tybault would likely have nearly exploded. His son had been the subcommander of the archers in the Godswood, and had been right next to where the wights had boiled up from under the heart tree. Meera's quick spear and quicker orders had saved his son's life, and he was quite devoted to her in return, however many reservations about women soldiers he had previously had, so watching the Princess Meera go out in filthy trousers hunting frogs and skinning them on a fire she made herself would have been more than he could bear.

"Arya, toss me the rope! Stuffy's sele is frayed," called Deranna, running her fingers over the rough patch in the big dog's harness, seeing that her leader happened to be closest to the rope. She wasn't some foolish Southron, kneeling and bowing all the time! Now, at least, she thought with a bright grin. It was good to be in a caravan again, with her clan... though returning to the Riverlands was a bit strange. She and her brother had been gone a long time. She was still a Rivers whose only surviving blood relative was her brother, but the other members of the troupe... they were closer than most families she'd seen, and whatever lay ahead, she knew she'd always have people supporting her.

There were from the Riverlands, the Vale, and the North; baseborn, bastard-born, and highborn alike, they worked and lived together, watched out for one another. They could go anywhere, do anything together! They were Free Folk, and could live their lives with the clan, never kneeling again, any time they chose to. They could make a living as merchants, or hunters, or sailors, or bandits, or soldiers, or run an inn, cater to smallfolk or the highest of the highborn, or even live as petty lords and ladies themselves. And not in spite of all that, but because of all that, they would serve Arya together until the end of her days.

"Sis, I'll get you another pack of fish after you fix the harness," said Donovar; there wasn't a lot of cargo capacity on a scorpion sled, so they kept only two days rations for the dogs on it and replaced them from the big cargo sleds each meal, in case it got separated from the caravan. He stirred the soup carefully, keeping the temperature even, and started to chew on the bark he'd stripped off of a thin branch Connas had cut through while they were moving. People would eat later, but there was no reason not to snack on what could be gathered on the move.

"Thanks! Korb, check the cargo straps up front; the gear's starting to shift to starboard on turns," said Deranna, reaching down to scoop up a fresh handful of snow, rubbing it between her gloved fingers, then putting a bit of the crust in her mouth, then some of the rest thoughtfully before brushing her gloves dry with a vigorous pair of swipes; the snow was softening as they went South, no doubt about it; she'd need to adjust the straps for her snowshoes, but the dogs and the sled runners would be fine.

"Seagard dogsled caravan's stopped to feed the dogs too; no trouble," contributed Emira, continuing to sign quietly to Old Fluffytail; no new orders, no trouble, no sign of wight dragon. Once she was done with that, she spread out her map, weighting the corners with snowballs, then took up her little wight-killing stick, a small wood cover over the dragonglass, and carefully pointed out where they were on the map to the bunny. The stick had been her only weapon until just before they'd left; now, she had both a bone-handled bronze knife and a pair of much sturdier dragonglass and wood daggers in good leather sheaths, as well as a good leather helmet and breastplate. Deranna and the snowflakes had even been training her to fight - to really, really fight! Three days ago, Lady Winter had even trained her for an hour... and her thighs were still sore! Daggers were short, so she had to move fast - not just the daggers, her whole body. She'd had no idea how many ways there were to kill a man, but if someone attacked Old Fluffytail, she'd be there to protect him!

Emilee approached Emira first, handed her a half-loaf of bread and part of a carrot for the hare, then continued on, passing out bread to the Lady of the Crossing, Lady Mormont, Lord Tybault, the Hound, Dolorous Edd, and then the rest of the troupe, nudging Arya with a shy smile when she gave her liege lady the second to last piece, "Eat up, Arya; you're skin and bones!"

"I'm not just skin and bones! I've got blades, too!" retorted Lady Winter jovially, then lowered her voice to a loud whisper and dramatically pulled her cloak out of the way to show off her bandoleer and the fine leather and embroidered sigil under it while keeping the edge turned to hide the inside of the double sided cloak, "Psst... you wan' a dagger? Castle-forged steel made by a master, I swear! Only two gold dragons, and I's cuttin' me own throat!"

Emilee giggled, retorting, "You Southrons are so strange, with your fine leather and your soft metal; I wouldn't give two fish heads for that crap; it'd rust through before the first fortnight was out. You think we have oil to waste on tools?"

"You're daft, like all the wildl... err... Free Folk! All that time beyond the wall froze your head! Well, I've got better things to do with my time," retorted Arya to the highborn Riverlander as she snapped her cloak closed and strode off towards the top of the hill with her little far-eye to get one last look at the caravan and the terrain.

Lyanna shook her head at Kitty, biting into the bread carefully at first to make sure it wasn't still frozen, then jerking her head to tear off a piece. She'd been out on the dogsleds for a few days, before the army of the dead had arrived, and while she hadn't thrown herself into becoming one of the Free Folk like Arya Stark had, she'd spent a lot of time talking with them in their own camps, day in and day out, just as Lady Frey had for Sansa Stark. She briefly narrowed her eyes at the sight of Lord Tybault eating the bread with a slightly puzzled look, then nudged the Lady of the Crossing and murmured quietly, "Do you think he knows how the bread was kept from freezing?"

Kitty's eyes grew round and her cheeks puffed out for a moment before she brought herself under control again, imagining the man's response when he learned it had undoubtedly been kept inside Emilee's furs... probably right against her armpits. To warm something small up - a waterskin, or food, it was held tight to the body, just over the underthings with as much insulation around it as possible, to preserve and use the body's warmth in the Free Folk way. She knew from her spies that Lord Tybault, however good he was at getting along with their allies professionally, had stayed with the other knights of the Vale on his trips. He knew snow caves, because those were the best way to camp when traveling even on a horse caravan, but beyond that? Hah.

"Bet you twenty silver stags he doesn't," replied the Lady of the Crossing with a smirk.

"No bet; you don't need more money... not if you're going to be collecting all those tolls in addition to brothel fees! You're still going with the tolls you suggested at the last discussion?" asked Lady Mormont. They'd all thought they'd have more time to figure things out, but the Night King had moved things ahead, and she would do her duty, all her duties, to the very best of her abilities. Right now, with the siege engine plans adjusted for the newest information they'd gotten, that meant her duties as Master of Laws, and as a Small Council member on behalf of all the Winter Kingdoms.

"No, Lord Manderly and I spoke afterwards, and we worked out the total costs of different shipping on paper; I'm going to adjust the tolls on both land and river traffic so the smaller merchants can make profit either route. It should be about the same, but if we encourage both, then we'll have both more trade and the ability to move cargo when either the river's too dangerous or the road's in poor condition," replied Kitty.

She knew the Twins would be making from a little less to a lot less from each transit, but the fees would be predictable, not subject to Walder's whims, and not ruinous to boat traffic that could in times past have swept past the Twins without paying tolls when the river was high and fast. With the new defenses, that wouldn't be safe anymore, so collecting would be easier, and with reasonable tolls, a route made safe by patrols, and small keeps, inns, and piers built to serve the trade and traders alike, merchants would be willing to pay. That meant more business for the smallfolk and merchants and crafters, more taxes to the Twins, and more taxes to the Winter Kingdoms as a whole; Lord Manderly had explained that was how White Harbor had grown so rich so fast; their wealth wasn't at the expense of the lesser lords and smallfolk, it was in support of them.

"Cargo inspections?" asked Lyanna, moving on to the next topic. She didn't think they'd stay at Moat Cailin more than two days; if they only had two or three days of snowstorm, they were only a fortnight away from the Twins. Setting down the law once was easy; failing to be certain from the outset, though, would show only weakness that would invite people to attack, so there was much to go over.

"No changes to that; it'd only take a single wagonload of wildfire to burn a hole straight through the middle of the Twins, and who knows what else someone might try to smuggle through. All cargoes get inspected, whether they claim to be from the Reach or Winterfell itself. On the trip out, I was thinking about the laws on..."

Hours later, Emira packed the last bit of the inside walls of the snow cave, then checked on the sleeping bunny and his cage, tucking in a corner of the tiny blanket that had been dislodged. That done, she flopped back on her own blanket to wait for the twins to finish putting in the packed snow blocks for the dogleg; until then, she'd stay in here so she didn't bother anyone, since they were almost done. Old Fluffytail was settled in, and she had a few minutes to herself. Her Da had stayed at Winterfell, and her Ma was at Gulltown; she missed them both. She hadn't seen her Ma since their village had packed up and gone to Moat Cailin, and she wouldn't see her Ma or Da for a long, long time. Some of her family would be at Moat Cailin still, and her friends would be so very jealous! And then she'd be gone again.

She'd ridden with Lady Winter and the Princess Kitty and the First Ranger and the Scorpion Bear, and that was amazing, but she wasn't sure it made up for not being able to see her family. The army of the dead was coming, and she was sure they'd be fought off, but it would be so long until she'd see her parents again. She hadn't thought it when she left, but now she really missed her Ma singing her to sleep sometimes. Emira turned and was gently stroking the top of the bunny's head when there was a sound at the entrance; someone was in the little tunnel, shaking powdered snow off their clothes. When the plain, older woman crawled into the main area, she spoke as steadily as she could, "Lady Cox! Do you need me to do something?"

Emilee looked at the girl, and crawled over, adjusting the mossy wick of the lamp by habit as she passed, doffing her outer layer now that she was out of the wind and it was clean. For all that she would follow Lady Winter, Arya, anywhere, and for all the skills of the others, they didn't really understand what these children were going through, and Emira was younger than the Rivers twins, and had had a much more sheltered life; a good family, a good village, a good Lord.

"Thinking about home, Emira?" asked Emilee Cox quietly, and when Emira gave a small nod and a few blinks, she reached out to gather the small girl up in her arms, murmuring warmly, "Korb will be training you on knife-work soon, and I think he'll give you some practice against Lyanna and her hatchets, but we've got half an hour or so while he checks outside the perimeters and sets a few traps to see if we can catch any small game. You can talk to me, if you want; I'm a good listener. If you don't want to talk, that's fine, too."

"I miss my Ma and Da," admitted Emira quietly, hugging the kind woman. She didn't want anyone to pity her, wanted to be strong, but her feelings wouldn't listen to what she wanted.

"I understand. I miss my uncle, too - I haven't seen him in months, not since I followed Princess Kitty north after Arya killed the Frey men. I'll get to see him again at the Twins, but then it'll be time to go south, and I'll miss him again after that, just like you'll get a couple days with your family at Moat Cailin. You know how to read and write, though! You can write them letters, a little bit every day, and send them on the caravans, you know. You're a Nightrunner; you can trade with the ice-river dogsled caravans, even, and send them more often."

"I can't use any of the parchment for myself! I don't want to take advantage!"

"You aren't taking advantage if you trade with them, and they trust you because of what you do and who you are. As for parchment, you're right; you can't use official parchment, but you can buy some! You're a page, you get paid, and you can buy what you need. You don't need to save all of it; your family will be fed and housed through the winter as much as anyone is. If not parchment, some thin scraps of summer cloth to write on. There's some areas with trees on our path; you can find some bark, like willow bark - thin and light, so you could write on that with some charred wood, too, and it's not a burden to a sled. It doesn't have to be even a quarter page; just a few words, as if it were for a raven! I'll show you were to get some at Moat Cailin, if you don't spend all your free time catching up with your friends," advised Lady Cox, then fell silent to give her time to speak if she wanted to say more. Lady Arya would make sure they weren't disturbed; while she might not have known how to help Emira, she would certainly ensure that what could be done, was... and the girl would likely find parchment in her hands sooner than she thought.

"I can do that... but when everyone's gone, who will I know at the Twins? I'm not highborn, I can't bother Princess Kitty," said the girl quietly. When the sun was going down, she'd thought to tell her Da how pretty it was, only to remember that he was far, far behind her.

"Don't worry; the twins and I will introduce you around the Twins before we follow Arya south, and you'll have Jurguens and Quickspear guarding Old Fluffytail; you know them. Deranna and Donovar know lots of the children about your age, and I lived in the castle for many years, so I know some good ones, too; you'll make friends quickly enough. Never forget that we all know you've got a good head on your shoulders, Emira. You can ask to talk to Princess Kitty if you need to, and I'm sure she'd be happy to talk to you. Are you scared of talking to her?"

"Of course not!"

"Good! Did you know one of the first things Queen Sansa had her do when she arrived from the Twins after Arya killed the Frey men was to go around and talk to all the clans and houses, to see what they needed and wanted, over and over? Not just what they asked for, but to look and see what they really needed with a different set of eyes - Riverlander eyes, in her case. The Queen was still the Lady of Winterfell them, but Princess Kitty will need people to do that just as the Queen did; running a kingdom takes an enormous amount of time, and your Northern eyes may see some things that are needed but aren't being done yet."

"I can do that!"

"I'll ask Arya to bring it up; she's the Master of Whisperers, after all!" said Emilee with a quiet giggle.

"Does that make you a Whisperer?" asked Emira, "Would that make me a Whisperer?"

"Shhhh.... it's a secret!"

************************

"Were you followed?" whispered Marmiz mo Rhurd, his head turning back and forth as the last of the sons of the Wise Masters who had been at their previous meeting joined them. Sadly, there were few left with the courage it took to be a free man! They'd show their cowardly fathers that they had the true hearts of the sons of Ghis, and retake their city from the unnatural foreign invader!

"No! I couldn't have been; I went through six different alleys before coming here," replied Skaklon mo Giznzn, opening the drab fabric he'd used as a cloak with a shiver and tugging his splendid yellow silks back into some semblance of the order a man of his stature should have dressed as. Sadly, since the coming of the eightfold-cursed Targaryan, only deep inside their pyramids were the Wise Masters of Yunkai still able to live as the gods had decreed. That it was so awfully cold here outside the pyramids was an affront to what was right and proper, but that everyone was wrapping so much heavy cloth about them at least made it easy to sneak past the Targaryen's lackeys.

"Zhednihr mo Rhimdizn refused to join us. I had not thought him such a spineless coward, but all he would say is that I should quit the group and never say anything against the never to be sufficiently damned Targaryen again," said Moqhol mo Yhadhazn, the oldest of their group at four and twenty years. Truly, he had expected more, but even after the reply to the fleet they and Astapor and Volantis had sent was blatant weakness - 'mercy' as the Targaryen's envoy had called it... even after the witch proved she was incapable of ruling with strength, most of the other sons of the Wise Masters were unwilling to try again. Cowards, the lot of them - the woman was spineless, and so he would soon be the true ruler of Yunkai, and these men before him would be at his side!

"The Targaryen woman spits on our laws, our customs, the divine right of the free, and desecrates the very idea of the so-called 'safe conduct' she offered my father after stealing his gold and refusing the ships he generously offered? And now Zhednihr cowers in his father's pyramid? Truly the scions of the Ghiscari Empire, oldest and greatest empire that ever was have fallen low... all except we few!" exclaimed Drirmaz mo Eraz, his voice sharp and loud. His father had tried words and gold and transport away from the glorious Slaver's Bay... now it was time to use fire and steel, and retake their city!

Moqhol mo Yhadhazn nodded to Drirmaz, then asked the group, "What news from the port?"

"Little is new," said Rarmaz mo Uhzehl, the most cunning of them all. Moqhol thought he'd rule, but throwing down one ruler and putting up another, well... it was a dangerous business. Accidents could happen... like the one he suspected had happened to Hizdahr zo Loraw of Meereen. He couldn't be sure, but if he had planted someone high up in the enemy's trust, he wouldn't need them to survive when the time came for open combat. He'd have to get someone into the whore's ranks, but even half a world away the Spider's little birds watched the witch's pyramid closely. He continued on calmly; for now, he'd be the loyal and valuable cousin, but soon...

"Slaves in the tens of thousands are still leaving the city to grow food; the weak-minded fools are easily swayed by the spectacle of a necromancer's pets and a few words from the Targaryen whore. Slaves are being taught to fight whether they stay or go, the best of them given weapons of dragonglass; and those weapons are very sharp. Warm clothing is still insultingly going to the slaves first and the Masters last, on the claim that our pyramids mean we don't deserve to get it first. The new rumors is that some Westerosi Master is coming - not a master of men, but a mere scholar! And... I found it!"

"You found it?" asked Moqhol mo Yhadhazn eagerly.

"I did; alchemist's wildfire! We'll need but a single flame at the right time, and we can blow our enemies back to the hells that spawned them!" replied Rarmaz mo Uhzehl... though while he said our enemies, he rather thought a few of his own enemies might be persuaded to be in the area, too, not just the witch's forces.

"We will win a great vic..."

CRASH

The door smashed against the wall, half-torn out of the frame as a squad of the Second Sons poured into the room led by a pair with heavy maces, all of them beating the conspirators down as quickly as possible before another pair of men entered... and finding that it wasn't difficult. The pampered sons of slavemasters were no match for veteran mercenaries.

"This them?" asked the squad leader, leaning outside to wave at the militia unit of freed ex-slaves that was entering the plaza to support them.

"Yes," said Zhednihr mo Rhimdizn with a grimace at what had befallen those who had once been his friends before he had seen the light... at what he had brought upon them after he failed to dissuade them from their insanity, "That's Moqhol mo Yhadhazn, who tried to get me to join their rebellion."

The young man named glared up at the traitor, gasping out "Why?"

Zhednihr shook his head, looking down at the young men on the ground, "Because you are fools. The red comet came, warning of what was to come; we did not listen. Then the city was overthrown; our parents lost when the slaves rose up! Some of our parents tried to fund the Sons of the Harpy in secret; they bought a fleet, and yet they lost again when the dragons flew. Yes, they claim they could never have known she'd come back, but two of the dragons were still in the great pyramid in Meereen, and that, that they knew! Now the cold comes, travelers bring wights, we hear tidings of icy doom from all over the world... and yet what do the Wise Masters do? Nothing but complain about their losses! What does the Dragon Queen do? She commands we make food, sends warm clothing, joins with those who know true cold, fights the dead and prepares us to do the same, just as the Red God commands! R'hllor predicted the Long Night, and here it is; those who would fight the living during this time are traitors."

He spat on the ground, "You are traitors to all the living. May your deaths bring the favor of the Lord of Light!"

************************

"SAILS HO! THREE POINTS ON THE STARBOARD BOW AND CLOSING FAST! TWO SAILS, WHITE!" came a call across the water from the Purp to their starboard even as the drums started beating, relayed by their ships and hers alike. Ironborn may not be great builders, but if something helped them kill, they'd become good at it, and fast.

"SNAP TO, YOU LOUSY BILGE RATS!" shouted Yara, glaring about as once again the scorpion trainer they'd picked up at Pentos beat her own crew to the scorpion mount; the greasy-haired Purp was quick, all right. She played the small far-eye across the other ships of her fleet and the dozen Purp warships; this time, at least, two thirds of her ships were ready for battle before the last of the Arsenal's ships were. On the other hand, barely any of the merchant and smuggler ships from Pentos, Myr, Tyrosh, and Lys were at quarters, so at least the Ironborn were second only to the Purps.

"I SEE IT!" shouted her own lookout... nearly four seconds after he'd been told where to look by the damned Purps that saw them first?

By the Drowned God, she'd need to turn them from a bunch of scavengers to a group of real warriors, and to do that, she needed to get them in a fight! They needed to be faster, harder, stronger... and more disciplined.

The other ships were to starboard, which, since they were sailing east past the southron coast of Essos, meant out in the deep ocean, and east of Lys... the only reason to be out there was Sothoryos, and the only reason to go to Sothoryos was slaves. There was a bedamned truce on during the Long Night with all the cities that were contributing. That may not include the idiots following her uncle, but she knew she couldn't match his fleet... not yet.

"Plain sails," said Theon with a hint of his old smirk.

"Plain sails," agreed Queen Yara predatorily, then raised her voice to shout across the water.

"THOSE SHIPS BEAR ALLEGIANCE TO NO CITY! WHAT SAY WE GO KILL SOME SLAVERS!"

"KILL SOME SLAVERS? THAT WE CAN AGREE ON, IRONBORN!" came the response; she recognized the voice as the admiral in charge of the Purps.

"TWO OF YOURS TO RUN THEM DOWN AND TWO OF MINE TO BOARD?" called out Yara, who smirked at her brother as the drumbeats sounded and four Purp warships heeled to the east and put on more sail, splitting apart to two divisions of two; the merchants they were escorting couldn't keep up with real warships, not theirs and not hers. She and Theon had at least gotten the best of the ships, and some had escaped Euron's trap.

"AND TWO MORE TO HARRY THEM!" came the shouted response.

"ALL RIGHT YOU IRONBORN SLOBS, THREE POINTS TO STARBOARD AND PUT ON FULL SAIL! PREPARE TO COME ABOUT AND GRAPPLE! SYREN, YOU'RE WITH US - LET'S SHOW THOSE POOR SLAVES THAT THE IRONBORN FIGHT TO FREE THEM! NO MERCY TO THE SLAVERS!" yelled Yara with a bloodthirsty grin as the Syren turned smartly to starboard and accelerated alongside her flagship. Two and two would have been enough, but three pairs... that wouldn't take very long, no matter which way the slaver ships turned; she could see why the Purp had done it; she wouldn't make the same mistake again. Two more didn't change their defense of the merchants at all while they were away, and if they got back sooner, so much the better.

"So, now the Ironborn will raid slavers and pirates instead of merchants and farms?" asked Theon quietly, with a hint of amusement in his voice.

"I promised Daenerys we'd stop reaving, roving, raiding, and raping, and even if I hadn't, I don't think your little Faceless girl would let that go unpunished... and she wouldn't let things like seas or islands or cliffs or the tall walls of Pyke get in her way. Daenerys would react the same; I've looked into her eyes, and that's a woman that wouldn't forgive or forget even a little raid on anything she's claimed as hers. We've seen her dragons, we've seen the new way of war. If we try to live the old ways, there won't be an invasion, not like before. One day we'd be feasting and fucking, and the next day the Iron Islands would be nothing but molten stone, castles, ships, and the Ironborn themselves cinders and ash, bobbing along with the rest of the flotsam," replied Yara quietly, raising her voice up to make sure her crew would hear the next part, "Ironborn are made to fight, but there's little honor or glory in fighting soft landlubbers who can't protect themselves! We can fight other seamen at sea, and show them all who's the toughest warriors in the world!"

"I bet port visits will be a lot friendlier, too, if we're raiding the people raiding the ports," said Theon with a wink at his sister and a smile he didn't really feel... or, at least, didn't feel like he used to, but he was anticipating the fight! Greyjoys and Starks alike approve of killing slavers and scum in a boarding action at sea; this was something he could do as whole-heartedly as anything.

"Go command the scorpion, Theon. I won't have that Purp take credit for the hit; I want their mainmast destroyed, or at least their sails, and you're the best we've got," grinned Yara, shoving her brother towards the small siege engine. Maybe a good fight would help bring back the brother she loved!

"Yes, my Queen!"

"GIT!" shouted Yara, laughing as she hopped up on the rail and put her own far-eye to her eye to look for the top of their prey's masts.

************************

Moat Cailin two days behind them and clouds blotting out the stars ahead, Arya snapped her head up from her conversation with her infantry leaders and both the leader of the thousand soldiers they'd picked up at Moat Cailin in exchange for a thousand Night's Watch and the leader of the Riverlander soldiers that had been waiting where Kitty had told them to by raven more than a sennight ago. That had been a howl she knew well... and perhaps now she understood why the Lannisters were losing so many patrols that the Riverlanders weren't responsible for killing; they'd figured it was the Brotherhood without Banners, which Beric had refuted.

"Signal the caravan to halt atop this hill. NO HUNTING, stay inside the perimeter, no patrols! Treat wolves as allies unless they've already finished ripping someone's throat open," commanded Arya, glancing at the smooth snow ahead, standing so she could move aft, "Donovar, switch with me after we halt. We're going to be nice and quiet on the approach. I've only met a few of them, I think."

Emilee raised the horn to her lips to relay the signals, bringing the sleds to an orderly halt to the additional sounds of a great chorus of howls following the first howl. Not just a couple dozen howls ahead of them, but hundreds of howls from ahead and both sides... even a few from behind them!

After the enormous chorus of wolves died down, Arya threw back her own head and gave voice to her own howl, followed by Ghost's children joining in with their fuller, deeper howls, just as they did when Ghost led the howl. Since it wasn't quite as cold this far south, she was easily able to draw in a deep breath of air once she'd finished, without having to be too careful of her lungs.

"Wolves. We're going out to meet the biggest pack of wolves anyone's ever heard of," groused the Hound, "Why the hell did I think staying with a couple of wolf bitches was a good idea?

"Maybe because we haven't put a price on your head yet?" retorted Arya, "Maybe because we actually know how to drive a dogsled, unlike, say, my brother, who thinks walking is better. Or perhaps it's just because you're pack. Old, grumpy, smelly, and near-senile, but pack all the same."

"Hah!" replied Sandor with a brief smile, gripping the hilt of his freshly reforged Valyrian steel sword, "I'm old and senile, sure enough. That about covers it."

"All right, everyone, it's time for the pups to meet their aunt. Anyone who isn't perfectly comfortable meeting a direwolf and her pack should get off now. Korb, Connas, bring the deer I shot yesterday up here," said Arya, nodding as the guests got off, and her family and troupe settled onto her sled and took hold of the lines. She smiled at Emira, the small girl obviously torn between wanting to see the wolves and wanting to protect the hare... yet the translator was doing her duty without hesitation, carefully carrying the fitfully dozing hare off the sled. Arya waved a set of soldiers over to help guard the bunny along with her usual pair; the last thing they needed was a bonded animal being eaten by accident, "Thank you for taking care of Old Fluffytail; he needs protection. Nymeria knows me, but most of her pack doesn't."

"Gonna die in a few days when the dead get here; no need to get eaten before then, like them Lannister patrols we heard tell about," commented Dolorous Edd as he disembarked, striding over to where the rest of the Night's Watch recruits were milling around.

"Pack or not, don't think she's going to be happy to see me," commented the Hound to Arya even as he stayed on the sled. If he was going to die, at least being killed by a damned direwolf wasn't a cunt way to die, "Didn't like me much, I don't think, back before."

"You'll be fine; you smell like the puppies after sleeping with your half of them each night since Moat Cailin. If you're worried because she's as tall as me now, well, let me help, Uncle Sandor," said Arya, as she darted forward while she licked her glove, yanked the scarf he was wearing down and rubbed the slobbery glove over his cheek, then ducked under his swipe and darted back just as quickly with a joyful laugh as she called out.

"The caravan can stop for an early meal. I'll be back," commanded Arya, before she fastened her snowshoes carefully and stored her sword on the sled, then twitched the reins to tell Ghost's children to pull the big sled forward again, the setting sun to starboard. She listened carefully as she turned towards the sound of Nymeria's howling, the eager barks and whines of the puppies carrying across the snows as the wind carried new scents to their noses, "Quiet down, pups, it's just your Aunt and her pack!"

She'd asked Nymeria to come with her to Winterfell last time, and that had been a mistake, treating her like she'd been so many years ago - a loyal friend, yes, but also a pet, just a girl, like she herself had been. Arya had come back to Winterfell, yes, but on her own terms, as an adult, and as someone who hadn't had a pack of her own. Nymeria had grown up, too, but not as a lone wolf; as a pack leader, and she deserved to be treated as such.

There were groups of wolves grooming themselves as they passed; not two or three, but five or ten or twenty. It was clear that Nymeria had gathered an enormous pack! Then, ahead rose a great grey and white shape, nearly towering over the adult wolves also rising around her.

"That's your direwolf?" asked Kitty, well used to meat-eaters the size of small horses, given the size of Ghost's puppies, who stood nearly as tall as the great grey and off-white direwolf they were approaching, though the puppies were considerably bulkier. The direwolf had a much less brilliantly white coat than Ghost did, more a very light grey than the white of his puppies, and the top was a mottled light to medium grey.

"That's Nymeria," replied Arya with a smile, bringing the sled to a halt and admiring Nymeria, whose coloring was excellent camouflage, she thought, for the wooded winter terrain they were in now, grey bark over snow, and colors that disappeared easily under a little dusting of snow, "Stay on the sled; I'll introduce us before you take the harnesses off."

With that, she checked the straps on her snowshoes and then disembarked herself, leaving bow, spear and sword on the sled, striding slowly but steadily towards Nymeria, looking directly into the eyes of any of the wolves that looked at her while she approached and passed them with a steady gaze and a small, closed-mouth smile, watching them either avert their gaze down with eyes opened far enough to show their whites, or give her a friendly look, sometimes coming up to sniff at her.

When she reached Nymeria, she leaned forward and stretched her neck out to rub her face along Nymeria's, then closed her eyes and put her arms around her direwolf's neck as she felt Nymeria respond with a cheek rub of her own.

"I've missed you, girl," she said, holding Nymeria tight for a few minutes, murmuring quietly to her direwolf, telling what had happened to their family, as she hadn't had the chance to before.

"I'm sorry for throwing the rock, Nymeria, but you had to go. Cersei killed Lady after you left. Sansa lived; she's ruling all the people down to the Twins and in the Vale too. Summer died protecting Bran from the army of the dead, far to the north; Bran lived, but he's the Three-Eyed Raven, now. Ghost is fine and frisky - you can come meet some of his puppies; he's been fucking some of the Frozen Shores bitches; they're huge, some even taller than you! Jon's fine, too; gave up being a pack leader and found a silver-hair to follow. Shaggydog and Rickon died, killed by the Boltons; Sansa killed them in return. Grey Wind and Robb were killed by the Freys; I killed all of them in return."

The small Stark finally pulled her face out of Nymeria's warm fur, "You've got a big pack; thank you for keeping the Lannister patrols out of the Neck. I've got a deer for you and your pack to share; I'm much better with my bow now. Come, meet some of your nephews and niec..."

With little more warning than a grin, Nymeria suddenly shoved her head against Arya's chest, pushing hard; Arya slid to her right and dipped to put her shoulder under her direwolf's ribcage and give her own shove while Nymeria twisted, chasing her around briefly until they both tumbled down together, Arya's leg around Nymeria's foreleg and Nymeria's rear leg against the small of Arya's back while she laughed and kept her snowshoes up and safe.

Nymeria whined happily and stood, turning her head to look up the snowdrift behind her, prompting Arya to tuck her snowshoes under her and stand while following Nymeria's gaze as ten exceptionally large young wolves clambered over the ridge, whining and sniffing eagerly, rubbing up against the direwolf and, after sufficient sniffing, Arya as well. Their markings were very much like Nymeria's, though just given that they were quite a bit taller than mules, they had to be hers.

"You had pups!" exclaimed Arya, cupping one especially friendly young wolf's fluffy chin in her hands and rubbing her cheek along the wolfs, then she carefully ran her hands down his flanks, watching his ears and eyes while letting him see her eyes to show she was friendly... that she was pack. She spoke steadily to avoid startling the full grown pups, listening to the soft sounds of paws on snow behind her, "You took a big one as a mate, didn't you, girl? You're all big beautiful killers, aren't you!"

She grinned as she half-spun and stepped back, then bopped a would-be ambusher on the top of the head lightly before running her hand down the wolf's spine. This one, she thought, was a year younger than the one she'd just been saying hello to, and a little smaller. Still bigger than most mules, though not nearly as large as Nymeria or the biggest of Ghost's pups. All were a little darker colored than Nymeria; mixed greys tending towards the middle and darker shades on top and, like their mother, much lighter on their necks, chests and bellies.

"Good girl! Attack from behind, yes, but you need to spread your weight more evenly; snow is loud. You've spent too much time hunting deaf people and not enough time hunting skittish bunnies! No hunting the bunny with us, though, he's a warg's bunny; a warg like Bran is or Robb was."

After introducing herself to the entire family and dealing with a steady stream of mock-attacks and playful ambushes, she was sure they all had her scent and the scent of the other pups and people that was on her from the journey, and she all of theirs. She turned to Nymeria, who was lounging and flicking her tail with three of the pups resting against her, "Come on; let's meet the rest of the family. Those are fourteen of Ghost's pups with us, and the people on the sled are my people, so treat them as pack."

With that, Arya and Nymeria strode side by side towards the sled, leading the procession of gamboling, excited half-direwolves towards the rest of their family.

************************

 

[Epic Reader]

Deranna and Donovar snugged down the ropes holding the saddlebags onto the giant direwolf-wolf hybrids and tied them carefully before brushing the freshly falling snow off the wolf and the bags, then draping the snow cape Emilee and Kitty and the others had hastily made in near-direwolf size and shape over the bags and tucking the edges under the ropes, little ties making sure it won't come loose or bother the wolf excessively on the way, while Arya and Nymeria finished checking over the bags that had already been done.

"You sure you want to do this? Even you can't see shite in a snowstorm; too easy to get lost. Sure, you can find you way after its over, but you won't get there any faster, and you've only got so much food," groused the Hound as he tightened the straps on a small leather pack he then thrust at Arya.

"Nymeria knows where she's going, don't you worry about me. Just make sure you're ready when you slowpokes finally arrive; I want to move on the Twins as soon as you show up. Meet up with..." replied Arya with a small growl before the big man interrupted her again.

"The Vale cunts, yeah, I know. We got wargs, they got wargs, don't you worry about us either. Once they get the stick outta their ass, they're good disciplined soldiers. You made your point. You Starks are crazy, you know."

"We know. We adopted you, didn't we?" said Arya with a grin, making sure her weapons were secure on Nymeria herself, with the crossbow in particular easily accessible, then turned and hugged Sandor while he chuckled at her. She gave the rest of her family and her troupe hugs, grunting at Nymeria's mild whine of impatience.

"Hold your wolves, Nymeria, I'll be there in a minute," said Arya, then looked at Kitty seriously, "It can be strange, returning to a place you left as another person, but remember, you're the Lady Paramount, Princess Kitty. When you return, you're making a fresh impression; be sure to wear the face you mean to continue with. You're my sister by choice, and Sansa's; we'll support you, however you want to deal with them. Remember; hope my part has worked, but plan for an assault against a prepared enemy if I fail and tip them off."

Kitty rolled her eyes, "That's not going to happen."

"Of course not; but you need to prepare for it anyway."

"Yes, Great Commanding Commander. All shall be as you command, Commander who Commands," replied Kitty with a deep curtsy and a wink.

"Take care of each other," said Arya with a warm grin, then slid herself up onto Nymeria's back, removed her snowshoes and stowed them in the saddlebag for them before she tucked the edges of her snow cape under her thighs to keep it from flapping, leaned flat against the warm fur, and murmured, "Let's go, girl."

With that, Kitty watched as her liege lady bounded forward into a snowstorm at night atop a giant direwolf, surrounded by almost a dozen other half-direwolves, some of which were carrying packs... and none of which were making any sounds. It was as if the storm had simply swallowed them up; the wolves had paws well suited to moving atop snow, or digging in it.

"They said King Robb rode into battle on the back of a direwolf, you know," commented Kitty quietly, opening the glass and blowing out the lamp before turning to crawl into the snow cave she was sharing, just as the others who had come to say goodbye went to their own snow caves. She, Lyanna, Lord Tybault, Sandor, and seven of Ghost's pups would share the cave without Mariya and Connas tonight; the rest of Arya's troupe were ice-fishing to make up for the food that Skamund had provided Arya.

"He never rode Grey Wind," said Lady Mormont, shaking her head and following Kitty in, getting out of the snow and wind, "A few soldiers from Bear Island escaped the Red Wedding. He was close with Grey Wind, but actually riding a direwolf? No, I don't think anyone has done that, unless it was a Stark of ancient times... or Arya."

"Riding off in the pitch blackness, into the worst blizzard of the Second Long Night to assault a castle garrisoned by a million men more than five hundred leagues away, accompanied by nothing but a thousand direwolves," mused Kitty with a grin as she shook the powdery snow off herself, then continued into the main area of the cave.

"Ten thousand," countered Lyanna with a giggle, climbing over the big Stark direwolf-dogs, taking her cloak off and hanging it over a clothesline and sliding between two of them to get warm.

"Ten thousand!" agreed Kitty, bantering with Lyanna and the others while Emira kept the lamp near her and carefully copied down the words Old Fluffytail was carefully writing in the snow, while the Hound came in behind her, grousing.

"Bedamned snow caves; little short cunts like you girls and the wolf bitch may like 'em, but they weren't made for men like me."

"Hey! I'm not that short!" retorted Mariya, sitting up and ducking her head to avoid pressing against the ceiling while she shook a fist and jiggled other parts of herself at the big man.

"Scorpion Bear'll sharpen her claws on you," sniped Deranna with a laugh before turning somber, "or Arya will when she hears about this. Nobody goes out in a heavy snow at night like that! Nobody but her."

Emira passed the notes to Kitty quietly, and Kitty read them quickly, "Thank you, Emira. Seagard caravan's camped too; the snow's heavier where they are, a little north of us. Deranna, go let Skamund and his people know the snow's probably going to get heavier soon; bring him back so we can plan, please."

Deranna wriggled out of the pile, putting on her dry cloak, shifting the other garments closer to the lamp to dry before moving quickly into the dogleg and then out along the lines strung between the caves. She knew Skamund would just grunt at her as if he already knew it was going to get worse... but he'd also pay careful attention to the map and what they'd heard from the Nightrunner warg translator, and she'd bring back better reports for Emira to pass on to the Seagard caravan.

Once Deranna returned with Skamund, who folded himself up easily in the entryway, Kitty grinned and started the planning session, "Skamund! We're all here, then. Emira's got a report back from some of their scouts; the Lannisters still haven't iced down the walls at the Twins; the moat's the same, too. They've finished extending the hoardings along the middle of the Twins; we'll need that against wights coming over the ice. They're being more careful with the drawbridges, too; lowering it for as short a time as possible. If Arya's successful, this should be easy. If it's not... Lyanna, are you still thinking we can cover the walls below the arrow-slits with pitch and tar?"

Lyanna snorted, "From moving sleds, while avoiding the bolts from their own siege engines, yes. A wall isn't a hard target. Hitting the opening of a window or arrow-slit from a moving sled might be extremely difficult, but hitting below one to make it hard to aim with fire and smoke? Much easier. The stone and mortar won't be harmed, not in this weather without using the green."

"Won't make 'em think you've got great aim, or bad aim, either. Almost nobody hits arrow-slits from a moving horse, but they'll think that's what you tried. Then we can get closer, hit the siege engines and crews," commented Sandor dryly, looking over at the ice-river clan leader, "Have to meet the Vale cunts first. Lannisters'll see the smoke from warming up the shite so it'll stick; might even smell it. Horses can protect the camps; need dogs to hound the scouts."

"Fighting dogsleds, eight group, three each bank river. Two on sides us army. One back us army. When side group move, fight enemy, back group move side, wait more enemy. One group keep watch wights, enemy, scout. One group scorpion sled wait big circle, watch wight dragon," said Skamund, patting the drumbeats for the commands he meant on his thigh to ensure there was no confusion among the Southrons about what he meant, garnering thoughtful nods from the others.

"My archers can sweep the main spaces atop of the Twins clear with steeply plunging arrows once their own archers and siege engines are blunted. That will let your siege engines into range for round, Lady Mormont, since useful trebuchets are too big for sleds," contributed Lord Tybault.

"They're also not accurate enough; we need to get through the drawbridge immediately. It's possible the cold will have made it brittle, in which case the stones may shatter it. If not, we'll hit it with the smallest glass balls of green we have; we don't want to melt too much of the walls. We can put spirits through the arrow-slits on either side and above; that should make it difficult to use the murder-holes. The portcullis needs to be handled by infantry with wildfire; if my teams try to deal with it, we'll melt the stone all the way down to the riverbed."

The Hound snorted, "Lucky for us, those cunts have a moat barely six and ten feet wide; we can put bridges over it easy and fuck them up hard. Vale cunts are bringing the rollers and bridges. Dangerous; gotta be close. Gotta pen in both sides, or the cunts'll just sally from the other side and ride over the fuckin' frozen river."

"I'll assign four big horse-drawn scorpions with a half-pitch, half-spirits mix to each gatehouse just for that. Lord Tybault, with a company of crossbowmen behind upturned sleds on the assault side and two, maybe three on the other side," said Lyanna.

"Two of crossbows, one of longbows," replied Tybault thoughtfully, "Enough to cripple the horses in front and pen them in for a few seconds, then the fire hits while the archers keep pouring it on. It'll be hell getting more horses through that if they try."

Kitty leaned back, listening. This wasn't a conversation she had any part in. Princess of the Northern Riverlands or not, she wasn't a general of any type, and there were no political issues to smooth over, not with these men and women, who had seen the army of the Night King with their own eyes. The difficult part would come after taking the castle back; digging real defenses, working with the Lannister forces... and weeding out those who would betray them, getting her people behind solid defenses and keeping everyone she could alive in the Long Night to come. They didn't know how deadly it could be, here. Not yet, at least.

************************

Arya settled deep in the snow as the sky started lightening, her snow cape acting as a roof under eight inches of carefully layered fresh snow. There may only be four to seven feet of snow over the river here, but it was still more than enough to hide under. Nearly above her, she could hear the Twins coming to life; she'd spend the hours of sunlight listening and plotting the activities of the inhabitants, and learning what their exterior patrol schedules and habits were. It'd been a hard two days travel through the snowstorm, but Nymeria had brought her right here, not needing to follow roads or rivers. A little careful sneaking, and here she was, right under their noses, yards away from the packed path their patrols obviously followed, while Nymeria and her get were sleeping off the journey and the large meal of fish soup after. Most of them had enjoyed the soup, but two had insisted on hunting for themselves. Arya grinned to herself; they were definitely like Nymeria... like her, independent.

"Seven hells, it's so fuckin' cold up here! And so fuckin' much snow!" complained one soldier as the patrol's horses ambled along the path, packing down the snow - even more fuckin' snow - that had fallen last night.

"Blizzard dropped another five inches, I reckon. Fuckin' hell of endless white," grumbled another soldier, looking out over the vast, unbroken field of white around him, his horse barely able to see over the snow on either side of the packed-down path.

"Why are we out here? Who the fuck's gonna attack the biggest army in the entire Riverlands in a fuckin' blizzard?" groused Maalick, tucking his chin into his chest and squinting against the wind.

"Shut your holes and git yer eyes on the move, Maalick!" called the sergeant, "The fuckin' northerners'll attack us, ye dumbshit! Lord Jamie set down the same rules Lord Tywin set down; ye's gonna patrol four times a day every fuckin' day, no matter what the weather be like. Blizzard in the North, sandstorm in Dorne, doesn't fuckin' matter, ye's gonna patrol, because them locals know their weather better'n we ever will. I fought in the War o' Five Kings, and those damn northerners'll attack any time, any place - they ain't scare o' nothin or no one! Our discipline'll hold them back, and they can't get throu 'em big-ass walls, an' if we can find 'em, we can crush 'em!"

"Or those cursed wights'll attack and bite us and we's turn into more wights and we's be the ones eatin' evr'one," muttered a voice from the middle of the eight-squad.

"Damnit, who said that!" shouted the sergeant as he glared back at his troops, "Fuckit, you moron's got extra duty tonight, all o' ye! Ain't havin' none o' that defeatist talk! Queen Cersei and Lord Hand Qyburn done set up all 'em scorpions, gave us wildfire. Some huge army o' fifty thousand wights comes, we's gonna get back inside the Twins and Ser Spicer's boys gonna burn 'em to a crisp! Green shit ain't like anything ye's ever seen... Miller, ye's seen it, yeah?"

"I's seen it at the Battle o' the Blackwater, same as ye, Sergeant. By the Seven, it was fuckin' 'errible. Men burnin', ships smashed to burnin' pieces... smelled like burned pork, it did, for a week. The screams... some o' the men burned quick, but some o' them only burned a little. After, didn' matter; hair, flesh, bones, swords, armor, all melt'd into a vile slurry. That wildfire'll do for anythin'; sword ain't alive, but melt'd all th' same."

"Miller's got the right o' it. Don' matter none if it's the Northerners or dead men, they's burn all th' same. Moat's more 'an five yards wide, ain't nothin' gonna cross that when drawbridge's up, and ye's seen 'ow thick th' walls are! Cowards the Frey's were, but damn could 'ey build. No more talk unless'n ye sees anythin'! Git yer heads up and eyes open! Little cold ain't gonna kills ye!"

Arya listened as the patrol continued; eight riders, just like that last patrol. Less than half veterans, also like the last patrol; as she'd thought, based on the squad of Lannister soldiers she'd met after she slaughtered the Frey men. Mostly boys from villages and farms in the South sent up with basic training, stiffened by veterans of the wars. Jamie had kept the best soldiers in the Westerlands and the Crownlands, and Cersei's generals were obviously continuing that.

It was a good policy; only an utter fool would think that a Southron army north of the Bloody Gates was anything other than bait, with their supply lines extended so far past a fortress like that. The Two and a Bit Kingdoms could cut those supply lines and sweep in from Moat Cailin to the north, Seagard to the west, and the Bloody Gates to the southeast before warning could even reach the twins... which, in fact, they were going to do. Her job was simple - first, get the drawbridge down and the portcullis up. That was easy. Second, get the leaders to surrender without a fight that would do nothing but postpone the inevitable taking of the Twins and weaken their chances against the Night King.

They would need that equipment, those soldiers, that discipline. There were thousands of archers here, men trained to fight in a shieldwall, spring engines and their crews. There was some amount of wildfire - likely not actually all that much, compared to how many barrels were needed to repel a serious attack, but present all the same. She'd have to give the gift to dozens... but in a true battle, it would be hundreds that died and thousands that were wounded.

Perhaps they had plenty of time; perhaps the Night King would descend on and besiege Moat Cailin for weeks or months or years, but it was her duty to keep her people safe, to defend the living from the blasphemer, and to do that, she had to assume the armies of wights coming south would leave a splinter force to attack and besiege the extremely well prepared defenses at Moat Cailin and Gulltown and continue on with every corpse they could raise to less defended targets.

Maybe the Maesters were right, and the days would have to get much shorter before the Night King could get much farther south... and maybe they weren't. Maesters loved their pet theories, but in truth, they knew nothing, not for all their collaboration with the pyromancers and other magicians that had come to her home to research the blasphemer's magic and seek out his weaknesses.

At about sunup, she heard a group of smallfolk who approached the Twins on this side of the river, exchanging places or supplies with some who were leaving, the drawbridge and portcullis opening when they arrived, and closing as soon as they'd crossed fully.

Across the frozen river an outrider patrol came ambling back an hour later; two squads of eight, that one, reflecting the greater danger the Lannister commanders felt faced patrols going farther out. This one came up to the drawbridge, shouted up a request, and then she could hear the drawbridge starting to lower and the portcullis start to raise while the patrol waited for them; they ambled over, and drawbridge started to raise as soon as they were across, followed by the portcullis lowering again. It sounded exactly like it had when she'd been Walder Frey; that meant her plan to jam it and the gears, pulleys, and other parts on the dogsleds that had been made to repair and strengthen it were still workable.

Their discipline wasn't bad; they tried to keep the castle defenses intact as much as possible. But, when there wasn't enough space between drawbridge and portcullis for sixteen men and horses to wait, instead of bringing them through in multiple groups, they sacrificed security for convenience. Tywin would have had whoever made that decision hung, and the rest flogged, had he seen it. Jamie wouldn't have allowed it to stand, either... but they weren't here, and as she'd seen, the lesser Lannister generals were, well, lesser.

She had rather more sympathy for that now than before she'd gone North; even leaving blood ties aside, she could find those who were good leaders. She could find good tacticians, good strategists, good logisticians, good fighters. She could find those who could and would learn skills outside their discipline. Finding those good at three or four of those at the same time? And who worked well with allies? That was very, very rare. The skills could be taught, yes, but some people were born with a talent for violence and the other necessary skills... and most weren't. She'd be able to use the leadership here, if she could manage to take the Twins without killing them, but their troops were worth more. They'd need a lot of people digging to get enough defenses to matter ready in time.

She took another slow, careful bite of body-warmed salt pork, and continued listening as the Twins came to life above her; she could hear doors opening and closing, footsteps in the halls; not too deep inside, but that was a matter for tonight. Today, she needed to know which windows she'd be able to get into secretly. With the coming of true winter, many rooms with windows on the outside of the castle had apparently been converted from chambers for the wealthiest and most powerful to storerooms because they were too cold for anyone to live in anymore, especially on the bottom floor of the Twins, with the wind whipping under them as well as along the sides chilling the rooms.

Southrons. She was nearly too hot, bundled up under the snow, and she wasn't even moving. They didn't even line the exterior stone with insulating supplies; linens, blankets, tight-stacked wood, barrels of grains, and so on. No, these idiots were still separating their supplies by type, though they did have bunkbeds; the Twins wasn't meant to support a Lannister army in addition to the Frey's smallfolk soldiers and all the others who lived and worked in the bridge-castle; the rooms set aside for sleeping were packed tight, some of the common servants and soldiers even sharing bunks as they came on and off watch, just as the Two and a Bit Kingdoms or any well crewed ship did.

Hours later, the sun had set again, and the castle above buzzed with life as dinner was being prepared, much earlier than it was in the North. She started moving slowly, digging underneath herself and using the kramsno she dug up to reinforce the roof and tunnel walls as she dug down almost to the ice, then over towards the Twins.

About the time full dark arrived and the latest patrol had passed by, she was nearly at the surface, directly under the window of a set of empty storerooms; she double-checked her snow cape, then breached carefully. As expected, the sky was moonless and partly overcast, so she started building up a pile of snow, then spread herself out across the surface as she covered the tunnel with another section of white cloth, tucking the edges in deep before using her piled up snow to completely cover the cloth, evening the rest of her snowmound out as if it were a natural small snowdrift, just like her body had - carefully - made a natural hollow.

The dull grappling hooks she pulled out from under her tunic carefully, making sure the leather quieting them was secure, then tied the rope on and gave a careful heave; they were just the right shape to snug down on a normal Twins window opening. She had, after all, had plenty of time to explore the Twins last time, and a professional assassin always made sure to keep learning more and more ways in and out of anywhere they happened to be.

As the clouds covered most of the sky again, dimming the starlight, she twisted the rope around her arm and leg and wrapped the snow cape around her, then leaned over to brush the 'snowdrift' into the hollow before scrambling near-silently up and memorizing the grain pattern of the bar holding the shutters closed. A pair of long, slim, hooked steel tools fit into the cracks and allowed her to carefully pull the small bar holding the wooden shutters closed up and then set it down on the supplies the room was full of - only one layer! She could then remove the shutters equally carefully, climb in, and replace everything exactly as it was.

She moved a barrel in the corner and lowered herself down into the secret passage she'd opened, slipping in and closing the trap door above her before changing faces and outfits. Leaving the rest of her gear, she moved quickly and quietly along the passage; it was parallel to some of the main structural elements, and she suspected it had originally been a maintenance passage. Now it was unused... except by her and the rats. The signs and little traps she'd left to see if anyone would disturb them were intact, except the ones that rodents would disturb.

More encouraging were the lack of traps and guards around the dead drop locations she'd arranged, and the little notes her spies had dropped into the cracks she'd instructed them to use were quite useful in catching her up. The face she'd worn before killing Walder had never fallen under suspicion; her excuse of having to go help her sister who was expecting a baby had neatly gotten that face out of the castle and out of mind.

To return now, well, it was paying work, she'd been a good worker and well liked as she took the job to try to help her pregnant sister, now having given birth but also recently widowed. It had been quite a shock when her sister's husband had died, after all, thought Arya with dark satisfaction. Everyone who had known him had gotten so emotional when they'd heard of his death; he'd touched so many lives in ways that were remembered so strongly.

Several hours later, she slipped down the rope again, snow cape wrapped around herself, and carefully opened up her tunnel to slip into directly. Two quick tugs on the rope and her agent above pulled it back up and carried it off, while she carefully reset and concealed the cover over the tunnel, digging up some fresh snow to place on top and make sure it wouldn't have different snow than the surroundings, then traveling quickly back down her tunnel, then up, conceal the entrance again, and back over the surface in her snowshoes, the harsh wind covering her tracks quickly enough.

In the dim pre-dawn hours, the tired, half-frozen maid who had snuck back into the Twins unseen and slit Walder's throat after very publicly leaving to help her sister gave a grateful smile to the drover and hopped up on the back of the cart where the trail crossed the stream she'd been trudging down.

"Th-th-thanks," stammered Arya in the maid's soft voice, shivering, "It's so cold!"

"Diffren' when yer out all night, innit? Just keeps gettin' colder an' colder an' colder till ye can warm up. Thar's a blankit on the left somewhar under th' firewood, girlie. Dunno how 'em Northerners deal with it; I ain't never gonna go north o' the Twins in winter for the rest o' me life!"

Returning to work was easy enough, and as she'd seen last night, the Lannister generals were set up in the same hall she'd killed the Freys in, amusingly enough. Pairs of guards on the doors and on both balconies were alert, but yet another maid in a whole group of them carrying food, and a pretty one, obviously accepted by the other maids? They didn't have any hesitation letting her past. The Twins really needed better guards; well, that'd be Kitty's problem soon. She wouldn't have gotten past the outer doors to the entire wing of the castle back home wearing a face that the guards themselves didn't recognize personally. Here? Bah, any half-baked pretender could get in, much less a professional assassin.

"Pie, m'Lord?" asked Arya with a shy grin and a curtsy, tilting the serving platter to show the last slice of meat pie.

"Put it down over there, girl."

"Of course, m'Lord," replied Arya, her gaze darting over the maps of Westeros and the Riverlands that were spread out while she set the pie down, placed the pie on a plate, perfected centered, then piled her serving platter high with dirty dishes from those who had eaten more quickly and made her way back to the kitchens in the middle of the group of maids, washing the dishes quickly before delivering stew and mead to the barracks, again in a large group of maids.

No girl served men in the Twins by herself, not if she was wise. Pairs, at least, and always groups going to the barracks of the soldiers or the quarters of the workmen. After she'd gotten a look at men and duty roster both, she got herself and one of her agents assigned to the unenviable task of cleaning out and rearranging the coldest rooms, and after doing the heavy moving for her partner as quickly as possible, she vanished again into the secret passages of the Twins with her supplies.

Interestingly, the squad of eight she'd met after killing the Frey men were still here, mostly patrolling the hallways; that might be quite useful, since she was quite sure they'd remember Arya's face. She had, after all, likely been the only woman they'd seen during that part of their trip north, and young men would remember that. Never mind that she'd been a young woman alone on a horse and carrying a sword; not a common sight in the Riverlands, or where they were from.

Perhaps she wouldn't have to give them the Gift, and could instead use them to spread the tales she needed spread; given where they'd be and where they'd have to go... if she took that passage on the way in, then turned left there... it might work. Even if it didn't, it wouldn't be any worse than the path she'd thought of earlier.

Her general plan was holding up well; the Lannister armies were still using the same guard rotations and plans that Tywin had commanded be used; squads of eight to patrol, pairs of guards on important doors and at tactically useful positions - like upper balconies. They had taken some measures against Nymeria's pack - well, as far as they were concerned, against whatever was making patrols disappear. They had a good contingent of archers and siege engines on the top of the Twins, all the time, keeping a reasonable eye out, at least reasonable for those without Myrish far-eyes. The main drawbridges each had a full squad of eight backed by a half-squad of archers, just enough to cover the entire entryway's width.

Twelve men; four shieldmen, four spearmen, and four bowmen, at the end of a short corridor. That was doable, if she was very careful; far enough she could handle it, and short enough they'd only get one volley off. There was a ready squad in a nearby room... but too far away to get there in time, not with common soldiers. Archers and siege engines on top of the twins, not a problem. The archers in the rooms on either side of the drawbridge had instructions to stay at their posts, barred doors behind them; their job was to guard the drawbridge from outside attacks, and they'd consider her a distraction designed to draw them out of place, ignore it, and thus they might live. Those on the top were much the same, they'd set a rearguard and stay at their posts.

When she started her way in, the reinforced and prepared squad in place would be by far the hardest challenge. The ready squad approaching wouldn't be expecting a fight on the move, and the noises would have discomforted them; she might even escape their notice if she was quick. After that, she could disappear, reappear somewhere else, cause havoc, make sure they realize there was no place in the castle that was safe even before the armies attacked, and in the moment of realization that their walls were down, their tiny moat bridged and a 'large' army was outside, then she could strike at their leaders while they were unsure and the fear was strongest; fear cut deeper than swords.

Cersei had personally approved of the one in charge; he'd get the gift immediately. The second... maybe, maybe not, a good enough entrance would sway him, and he was solid, well-liked by his men; she'd rather have him defending the Twins when the dead came, but if it was his time to receive the Gift, she'd give it to him.

Now, though, she had a few more places to visit, a few spies and agents to make sure hadn't turned on her, and then it would be time to eat and chatter with the other maids.

************************

Daenerys took a sip of water - ice-cold water, as if there was any other kind here - to hide her grimace. These squabbling fools were the highborn that ruled her kingdoms? Really? Taking in a slow breath, she pushed her anger back; yes, there were far too many arrogant and unblooded warriors or scheming old men, but some of those who had come to her, come to the defense of the living had shown wisdom. Unfortunately, the wise listened while the fools chattered.

"We should just march our knights north and crush these wights! A real charge would see them thrown under our lances, and with real armor blessed by the Smith instead of flimsy cloth, and the Warrior's grace flowing through us instead of the pathetic tricks those claiming to serve false-gods use we would send them all to the Seven Hells, like my father did when he fought in the War of the Five Kings! These barbarians are trying to use peasants and savages to fight; everyone knows true knights cannot be defeated except by treachery, and the wights are too stupid for that!"

And this was the most foolish of the entire lot, thought Daenerys. He might as well say 'it is known' like a girl raised by the Dothraki while he insults the valor of all those who have been fighting.

"You are aware that the Dothraki and the Unsullied have been fighting the dead already, Lord Gerrar? Spilling their own blood to defend all the living?" asked Daenerys, trying to keep her tone even in the face of unrelenting stupidity rather than as sharp and full of fire as she wanted it to be.

"Of course," the lad replied, before amending his previous statement, "I mean no offense, Your Grace! I'm sure they do as well as they can, but given their disadvantages, not knowing the Seven, there's only so much..."

"And your father the Lord Mertyns; he was a famed and noble warrior. What was his opinion of Ser Barristan the Bold?" interrupted Daenerys, her voice hard and unyielding. She had seen what happened when different portions of her peoples fought each other, failed to respect each other. That kind of infighting she would not allow to spread and grow. She would be the queen of seven kingdoms, and the many peoples that made them up would learn to get along, one way or another, even if she had to make them.

"Your Grace, Ser Barristan was one of the finest knights the Seven Kingdoms have ever seen! Why, if he were here today..."

"He would tell you how fiercely the Dothraki can fight," stated Daenerys, nodding to Qhono, "And how valuable the skill and discipline of the Unsullied are. Did you know he died, fighting side by side with Grey Worm against scores of attackers? You will cease insulting the other peoples and warriors of the Seven Kingdoms, you will cease insulting our allies, and you will do so immediately."

"Of course, Your Grace. I only meant to say that knights blessed by the Seven, in the finest plate armor would obviously be able to destroy the..." replied Lord Gerrar Mertyns brashly, continuing his brainless chattering.

Daenerys bit back her instinctive response to the fool continuing to press a point that was not just wrong, but suicidally wrong, and rephrased it in her head before pronouncing her sentence. If the fool hadn't noticed that the knights of the Vale hadn't magically defeated the enemy, then perhaps it was time he saw things from up close. She knew she wasn't entirely hiding her anger... but all her proven advisers and the ones she was thinking of as the best of the newcomers were also visibly unhappy with the boy, so she didn't worry about it overmuch; they expected a Dragon Queen, and a Dragon Queen she was... this wouldn't hurt her standing with anyone who mattered and who she wanted to matter in the future of her kingdoms.

"Very well, you clearly believe in the power of knights. I believe you brought," said the Dragon Queen, glancing briefly at Missandei who subtly moved her index and middle fingers, "Two knights with you. Since you believe so strongly in the power of the knights of the Seven, and since all know that good leadership is important, you will personally lead your knights on the front lines of the next battle, that you may inspire their best performance to prove your point. An attack could come at any time; I suggest you fetch your knights and proceed to the courtyard for training immediately, Lord Gerrar."

"Out the way you came in, turn left just past the front doors and follow the sounds of smashing," helpfully contributed Tyrion with a bright smile.

"We will see you there," said Grey Worm with his usual stone-faced expression... but anger of his own in his eyes, "Our Queen will be training soon. I am sure she would want to see you there."

She saw that the youth had lost his color almost entirely at her pronouncement; she watched steadily as he stood, his back rigid, then stormed out. Once the door was closed behind him, she glanced over at the other newcomers for their reaction.

"Good riddance; that one was no warrior. I don't know what Lady Mertyns was doing, sending him up instead of Tylone," commented Ser Bolling to general nods of agreement from the other seasoned warriors, "You are wise to send him to battle, my Queen. He'll either die or learn something."

"Thank you, Ser Herbert. I believe he'll learn something before then; our training is quite thorough, and our hosts have been kind enough to provide us with a variety of actual wights retrieved from the moats for educational purposes. I would be most pleased if all of you would join us after this meeting in the training courtyard as well, to better understand exactly what faces all the living and how to defeat them," said Queen Daenerys calmly, her anger fading with the departure of the idiot.

Now she'd once again go through the disbelief of the newcomers at women training; she was getting better at fighting, and her Lords and Ladies that had come in on previous caravans served to deflect much of the disbelief and outrage that some of them had. After they got through that, then Tyrion could actually start working on getting them to contribute to the survival of her peoples.

"My Queen, forgive me. Did you mean to imply that we ladies would train as well?" asked the delicate looking Lady Lily Oldflowers, a faint expression of horror spreading across the Reachwoman's features, "Isn't that what the honor and valor of our brave and noble forces and our puissant allies is for, to defend the weak and keep the helpless safe from harm?"

Daenerys tried to pretend to pay attention to another repetition of what Missandei had derisively named the 'safe in my bed' argument. Next, Varys had informed her that Wareen would be complaining about his wife not being assigned suitable maids and quarters; that could be handled with a stern look, a reference to her, a Queen, having only three maids who also took care of the meeting areas and the current members of the Small Council, then bringing up that this is actually a military camp in a war; the other veterans would pile on to the fop at that point.

"I and my House would be happy to provide any supplies or gold necessary to assist our gallant warriors in their fight against the dead," said Lady Oldflowers, finally winding down her complaint.

"I watched the Night King raise tens of thousands of wights at Hardhome," said Jon as Dany gave him a small nod, leaning forward to speak earnestly, "He raised his arms and every dead Free Folk for thousands of yards opened their wight-blue eyes and stood. I understand you may not be trained for war, but hundreds of thousands of wights have descended upon us. If we'd had just the men fighting, we'd have lost, and that army would be ten times the size and marching on your home now. The shieldwall has men and women, oldsters and youngsters; so do the archers, the siege engine crews, the pages are boys and girls. If that's not enough, wights were raised inside the walls - inside these very walls - by the Night King, and inside the city of White Harbor by the White Walkers, and they attacked everyone. My sister Sansa fought them inside Winter Town, and..."

Dany let Jon continue; this was what he was best at, speaking from his heart. After he was done, she and her advisors would lay out her expectations, and she'd end the meeting by rewarding Lord Inchfield and his party with a room in the First Keep for bringing a thousand barrels of grains and a thousand bales of hay to feed her soldiers and their horses. A room far, far from hers and from those of the ladies and maids; Varys assured her the man was a notorious womanizer and quite willing to press his desires forcefully, and Tyrion outright called him a raper, but warned that no-one had accused him of such; he had been too powerful and well connected... but, she thought, that wasn't true anymore, and she wouldn't tolerate rapers, but even Queens had to wait for men to commit crimes, or start to, and perhaps, just perhaps, he would recognize a warning when he heard one. She couldn't afford to waste competent lords without at least trying to... reform them, she thought Ser Barristan might have said.

When she was finally able to relax and have dinner with Missandei and Grey Worm, Tyrion was going to have a private drink with him so they could tell each other salicious tales like a pair of bloodriders... and so Tyrion could get 'a little drunk' and tell tales of men who had tried to tup the local maids, and had their balls crushed by the heavy staves of Northern women, their parts cut off root and stem by spearwives, or been sent to the Night's Watch or executed by Northern justice for succeeding. Northern justice that everyone here was subject to, and that was fully supported by her, the Dragon Queen, who did so hate rapers.

Why was it that so many were vile, or craven, or selfish, or greedy, or foolish, or manipulative... or all of those? Why were there not more men like Jon, or Jorah, or Ser Barristan, or Grey Worm, or Drogo? More women like Missandei, or even Yara, who gave up raiding to make the world a better place... and, she supposed, to be Queen, but it would still make the world a better place? She'd thought Westeros, her homeland, would be different, better... she knew better, now. If she wanted her kingdoms to be better, she would have to make them better... she and those with her would have to work at it, and her successor, and their successor, and those around them.

************************

"Smoke, southeast!"

"I see it! Another!"

"Two more! That's no hunter's camp! Boy, run down to the command post and tell Lord Erick that the Vale might be making a move; smoke's not five miles away, in the hills! Scorpion crews, check your weapons! Archers, on the lookout! Traitors and rebels might be making a play - the farther out we see them, the easier they are to beat!"

"Yes, Ser Spicer!"

Ser Spicer held a gloved hand up to his brow and carefully scanned the terrain to the north first, squinting into the harsh wind from the north, then kept turning around and around to check the entire horizon twice. He'd fought Robb Stark's armies before, and they were most dangerous when you thought you knew where they were, and you only found you were wrong when it was too late. Smoke from the southeast could easily be a distraction while the rebels swept in from their fortress at Moat Cailin.

His house had been elevated by the Lord Tytos, and for all he was descended from merchants not two generations ago, the Lannisters had treated him well, Lord Erick Lannister included. He'd read the reports; two entire kingdoms broken away from the Iron Throne, plus the damned Dornish breaking off separately wasn't 'traitors and rebels', it was cutting the Seven Kingdoms in half! And the half that he was on wasn't the half with the ridiculously overbuild defenses the missives from the breakaway kingdoms had shown.

It had been the opinion of Lord Erick that keeping the six and ten foot wide, thirty foot deep moats on both sides of the river clear of ice was already a huge amount of work, and adding another four or five moats of steadily increasing size was merely a way for the North to drain their morale, use up their food - which for 'reasons unknown' was in much shorter supply than it should have been - and generally drive their troops into exhaustion digging up frozen ground without additional effect. A castle that already can't be taken doesn't need additional defenses, after all, since not taken is not taken.

He'd faced the Northerners in battle. He'd faced the knights of the Vale in tournaments. He didn't think the combination of the two was going to be any more prone to charging into a losing battle than the Northerners had been before... until the Red Wedding, which had happened in the castle he was standing atop.

If the breakaway kingdoms were attacking, it was because they thought they'd win and they wanted revenge. They had these 'sleds' - but not for firewood, the diagrams they'd sent out to all of Westeros were for much, much bigger ones, carrying troops, or archers, or even scorpions 'to shoot down wight dragons'. Bah; he was quite sure they'd happily shoot he and his troops with those things, but at least they'd have to stop first; the Lord Hand Qyburn had done experiments and determined that it was impossible to 'reliably strike reasonably sized targets at the ranges most useful in battle from a moving cart', and had sent a very heavy sheaf of parchments detailing exactly why, for anyone who cared. His crews were trained to loose as soon as the enemy came to a stop in range; that'd keep them on the hop.

He peered around again; he could hear some shouting out from the windows below him as additional patrols were being rousted from their warm quarters and horses prepared. They'd learn more soon enough; two patrols, each of sixteen cavalrymen would go out in concentrated force, determine what was out there, and come back to report before the enemy could decamp. If they were attacked by a small enemy patrol, they'd fight. If they were attacked by a larger force, they'd scatter, so at least some of them would make it back to give their reports.

If he was lucky, it was just a supply caravan that got lost in the trackless, frozen wastes the Riverlands had turned into. If he was unlucky, it was an advance force from the Vale, the entirety of their army was behind it, and the Northmen were sweeping in as well. It'd be a long, cold siege, until their food ran out... if the defenses held in the first place.

He wasn't as sure of that as his commander, who hadn't spent much time with the siege engines; the Lannister thought they were dishonorable. Well, yes, of course crossbows and scorpions were dishonorable compared to valiant one on one combat, but so was Robb Stark's distractions, which had netted the boy Lord Jamie Lannister and an unbroken string of other victories. So had been the Red Wedding, which had resulted in the North bending the knee to the Lannisters, at least for a time. Dishonorable or not, they worked, and if they used wildfire in their scorpions too, well... that wasn't going to be pretty, but at least it'd be a quick end, the walls melting in green fire.

And the Targaryen was also reported to be in the North by her own missives, confirmed by Qyburn's spies. Seven hells! Dragons and dragonfire!

"Half of you, eyes on the sky! Watch out for dragons and load anti-dragon bolts! Wildfire chests to be unlocked but kept latched!" shouted Ser Spicer. He wasn't in any hurry to see what the revenge of the Northerners would look like... well, the second revenge, since the Freys were on the verge of joining the Reynes in the annals of houses that had been exterminated; they had only a few young boys who had been at Riverrun remaining to carry on the name; all the men and nearly all the women had been exterminated, from Lady Kitty all the way down to their handmaidens, they hadn't lasted the night, whatever had happened... and whoever did it had looted the treasury, too.

He strode over to the gatehouse, looking down as shouted commands had the drawbridge lowering and the portcullis rising, the whinneys of horses as the cold air hit them rising up before the double-squad moved out, hooves pounding on the drawbridge as they took off at a steady amble and accelerated into a canter as soon as they hit the packed snow on the other side. He watched as the heavy drawbridge started to ponderously rise; that men had built such things never ceased to amaze him. With nothing but carved wood and thick ropes, entire tons of wood or steel could be moved up and down... or like his scorpions, drawn back and...

What in the seven hells was that?

"ATTACKER ON THE DRAWBRIDGE!!!!"

Arya waited until the drawbridge was coming up, tensing and loosening her muscles carefully as the cavalry patrol kept moving away, then leapt up as high as she could through the snow, bullwhip in her left hand snapping out to wrap firmly around the thick rope, the whip cracking through the air and spiraling around the rope... even as the rapid movement generated enough heat that it ignited itself in green flame, the rope itself adding orange flame to the green immediately as she dropped the whip's handle; its job was done.

Her left hand grabbed the safe end of the short rope attached to her belt with a little yarn, the far two feet of the rope wrapped in oilskin around rope soaked in wildfire. She pulled herself up with her right hand; as soon as her left foot was on the bridge she drew herself over the lip, whipped the short, now-green-flaming rope around the near drawbridge line and sprinted down the drawbridge, plain leather cloak spread out behind her as she charged, the incline speeding her on as she charged towards the formed up but completely startled group of twelve at the end of the entryway.

"NOCK AND LOOSE!!! KILL HER!!!"

"SPEARS AND SHIELDS!!!"

The bowmen were raising their bows, but slow, too slow... she skidded under the slowly lowering portcullis, planting a foot while her hand slapped the dry stone inside to spin herself to the right, taking the wedge and mallet off her belt, snapping the small pieces of yarn they were attached with and hammering the wedge into the portcullis's mechanisms with one sharp, powerful blow, bringing it to a screeching halt as she jammed the gears into utter immobility in a way that Wolkan had assured her would use the portcullis's own weight against any attempt to remove the wedge. Her next strike with the heavy mallet landed across the faces of the two men who had been working the drawbridge mechanism, breaking their noses and cheekbones.

"SHOOT HER NOW!"

The archers were nocking warshafts and just starting their draws as she stood still for nearly half a second, smirking at them from a mere forty feet away as she flipped her cloak back, displaying the full panoply of weapons she was carrying, silhouetted by green fire on both sides behind her as the drawbridge suddenly creaked and canted to one side when the first fiery rope snapped loudly under the strain, the remaining part of the rope flying up and smacking against the roof of the castle when the tension was released, narrowly missing a scorpion crewman.

She couldn't afford to cross more than half the distance between her and them before they loosed; she was good, very good, and warshafts were slower than flight shafts, but too close and even she couldn't be certain of getting past uninjured... and she needed them startled, scared, unsure and hesitant. She kept track of where each archer's arrow would go if they loosed at that instant, where it would go if they loosed after she covered another yard, listened to rapid heartbeats and suddenly heavy breathing, saw the motions of their bodies, their arms, their hands; there were no feints, no trickery... that man there was the deadliest killer of the bunch... the boy on the end would loose last, only after the others... almost time... now!

Arya launched herself forward and to the left as the first archer loosed an arrow just a little to far to his left, her mallet spinning out towards the weakest spearman's face to distract him while she was still ducking low and planting her left foot to redirect herself again, drawing two throwing daggers from her bandolier as she twisted, one arrow glancing across her shoulder's armor, scoring the leather and being deflected by the Valyrian steel ring sewn inside, one passing under her armpit as she threw the first dagger, by her neck without quite hitting her, the deadliest and last archer loosing straight at her breastbone from six and twenty feet.

She angled her hand just so and snapped her arm out at the fullest measure of her speed; but it was only the one arrow, she had no distractions, and she'd nearly been waiting for it to leap off the string on the precise line it was taking.

The arrowhead screeched against the armor on the back of her hand as she swatted it aside to shatter against the wall behind her while she threw the second dagger, drawing Valyrian steel sword and dagger; the mallet clanged off a raised shield, but it had drawn the attention of not just one but two of them. One of her thrown daggers glanced off the rightmost shieldman's helmet as he simply lowered his head to protect his eye; the other plunged through eyehole, eyeball, and eye socket alike of the man next to him, slender, sharp castle-forged steel sending the man to the Many-Faced God instantly; his falling corpse disrupted the two spearmen in the middle behind him as she approached on the right side of the corridor between the dead shieldman and the one who'd wisely blocked her dagger, and foolishly blocked his vision, with his helmet.

Almost two and a half seconds after she'd launched herself at them, she ducked low under the two spears stabbing at her upper body from her far left, using Icicle to deflect the badly aimed spear from the second to the rightmost spearman down to cut through the leather over her own left breast and glance off the Valyrian rings inside in order to be in the position she needed to start the killing. Her right bracer she used to knock the well-aimed spear from the far right down and to the outside, moving smoothly from that to send her dagger flashing up to cut the rightmost shieldman's thigh open, while the tip of Icicle cut through the spearman behind's neck and then flicked it out the side so she could deliver a fatal draw-cut to the side of the distracted man's neck just above the metal of his gorget, cutting through leather and skin to let the blood spray from the artery.

"DRAWBRIDGE ISN'T GOING TO RAISE! RECALL THE PATROL AT ONCE! TO ARMS! TO ARMS! DEFEND THE SOUTHRON ENTRYWAY!" came the faint shouting from far above, inaudible to any of the Lannisters she was fighting over the sound of screams and sobs as their companion bled out, followed by a long horn call from above; simplistic, but loud enough to carry to the other end of the castle and out to the patrols that had left.

She spun to smash between the dying men directly in front of her so she could drive her dagger into the rightmost archer's throat, a flick opening windpipe and artery both while she reversed the Valyrian-light Icicle's momentum, cutting into the next closest archer's armpit as the two remaining archers drew needle bodkins from their quiver. Her next strike was out and down into the back of the next-nearest unwounded spearman's thigh, piercing, twisting, and withdrawing rapidly as he let go of the sword he'd been trying to draw to futilely try and stop his life's blood from pouring out.

More than half of them were already well on the way to the Many-Faced God, and she was right where she needed to be... in the midst of them, behind their shieldwall while their screams echoed through the stone corridors. The ready squad was starting to respond, but they'd barely begun standing up in their room down the halls.

The First Sword of Westeros moved towards the unwounded men as quickly as she could in the mess of dead and dying bodies while her enemies took far longer to adjust to her already being in the middle of them, her boot smashing the side of an archer's knee as she passed, sending him stumbling back into the wall behind him, her dagger carving into the last archer's armpit after her right bracer deflected the arrow he'd tried to stab her with while Icicle plunged into the wrist of a shieldman who was drawing his sword, then into the armpit of the shieldman beyond him, his attempt at drawing his sword leaving the area under his shoulder open.

Her leg swept out as she crouched low to the ground and twisted to take the last spearman's overhand sword-strike on her shoulder armor so it ricocheted off away from her body and into Lannister armor; he'd simply let go of his spear to draw a weapon more suited to close quarters, and for that he earned a leg sweep while her sword carved through the back of the shieldman's knee, giving him a wound to match the one in his wrist. Her dagger drove precisely in and out of the eyehole of the falling spearman and then around and into the back of the neck of the hamstrung shieldman; in this close the dagger was much quicker to maneuver than her sword; the added reach limited her options, but did let her attack those farther away and prevent them from regrouping or taking time to think or coordinate... until there weren't enough standing men to get in her way anymore, like now.

The dagger the archer tried to put into her back was too low to block with her dagger, so she tangled the Lannister's blade and hand with her cloak before plunging the tip of her sword into his neck. Pulling her blade out, she resheathed her dagger, kicked a limp arm out of the way, picked up the throwing dagger that had glanced off a helmet seconds ago and jammed it into the eyehole she'd just put her fighting dagger through, then raced down the cross-corridor on the opposite side of the ready guards, her footsteps merely whispers on the stone. There was no need to let anyone know one of the thrown daggers had failed to find its mark, after all; the stories would be much more likely to include that little skill if there were two throwing daggers sticking out of eye sockets.

She reached the corner and turned with it to face the guards, hearing their brief shouts of alarm as she trapped the alert right-hand man's blade with her dagger while her sword knocked the left-hand man's blade out of line before skewering him in the eye and then doing the same to the other man; she yanked the door open loudly and raced to where she needed to be even as the sound of the drawbridge slamming into the ground behind her as the remaining rope snapped under the flames echoed through this side of the castle.

"INTRUDERS IN THE CASTLE! PORTCULLIS IS JAMMED! ALL THE GUARDS ARE DEAD!" shouted the leader of the ready squad as he and his men reached the entryway to the sight of the bloody last gasps of the few guards left alive... none in a position to tell them what happened, and the drawbridge workers were moaning and clutching bloody faces, so they were no help, either. He smacked one of his own men, a green boy, across the back of the head as the lad sounded like he was going to puke at the smell of piss and blood, then snapped his head up at the quickly cut-off shouts of alarm from the nearby door guards, "Never seen a dead man before? Get your head on straight or you'll be next! Quick, men, this way! We can trap the intruders between us and the entire army! All we have to do is stall them for a few seconds, then they're finished!"

The ready squad raced across and then up the corridor they'd heard the shouts from, past poor dead Ulriick and Owen, through the open door and down the long corridor as fast as they could run; the rooms on the other side of this wall had to be entered from a corridor that turned back and ran up the center of the Twins, which could only be reached at the end of this doorless, freezing outer hallway; another place for the Freys to trap enemies who had assaulted their castle. Unfortunately, the enemies who were assaulting this castle were too quick, and must have already made it to the other end and shut the door behind them!

Behind them, the interior corner between empty walls they'd just raced by shimmered as Arya released the glamour of blank walls she'd hidden behind and came out of the corner she'd stood quietly in. They didn't look behind themselves, and thus didn't see her run back towards the entrance and into one of the now-empty rooms used as stables, entering the secret passage intended to allow the lord of the castle to get to the drawbridge in secret... or for smugglers to bring their goods in and out. Or, knowing the Freys, both at once from the very beginning.

Inside, she quickly moved to her first stash. Her blades she set down; she wanted the blood to stay on them for now. Her cloak and tunic she pulled off to replace with an identical fresh set; likewise the scored leather was replaced; she'd managed to keep any blood splatters on the pieces that hadn't been hit by blade or arrow.

Sansa was never going to let her live down the embroidery being damaged, but Sansa knew what she was getting into when she designed the tunic so the decorative embroidered frontpiece could be replaced easily and independently of the armor underneath.

Outside, the cavalry patrol had turned around to race back along the packed-down path they'd gone out on, horses moving at a dangerous gallop on the slick trail as they returned to the Twins as quick as they could, not knowing how the Twins had been attacked when they'd just left and seen nothing, but knowing their duty regardless... only to be thrown from their horses as both sides of the path exploded in a cloud of white as gigantic wolves leapt out, jaws clamping on the throats of the lead and rear horses, staining the white snow with red, the air resounding with the screams of panicked horses and men alike when Nymeria and her get ambushed another set of men and beasts.

Inside the secret passage, Arya straightened herself out and continued deeper into the Twins before she exited the secret passage far closer to the command post, just in time to ambush yet another eightsquad that was running to join the defense from their normal posting near the opposite gatehouse and its still-intact defenses. Alone, on the move, unprepared and not really expecting an attack from an empty section of wall they were passing, they were easy prey... sadly, they'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"Valar Morghulis," intoned Arya as she withdrew her sword and knife from the last two men just as the rest of another eightsquad finished coming around the corridor... this one was the squad she was expecting, which had come to a stumbling halt over the face-down corpse of a guard who had run, her throwing dagger still sticking out of the back of his neck.

"I told you I was going to kill the Queen; I just had to take a little detour after slaughtering the Freys in this very castle and meeting you on the road; my family returned to Winterfell, you see," said Arya solemnly, casually wiping her dagger and sword off on a corpse slumped against the wall before standing and facing them.

"Now I'm back. You offered me guest right in good faith once, shared your food and your fire, your wine and your songs. In memory of that, I'll let you live. If you've still got some of that blackberry wine, bring it to the command post; I'll want a drink from honorable men after I've accepted their surrender. I am Arya Stark, Lady Winter, and I have returned to claim the Twins in the name of my sister, Queen Sansa Stark of Winterfell."

Arya narrowed her eyes, growling deep in her throat, the sigil on her breast on full display as she stood with a torch just in front of her and gesturing to the corpses around her with her sword, "Or you can join them and the gate guards, if you'd like to die today after all."

She shook her head as they broke and ran towards the command post, as she'd expected. Scared, yes, but they'd give warning nonetheless. They'd give warning of an unstoppable woman warrior in undamaged armor, covered in blood, who'd slaughtered another full squad... of Lady Winter, come to resume her bloody vengeance.

She sheathed her blades, then slipped out a window, then up a level and into a storeroom on the deck above, shouts from above letting her know the next part of the plan was proceeding as she'd hoped. Cleaning the scabbards was going to be a bitch, but needs must, as she couldn't afford to wait; her armies had been spotted.

"THEY'RE ALL DEAD! BY THE SEVEN, GIANT WOLVES ARE ACTUALLY EATING THEM!"

"CAVALRY CHARGING FROM THE SOUTHEAST! MOVING FAST ACROSS THE SNOW! KNIGHTS OF THE VALE! THOUSANDS OF THEM!"

"SOUTHWEST TOO, COMING OUT OF THE HILLS! BANNERS FROM THE NORTH AND SEAGARD BOTH!"

"SCORPIONS! THEY'VE GOT SCORPIONS ON SLEDS AT A CANTER!"

"THEY'RE COMING FOR THE DOWNED DRAWBRIDGE!"

"SHIT! THEY'RE SO MANY OF THEM!"

"WOLVES GOING FOR THE NORTHERN PATROL! GODS, HUNDREDS OF THEM!"

"SHUT YOUR HOLES AND PREPARE TO LOOSE! ARCHERS, NOCK AND LOOSE ON THEM AS THEY APPROACH! SCORPIONS, BEAR ON THE ENEMY SCORPIONS, LOOSE WHEN THEY STOP, THEN LOAD WILDFIRE AND LOOSE ON THE ENEMY CAVALRY! ALL ARCHERS TO DEFEND THE SOUTHERN GATE, IT'S WIDE OPEN! THE NORTHERN GATE WILL HOLD ON ITS OWN!"

Fear cuts deeper than swords, and she'd taken away the safety of their drawbridge, destroyed the defense of their portcullis, slaughtered those guarding the entrance, killed entire squads in different parts of the castle, and outside Nymeria and her cubs had feasted on a double-squad patrol outside that very open entrance, and now her armies were coming; the small dogsled caravan reinforced by a medium force from Seagard and a large army from the Bloody Gates. All their plans to withstand a siege laid low in a way that make it utterly obvious that the enemy could not be held off.

She checked her cloak and decided to keep it despite a small cut; her embroidery was intact b soaked red, which would do nicely. Replacing two throwing daggers in the sheathes on her wrists but leaving her bandoleer of throwing daggers pointedly half-empty, she exited the storeroom to the nods of four agents who had been waiting for her; one of hers and three of Kitty's.

"All's ready, Lady Winter" came the murmur as her agent handed her the quiver and her bow.

"Good," replied Arya in a low murmur, checking her arrows briefly while listening to the command post receive yet another report of the corpses of an entire squad of guards that had been discovered. A page was being sent to the ravenry; with a raised hand and a headshake she stopped the agent who had started to race out to shoot the page with a crossbow, "Let the raven fly unmolested. Go."

With the correct message on its way to Cersei, she approached the balcony over the command post, where Frey men had set down their instruments, taken up their crossbows, and killed her family and her people. The two guards outside the door were already dead, killed quietly by agents who they'd not just recognized but known personally.

The lock opened easily to the copy of the key she'd made during her previous visit to the Twins, after that, a quick kick opened it and a Valyrian tipped plate-cutter punched through the back armor of the first archer, another through the side armor of the second on that balcony as he turned; her third and fourth went through the center of the breastplates of the archers directly across from her while they were still nocking arrows; that ended the archers. She then picked off the two guards inside the doors that she could see, her agents outside slamming the doors shut and hammering wedges in to keep them closed while she shot the other two guards under the opposite balcony.

Arya slung her bow and took a low jump off the ledge, landing on the table below with sword drawn before rolling back off the table, a pair of quick thrusts killing both guards that had been stationed directly under the balcony she'd come through. She prowled towards Erick as the others in the room contemplated the swift, sudden death she'd brought to them; her arrows had repeatedly punched through well-made steel armor as if it were cloth, and that was not in the slightest normal, nor could it be a fluke so many times in a row, and then she'd cut down two more with a sword; on top of everything they'd heard, this was her best chance.

"The castle is wide open, my armies are coming, and the dead are behind them. I am Lady Winter, and the Twins belong to my sister's kingdoms. Surrender and we can prepare for the dead together; you and your men will be returned to your families unharmed after the Night King is gone and Cersei is dead."

"That's her! We TOLD you it was just her! Cut down a squad like she was carving a cake!" whispered the blackberry wine-maker, giving her a pale attempt at a smile and holding up a wineskin when she glanced at him.

"I will not surrender, not to you, not to anyone, or anything. Queen Cersei Lannister entrusted this castle to me, and I will not abdicate that responsibility."

"Very well, I challenge you, Erick Lannister, to single combat. Put on your helm, take up your sword, and we'll settle this the old way; one of us keeps the Twins, and the other dies, saving our armies and the lives of our men for the fight against the wights that are coming."

"THE GATEHOUSE IS ON FIRE! THEY DIDN'T EVEN STOP TO LOOSE!" came the faint shouts from outside.

Arya stopped outside of his reach, her right hand behind her back as she kept her blade up in a guard position, listening to the muttering in the room as Cersei's cousin's face settled into firm defiance, and he tugged his helmet down onto his head. She could see he understood he'd lost the castle and that he'd never survive Cersei if he surrendered and she got hold of him. That kinslaying woman had given orders that her twin was to be killed on sight; a mere second cousin wouldn't even be noticeable to her. The Twins were lost, but he had the opportunity to choose his death, and he chose to die on his feet, sword in hand, and in so doing, give his subordinates the only protection he could against Cersei, as feeble as it may be, while he faced death with a blade in his hand.

"Very well, I accept," said Lord Erick, his voice nearly steady.

She nodded, waiting for him, still as ice. The tip of his blade met the tip of hers without fanfare as he tested her from well out of range, the clear ringing of steel on Valyrian steel echoing through the quiet room, but she couldn't afford to win with a counter-attack that would only encourage others to think they might succeed where he had failed. She stepped forward suddenly and struck at a gap in his armor over his belt, letting him deflect her strike only to rotate her wrist and continue her thrust, the tip of her sword sliding past his simple, straight quillon, punching through his glove and into his hand, twisting before she withdrew the blade and lunged with a high thrust, Icicle piercing his eye and sliding all the way in, almost through to the back of his skull before she gave a quick sideways jerk and withdrew the blade. That was as quick and clean a death as he could expect in a duel, and he'd accepted and fought with honor.

"Valar morghulis. I am Arya Stark of Winterfell, called Lady Winter, and I claim the Twins by right of conquest for the second time; does anyone else wish to challenge me?" asked Arya, casually wiping her blade down as she stared down those brave enough to meet her gaze, taking particular note of the servant in the corner; he wasn't reacting like anyone else; his heartbeat was quick, yes, but his breathing was even, too even, "Anyone? No? Good. Order your men to surrender at once."

"LAY DOWN YOUR ARMS!" shouted the second in command, carefully drawing his sword and laying it at his feet before stepping away from it, as the others in the room did much the same with their own weapons.

"LAY DOWN YOUR ARMS!" came progressively fainter shouts from outside as the call was repeated, Lannister discipline ensuring the order would be obeyed.

Arya put the fingers of her right hand to her lips and let out a whistle in the pattern of a horn call, a horn a few rooms down repeating the signal, only for deep drumbeats to roll out from inside the Twins a moment later, carrying to all the agents inside and the armies outside. Sheathing her sword, she cracked her neck casually, "I'm thirsty; anyone have a drink?"

The servant in the corner took up goblet and pitcher much quicker than her winemaker acquaintance responded, the tip of his finger brushing the inside of the goblet briefly and with moderate subtlety, pouring steadily as he approached; he had very steady hands for a servant who'd just seen so many men killed before his eyes, "M'Lady Stark, your wine."

"That's Arbor Gold?" she asked with a slight amount of distaste on her face, playing along for a moment, remembering the last time a skilled leader she knew had responded to an offer of food right after an assassin had killed someone in front of his eyes. Strangler, she thought; a nearly clear crystalline powder on his fingertip, and not dangerous when it was on your skin, only when eaten or drunk. Why he hadn't done that when she was busy fighting, she couldn't answer; it wouldn't have helped him, but it might have shown some sort of reasonable competence.

"Yes, m'Lady, a freshly opened bottle of a very good vintage."

"I don't like Arbor Gold. You're a servant here? You've eaten recently?" replied Arya, not letting her amusement show on her face; the others in the room were starting to show confusion. A common poisoner, against a Faceless Man. Cersei must have thought she wasn't likely to visit the Twins... or, perhaps, he was here to deal with any cousins that might consider surrendering... or rebelling against her.

"Yes, I'm a servant here, m'Lady, but I would never eat or drink on duty," came the nearly-steady reply as he stopped approaching; the quaver in his voice inaudible to most... though Baelish would have heard it, or Varys. Definitely a bottom of the barrel killer, this one; someone had left a dagger on the table next to her when she'd interrupted their mutton dinner and he hadn't even glanced at the easiest way he would have to arm himself if the poison failed.

"You must be thirsty. Drink," offered Arya, starting to let her amusement show for her audience to pick up on. The best way to avoid being killed by real assassins was to make sure real assassins weren't sent in the first place... and real assassins charged more for harder targets. A reputation as an impossibly hard target would help her tell the Many-Faced God 'not today' a little longer.

"I couldn't, m'Lady; I'll drink in the kitchens with the rest of the servants. This wine is too good for the likes of me!"

"It's bad manners to refuse a woman's offer. Drink," commanded Arya flatly, hand shifting to rest lightly on the hilt of her sword in the way a bravo gave challenge, watching the would-be poisoner's eyes dart around the room, his heart racing now. She smirked at him, and he took a deep breath, then raised the cup to his lips, closed his eyes, and downed the wine quickly. The 'servant' collapsed soon after; she watched him twitch for a few seconds, then lie still. She'd lost the bet with herself; that wasn't the Strangler, that was obviously Widow's Peace. Whether or not they could both be a crystalline powder and ingested, she hadn't expected such a painless death to have been offered to her.

"Cersei thought an amateur like that could kill a professional like me?" asked Arya derisively, shaking her head at the would-be killer, then slowly turned to look at each person in the room, one at a time, and snorted as the sound of mallets hammering came from the doors; clearly the least subtle agents had arrived to remove the wedges keeping these men trapped inside with her, "No one else wants the gift of death today? Fine. All right; bring me that blackberry wine."

She took the wineskin, inhaling the scent briefly to make sure it really was what she was expecting, then took a sip as she heard the faint reverberations of the pounding of hooves over the lowered drawbridge as her troops entered the castle in force and, now, uncontested. Her voice rang out easily in the same manner Tywin's had when he was giving orders.

"The leaders of each large unit will gather in here immediately, along with all those in charge on the civilian side. You'll all give parole to me personally, then your people will do the same to my people. If you fight the dead with us with all your effort, you'll be returned to your families unharmed after the dead and Cersei are defeated. Agree to that, and you'll be given bread and salt and be issued dragonglass to fight the dead with. Don't agree and you'll be turned loose to make your way home; I expect you'll freeze to death before you starve to death, but there is no food to waste on those who aren't fighting the dead."

************************

 

[Epic Reader]

Ser Tytos Spicer swallowed the wine and collected his sword and dagger from the servants who had carried down the sets of weapons, securing them to his belt and stepping back to lean against the wall and observe while other men gave their parole to the lean, cold, blood-splattered figure of Lady Winter - never Lady Arya or Stark or Princess - and receive bread and salt and their own weapons back, plus a dragonglass spearhead.

That young woman had by herself humbled one of the greatest fortresses in the Seven Kingdoms - well, in Westeros, he supposed - nearly by herself, and he could not doubt it; he'd passed a squad of men carrying two bodies out, and stepped through the blood splatters and over four other bodies to get here, one of them with a Northerner leaning over them and pushing some kind of black... a tiny piece of dragonglass... into their wrist with a solemn expression. It certainly wasn't an insult nor defiling the body of the soldier, and the body wasn't being mistreated in any way, but it was very strange... and none of his business.

He'd heard the sounds of slaughter in the entryway, knowing it was guarded by a dozen men, even as he prepared to defend against the incoming army; for all he'd seen it was composed of different forces, it was clearly one army. That was unusual; normally you'd see each House's troops staying together, and each kingdoms; everyone had their own way of war, their own commanders, their own customs and commands and tactics, and lords were proud, each convinced theirs was best, no matter how idiotic those were, either in general, or if they found themselves in different terrain. He'd fought in the hills, in forests, and on the plains, and the same thing didn't work everywhere. These forces, though? Seven Hells, they had wildlings! Not just as auxiliaries, but in command of good Westerosi, even annointed knights! He'd seen some Riverlander cavalry cantering happily behind snow-sleds pulled by dogs, seen knights of the Vale dismounting to stand beside Northern infantry, seen Northern horsemen riding behind Vale knights.

The most unusual thing, thought Ser Spicer, was the smallfolk. Every last one was armed - some of them with the kind of light, primitive weapons he'd expect of men fighting with the Brotherhood Without Banners, but most with solid gear. It was notable that none of them carried swords poorly made by village blacksmiths, or even serviceable weapons looted from dead soldiers; indeed, none had swords at all, and smallfolk turned fighters usually loved to carry swords. Not these; many had well made long pikes or good, solid spears, others stout staves, many bows or crossbows, quite a few carried axes, some daggers... and all carried either like veteran soldiers in the case of the Northern and Vale smallfolk, or like green recruits with good trainers, for most of the Riverlanders. Every one had dragonglass, too... and so many crossbows, they had to have been made by hundreds of craftsmen!

He couldn't imagine what could inspire the high lords to spread crossbows around so widely, unless it was a threat beyond imagining, a true army of the dead. Or, for that matter, to give weapons and training to women and even girls; women were to be protected, that was a knight's duty, a man's duty, though he'd heard of the Mormonts, and that swordswoman who'd won a tourney and then killed Renly Baratheon.

The second most unusual thing was the sounds; horn calls and drums from every direction, some sharp noises he couldn't even recognize. A very few were just a single call echoing faintly, but most were fearsomely complex, as if the army was composed of musicians, not soldiers. The rest of the sounds were of construction and shouted commands, horses and dogs and men in armor jogging, hammering and banging and cracking ice from all around; muffled in here, but on his way down it had only intensified from what he'd heard up above after the surrender order, before the page came to get him.

Why the Twins were being emptied he did not know, but the sounds in the corridor outside were of men and women and children bustling outside on the orders of their conqueror, not of violence or death. A commotion outside the opened doors caught his attention as the last few of the local Riverlander leaders of the Twins were giving parole; a clamor and then in came a new group of invading soldiers at a quick jog, northerners, he thought.

Wait; those weren't soldiers! Well, they weren't only soldiers, but a bunch of them were women - in very expensive light armor, carrying weapons, just like the smallfolk women he'd seen! Some with trousers like Lady Winter worse, some in armored dresses... and wasn't that a strange thought, armored dresses? Those four weren't northerners - that wasn't leather armor, that was leather atop the plate of knights of the Vale. Some in thick mottled furs; wildlings. And gods, was that a small girl in armor with a pair of hatchets with a bear sigil? He had a daughter about her age... well, maybe a young woman, she was old enough to have flowered, and the thought of his daughter being expected to fight chilled him.

He stepped away from the wall to see better as a young woman with an exquisite cloak draped around her, carrying a very powerful looking white crossbow with a plate-cutter bolt loaded, and a windlass hanging from her belt - and not just for how, even after jogging in the ropes were swaying evenly, not tangled at all and ready for quick use - stepped out from the middle followed by four very dangerous looking guards, then gave a deep curtsy and a warm smile to the Stark conqueror, while some of those behind her started muttering. Looking again, that wasn't even a case-hardened or castle-forged bolt-head, that was a bolt with a the front third of the head slightly oversized and made of Valyrian steel! Another woman had a goat's-foot crossbow and bolthead with thin flakes of black jewels sticking out like tiny, tiny fletchings right behind the head; more dragonglass, it must be. That was what he'd read reports of, both designed to penetrate armor and still kill wights. Or, he thought, the Valyrian steel head would kill men in full plate; Lady Winter must have arrows with those heads. Valyrian steel arrowheads; that was a strange thought indeed, for such a priceless treasure to be made into something so easy to lose.

"Lady Winter, the Twins are yours," said Kitty, her own voice clear, steady, full of warmth, and yet still ringing through the room regally in the way Sansa had taught her, briefly and regally glancing over the room; her seat of power, now, where before it had been more the place where she was kept. In many ways it was that even more than before; she wouldn't be leaving these environs at all, possibly for years. All this was in her charge, to protect and improve, and that she would spend the rest of her life doing - not just managing a castle for a husband, but managing a small kingdom for her liege lady and her Queen.

"In the name of my sister, Queen Sansa Stark of the Winter Kingdoms, I thank you, Princess Kitty, Lady Paramount of the Northern Riverlands, Lady of the Crossing, and our sister by choice," replied Arya, her voice pitched to carry through the room and the corridor outside; best to let the rumor spread outside quickly. She then inclined her head to Kitty and stepped back to lean against a wall, taking a sip of blackberry wine and stilling herself to let Kitty have everyone's attention.

Kitty stepped confidently into the center of the room, shifting the crossbow to a comfortable position, looking around steadily at those gathered with her head high, meeting their eyes one at a time before steadily moving on to the next person, standing straight and tall as she spoke, "As you've heard, I am Princess Kitty, Lady Paramount of the Northern Riverlands, which by agreement between Queen Sansa Stark and Queen Daenerys Targaryen extends from the northeastern Tumblestone mountains northwest to Ironman's Bay for the western and southron border, and from the northeastern Tumblestone mountains northeast to a point on the Blue Fork halfway between Oldstones and Fairmarket, then continuing directly east until the border with the Vale, which is unchanged. Queen Sansa has decided that her kingdoms also deserve the honor of being led by a Prince or Princess, just as Dorne has had that honor since they bent the knee to the Iron Throne, thus my title and that of Prince Royce, Lord Paramount of the Vale, and Princess Meera, Lady Paramount in the North."

Tytos wondered if a state of surprise was to be his life, now. Kitty Frey was not, in fact dead, nor were her ladies; those women were distinctively Riverlander, from their House sigils to their features! He supposed he deserved that, for listening to rumors, but really? Lord Tywin had never once spared women and children who weren't already captive when he exterminated families; not the Reynes, not the Tarbeks... and not Catelyn or Talisa Stark, either. The other Lords he knew of did the same, just like King Robert had with the Targaryens; you escaped, you were captive, or you died. Lady Winter here had obviously not killed Lady Kitty Frey... but one does not put a captive in charge of anything, and one does not let a puppet speak like that. Not only that, but a Stark had placed the widow of Walder Frey in command of not just the Twins, but a large chunk of the Riverlands.

That chunk, he knew, included Seagard and the entirety of the Hags Mire to its southeast that was not only the source of the Blue Fork river, but also a formidable defense for both Seagard and the Twins, the mire making the western shore of the Green Fork nearly impassable; that's why the Kingsroad was on the east of the Green Fork. Fairmarket wasn't being claimed, but with Oldstones far closer than Riverrun or Darry, there'd be natural trade up and down the Blue Fork if these people, if the Princess Kitty built up Oldstones for trade... and if she were in charge of Seagard, either the Mallisters were scheming, or she was no meek lady. Or both.

He might be a soldier, but while he'd been sneered at because his grandfather may have started life as a merchant, he'd gotten schooled in trade as well as war.

"Many of you knew me as Lady Kitty Frey, ninth wife to Walder Frey, before Lady Winter killed my husband and all his sons who participated in the heinous crime of the Red Wedding," continued Kitty, receiving a very subtle but encouraging nod from Arya as she checked. Steeling herself, she raised her voice as Sansa had taught her and continued, "In memory of that shameful crime, of the breaking of guest right, the betrayal of an alliance, and the massacre that happened, I hereby decree that House Frey is extinct. With the approval of Queen Sansa, I will be the first member of the new House Bridges, to which the Twins have been granted. The Twins will remain under the judgment of Lady Winter until her last day, whether that judgment be protection or death."

Shifting her crossbow to one side and sweeping the other side of her cloak back to fully display the new heraldry on her leather breastplate, she continued, "My direct fealty is to Lady Winter, Arya Stark of Winterfell, whose fealty is in turn directly to Queen Sansa. Lady Winter is Justice in all the Winter Kingdoms; the North, the Vale, and the Northern Riverlands, as well as serving as Master of Whisperers, being in overall command of all military forces, and First Sword of Westeros in the way of the bravos," continued the young widow before gesturing to the hatchet-bearing young bear beside her, and then the others she introduced in turn.

"Don't call me Princess or Lady anything except Lady Winter. I'm not a Lady; I never have been, and I never want to be. I also answer to Arya and in my capacity as a priest of the Many-Faced God, Death, I answer to the title of No One," chimed in Arya, then grinned, "I suppose 'oh shit, it's her' might work, too."

Kitty suppressed a smirk at the faint near-squeak of 'oh shit, she heard me', and continued steadily, gesturing to each person in turn, "Lady Lyanna Mormont of Bear Island in the North and head of her House serves as Master of Laws in the Winter Kingdoms; she is also in command of all siege engines and their crews in all the Winter Kingdoms. Lord Terrence Lynderly of Snakewood in the Vale will be in overall command of the military forces of the Twins as well as the heavy cavalry once Lady Winter departs. Lord Sandor Clegane of Clegane's Keep in the Westerlands, my uncle by choice, will be in overall command of the infantry here. Lord Irrin Tybault of Rillsbrook in the North will command our archers. First Ranger Edd Tollett of the Night's Watch is in command of the brothers who have journeyed south to defend the living here. Skamund of the ice-river clans of the Free Folk is our great ally, and is in overall command of all light cavalry of the Winter Kingdoms during the war against the Night King. Remember, the Free Folk bend the knee to nobody, and are a rougher people than most Westerosi. They are exactly the kind of people we need to fight the army of the dead, and without their teachings, we would have been overrun in the first attack, or starved and froze in the Second Long Night!"

Tytos frowned slightly, trying to work out the new chain of command. It looked like the siege engines and archers were being separated into independent commands, which left him under either the small Bear Island girl or under Lord Tybault, he supposed, unless he was put on the front lines as a sacrifice. His siege engine crews, though... not only was Lady Mormont just a young - very young - woman who'd never fought, if she was somehow Master of Laws, she had other duties. But… she was in command of all siege engines, so she likely had fought the dead? Maybe? Still, she was also Master of Laws so she wouldn't be staying, and when she left, who would be...

"Tytos, you have a question. Ask it," stated Arya from her spot against the wall next to her troupe, speaking around a mouthful of bread she'd been eating while Kitty talked, famished from the assault. She'd definitely have some bruising, too; that was just the price of fighting so many so quickly, but right now, she needed to eat. Other than training by herself or with the other Faceless Men, she almost never used her full speed and so much of her strength for so long, and there was a cost to it.

"E... yes, Lady Winter," replied Ser Tytos, startled at being called out like that, and by first name no less, but if this woman was ordering him to ask right now, and the Princess Bridges was, yes, watching and nodding along so at least he didn't have to risk angering the Princess by obeying the conquering warrior, he'd ask, "I understand Lord Irrin will be taking command of the archers; and by the terms of parole we are all to fight these wights, but once Lady Mormont leaves, who will be in command of the siege engines at the Twins?"

Arya smirked at the veteran, "You will, assuming Lyanna and Terrence approve of you and your skills. You had pretty good plans for the archers and siege engines based on what you knew, and you held steady when Terrence started the attack. Sorry to interrupt, Kitty."

"By all means, Lady Winter," said Kitty with a smile, then continued steadily to leave her liege lady to eat, stepping aside to reveal the chubby older woman with the goat's foot crossbow just behind her, "This is Lady Keath, my handmaiden. She will be in charge of the kitchens, the brothel, and all arrangements and distribution regarding food and drink. This is the Second Long Night; rationing is in effect immediately, and the rules will be posted and read to everyone shortly. Those rules apply to everyone, from the smallfolk all the way up to the Small Council and Queen Sansa herself, and rationing violations are capital crimes. The Small Council also consists of Lord Hand Howland Reed, Master of..."

While Kitty went over the new political situation in the breakaway kingdoms, Arya scanned the room carefully; the soldiers were moving around the corpses she'd left undisturbed in this room, almost casually, while the civilians; especially the smallfolk, like the mistress of the kitchens, were constantly looking at them and were visibly upset at the smell of death. Good; that, too, would be a tale that would spread far and wide; that Kitty would lecture while standing on the corpses of her enemies, slain like newborn babes by the terrifying Lady Winter. Lady Keath and her team, too, were unfazed, already having posted parchments with the new tolls and taxes and the rationing rules, and taken down the lion banners and well on the way to replacing them with the new winter stormcloud over twin towers heraldry.

Heraldry. Arya suppressed a snort; she still wasn't entirely sure how she felt about that. Her name would be cursed by children for centuries, maybe even millennia, as they were forced to learn the history of the Twins. Perhaps someday a Faceless Man wearing her face would have to tell the tale of how the original heraldry was changed to honor their distant ancestor to 'prove' they were a Stark relation.

"Finally, all corpses are to be burned. Not just those who died today, or who will die soon, but every corpse everywhere anyone can find; in the lichyards, in mass graves from the wars, in the fields and forests and wherever ranchers slaughter their beasts, we must find and dig up every even partly intact body anyone can find and burn it. For this purpose, and this one time only, any bodies obviously more than a month old will not be questioned by anyone. Murderers and other killers will be dealt with another way, at another time, but if anyone knows where a body is, they will be thanked and the body burned, no questions asked. Not one single question, no matter what. Right now, we need to make sure the army of the dead doesn't grow any larger when we can prevent it," said Princess Kitty Bridges, finishing up her lecture on new rules, looking around as the various local leaders looked uneasily at each other, clearly unwilling to whisper and murmur and chatter with each other in the way of the Northern conclave, however much they wanted to. Arya herself was... collecting a coin purse from Uncle Sandor, naturally. Well, Lady Keath already had her orders; no chicken at dinner if those two were paying off their bets in public.

She wasn't happy about the no questions asked policy, nor was Sansa, nor Arya, but if some murderer wanted to come forward and tell where he'd hid the bodies, the guards would thank him, mention they'd appreciate hearing about any other likely areas to search for bodies, and burn whatever they found. The amount of casual killings in the Riverlands, in her Riverlands, had been so high for so long that they were quite sure they'd never find all the hidden corpses. The Twins in particular were built on a foundation of bodies, sometimes literally; digging teams had already found some very disturbing mass graves in places where Arya had directed them to in and under the castle.

"Lord Erenford, please approach," commanded Princess Bridges, setting aside her brief musing, gesturing to the tall older Lord who had been one of her husband's favorite Lords, "Congratulations on your son's wedding! I hope they're managing well together, though the first few months can be... difficult, at times, learning new customs. Your new daughter-by-law was Kelcie Lannister, yes?"

The man's eyes darted around, finding no support, only a combination of dark amusement, indifference, and savage glee from those around him, then directed his eyes at the trickle of blood on the floor before he answered, "Yes."

"Wonderful," said Kitty as she smiled, her voice warm and full of kindness covering an iron determination to ensure the leaders under her had the loyalties she needed – to the Starks, to her herself, to the Northern Riverlands, to their people… but not to the Lannisters, nor to themselves, nor to gold, "I hear she is a pleasant young woman, skilled at managing a holdfast and something of a painter! I should like to see one of her paintings one day. I understand that she obeyed the command of the head of her House and wed as she was bid; whatever she was before, she is now an Erenford, a noble house of the Northern Riverlands, and all members of the Winter Kingdoms welcome her as such!"

"However, I am concerned for your people, who deserve a leader able to commit their full attention to the welfare of their House and their smallfolk," continued the Lady Paramount in the cold, hard tones she'd heard more than once from Arya and Sansa both, and had practiced in her rooms, addressing one of Walder's primary toadies, "Your duties at the Twins are complete, Lord Erenford. Please, feel free to return home, that you may expedite fetching all your House and household and smallfolk back here at once for their safety; you will be needed managing your House's camp."

When the man blinked thrice and then started opening his mouth to waste time they didn't have with pointless protests, she gave up on using Sansa's politically adept but time-consuming tactics of honeyed words and simply glared at him just as Arya would and snapped, "Go."

"Lord Charlton, please approach," commanded Kitty, her tones again welcoming, waiting politely for the man in his mid-fifties to weave through the others, followed confidently by his wife and adult son, glancing at the corridor as the flow of people out of the Twins was starting to diminish. Unlike many of the locals, the Charlton's clothes were damp with melted snow and their hair in disarray from the ride in, since this family had started as one of her primary contacts in the Riverlands after she'd left, and later became a great supporter and her spies reported that he had showed himself to be a skilled and considerate leader.

"Thank you for your tireless efforts in the service of the people of the Northern Riverlands. You played a leading role in organizing our people, in keeping men and supplies safe and hidden, and in getting them here and to Seagard in time to make these strongholds safe, that they may in turn be kept safe. I am afraid that I will not have the time to both properly manage this castle and to coordinate the preparations for the Night King all across these lands. Will you agree to the duties of managing this castle and the camps around it, excepting food, which Lady Keath will manage, my Lord?

"Gladly, my Lady," replied Andrey Charlton immediately, alongside his beaming wife. He'd been wary of the girl's first messages, but the information in them had rarely been wrong, and the suggestions and later orders had been both generally wise and unusually timely for having been sent from so far away, and the ones that weren't wise were simply inscrutable, but the contacts were always present where and when she said they would be. When the supplies and goods promised also showed up on time, from medicines for the Maesters and village healers in hiding to brand-new drafts on the Iron Bank to purchase from traders? He'd begun to have faith, for the first time since the Mountain had been sent to ravage his people. With the Twins falling today as quickly as if it had been a mere encampment of tents, and the activity outside, he knew his faith had been rewarded.

"Wonderful," exclaimed Kitty, then drew a direwolf-sealed letter out from her cloak, handing it to Andrey, "Let it be known to all that by my choice and with Queen Sansa Stark's approval, and for the good of the Northern Riverlands, if I am to die without an heir born of my body, then Lord Andrey Charlton shall be Lord Paramount of the Northern Riverlands."

"Let it also be known that if Kitty dies, I will personally investigate, hunt down, and slowly and painfully kill everyone who has anything to do with her death, no matter how removed, no matter where in the world they try to hide, no matter who promises what protection, no matter how perfect an accident it appeared to be," contributed Arya flatly, picking her teeth with her Valyrian steel dagger, pulling her lips back from her teeth in a facsimile of a grin at the instant shocked and fearful response she received to that, some of the men and women glancing at the group of smallfolk who were carefully picking up the fifth corpse of one of the guards she'd slain and carrying it out respectfully, the pool of blood and piss on the stone beneath the body wet and sticky, before Kitty continued, filling the sudden silence.

Arya drank some more water and had another piece of bread the Hound handed her, nodding nearly imperceptibly as Emilee came in and gave her a very slight nod of her own. Everything was ready, then; her people in combination with agents and some of the loyal soldiers and spies she'd brought would sweep through the entire Twins while they were supposed to be deserted; Korb and Mariya had gotten the instructions she'd left, and would lead hand-picked teams to check the places only the most skilled would hide. Of the people here and nearby, many were of course frightened, but most were calming as the new rules were made clear and no punitive executions appeared.

Once Kitty finished going over the basics, she stepped back and Arya strode into the center of the room, raising her voice and pointing at the door.

"All right, everybody outside. You people need to see what's coming for us all, and once the show is over, we can all get started with the actual work. There is no time to waste in a war! Go!" called out Arya, gesturing out as Kitty gave her a deep nod and sent half her people out of the room at a quick jog, which the Charltons, Spicer and a few of the Lannister troops, and many of those who had come in with Kitty picked up immediately, then Kitty went herself in a cluster of guards, followed by most of the rest.

"When the wolf bitch says go, she means now, you dumb cunts," contributed the Hound gruffly as he pushed off the wall, grabbing the closest two highborn still standing around dumbly and shoving them at the door, then going for another and chasing a small group out as Arya and her guards brought up the rear, herding the rest before them. Herding, he thought with disgust. Here he was, a man grown, following the orders of a couple of young wolf bitches and herding stupid highborn cunts. He'd rather be killing... but killing meant fire, lots of fire, right in his... He'd be glad when all this shite was over and it was just the gods damned winter to fight.

Near the front, jogging along the familiar path out of the keep, Tytos considered his instant response to the Lady Ary... the Lady Winter's command. As soon as she'd said "go" his feet had been in motion, just like he'd instantly moved as a much younger soldier in Casterly Rock when Lord Tywin had once used that same tone of command to his unit. He winced as he passed through another set of bloody splotches; the pair of door guards obviously hadn't made it. Turning the corner to the entryway, a huge patch of red turning to brown as the blood dried... but all right here, at the intersection; those soldiers had stood their ground bravely, for all the good it did them. He spotted one, no, two shattered arrowshafts as he passed, and yes, there were more bits of wood on the floor. Yuutin and his archers had been able to loose after all, and it hadn't helped them, not one bit.

He could see that the entryway was abuzz with activity; on the side of the hall there was a team taking apart the portcullis mechanism, with stacks of replacement parts next to them; ironwood replacements, by the looks of them. Ahead at the drawbridge, new ropes had already been fitted to the bridge and attached to the pulleys atop the tower, the ropes drooping severely while the mechanism was repaired. To the side of the drawbridge was red-stained snow surrounding a long line of bodies; more than thirty, and another two which were being carried out even now, and every one killed by a single young woman. Lady Winter was a frightful warrior... he and all his men would have put up a fight, but with the entryway open, walls of flames before his archers and siege engines, this army pouring in through the wide open entryway, and that woman slaughtering the command staff and everyone else?

He was lucky to be alive, much less moving outside under his own power. And outside, now that he could see it again? Outside was a madhouse!

"Wildfire here! Wildfire to Bigglestone! GENTLE AS YOU GO!"

"Pitch and tar! Pitch and tar to Chambers!"

"Grains to Terrick! Grains!"

"Spearheads to Hawick! Spearheads!"

He struggled to take in the cacophony; stretching out to both sides were men and women standing on well spread out sleds, steadying dragonglass-tipped pikes with banners from various houses of the riverlands waving in the breeze, those holding them shouting about some commodity going to a Riverlands House while a steady stream of horse-drawn sleds approached... and there were other people further out, because the stream split and split again in an orderly fashion as they came in, sled after sled after sled calling out their loads and receiving directions farther out, to direct them to the right areas for their cargos.

At least he'd finally learned where all the fabled produce of the Riverlands had gone - to their enemies, who were inexplicably returning it and rearming himself and his men with a promise they'd never be asked to fight Southrons, only the dead. What kind of leader recaptures a castle and then arms the occupiers? Feeds them the same as their own troops? Was the enemy really so frightful they didn't think they could hold them off by themselves? Listening carefully, he could hear the faint shouts from the farther out splitting of the inbound supplies - these were simpler, the sled driver calling out their cargo and the man... or woman... directing merely pointing and yelling left or right. Lord Tywin himself would approve of the organization - losing track of supplies was the bane of any army lucky enough to have supplies.

"Snowshovels!"

"Left!"

"Wheelbarrow wheels!"

"Left!"

"Pickheads!"

"Right!"

"Untrimmed trees!"

"Left!"

The horses weren't following the paths where the patrols had packed the snow down for easy riding, their hooves were atop the snow, lifting to show giant white horseshoes! The men and women likewise, and walking a little oddly, but... also atop the snow, unlike the massive crowds of people who had been turned out of the castle behind him, standing waist to chest deep in snow all around him. The newly arrived army must be wearing those strange snow shoe contraptions Qyburn had sent out a message about, and by the Seven they worked. Coming to a halt with the snow up to his waist, he, like everyone else from the castle, took his time to look around while the rest caught up, looking outwards at the horizon first; it wasn't the same horizon he'd seen minutes before.

Rising up atop two of the larger hills were small, short towers; not siege towers, nor solid towers, but flimsy ones; he could tell by comparing their size to the man atop them - he'd had plenty of practice estimating the range for his scorpions and archers, and those were rising perhaps two and ten feet above the snow, with figures on the sides standing still... maybe holding them steady? Those towers weren't quite centered... wait, what was that? A bigger frame, rising up like a wall-frame at a barn-raising, right in the center of the hill. Temporary towers, then, until bigger towers were built.

Closer in, there were men with brightly colored ropes stretching across the landscape, driving in equally brightly colored stakes arching out; surveyors, and using Myrish far-eyes! And... Maesters, by the clothes, more than one with the survey teams. Children ran everywhere, but with purpose, stepping high in their own snow shoes, carrying messages, and there were horn calls and drums. Sleds bristling with soldiers were spread out, too, with the scorpion sleds he'd seen loose and hit on the move closer in... one such sled was much closer, with the Mormont banner flying proudly, and the crew there he could see were using a Myrish far-eye of their own!

Maybe fifty and a hundred yards away from where he stood, a team of boys and girls were enthusiastically shoveling snow with wide, deep rectangular shovels, but they were doing so into long lines, as if to build walls of snow parallel to each other. Another group had started perhaps double that distance away, and there were entire trees being dropped off in both places as well. Groups with picks and ropes tied around their waists were breaking up the ice below the Twins, and others were dipping pairs of buckets into the exposed ice-cold water and carrying it out... where it was being poured on the walls of snow, along with what looked like the smallest branches and clippings of trees. Walls of ice and snow! Truly, only a Northerner would think of something like that. They'd be dangerously slippery, but maybe that was what the small branches were for.

Just in front of them some poles had been pounded into the ground, and there were horizontal poles between them, running right towards their group. Beyond that a large group of soldiers with some incredibly heavily chained up and struggling prisoners being nearly carried were approaching, one of the prisoners being... a moose?

Wights. And a wight moose. Gods, he could see its ribs - not just on this side, but all the way through its chest! Those were the wights the Northerners had been going on about? There were arrow-shafts sticking out of some of them! And missing limbs! There were holes in that one's skull; he could see the snow on the other side! And it was still struggling! What kind of evil sorcery was this? He'd read the reports from King's Landing, read the ravens from the North that Lord Erick had shown him, but seeing it in person was different. By the gods, it really was real - it was all real!

Tytos Spicer continued to watch in amazement as the wights were spread out and short chains dangling from each were attached to the horizontal poles, each wight guarded carefully by groups of four soldiers, two with spears and two with crossbows. He was a little puzzled at the lack of shields, but there were certainly enough guards for the ten wights being brought closer. Around him he heard exclamations and muttering as others saw the same thing, several moving to the back of the group when the rest of the people from the commander's parole group arrived. He snorted; with their captors jogging behind them, that group looked like it was a herd of deer being herded by hounds.

In the bright afternoon light, he could see Lady Winter properly now, and she was a terrifying sight; the dim candlelight inside the castle had hidden the fact that her outfit was soaked in blood; bloodstains overlapped slightly older splatters, the embroidery was mottled white and red, and she had faded smears of blood on her face! He'd seen the Mountain after a battle, once, and the giant had been covered in blood after slaughtering dozens like lambs, too; he shuddered, and it wasn't from the cold.

"All right! Eyes front, get a good look at the wights," called out Arya as she held out a hand for her spear, this time with a regular castle-forged steel spearhead on it for purposes of this demonstration. Sticking it into the snow beside her, she accepted and slipped on her snowshoes, glad that Emilee had tensioned the straps for the snow here. Hearing the rustling of fur and the crunching of snow under paws bounding closer, she grinned and turned to greet Nymeria and four of her pups while most of the people around her gaped or scrambled back... or fell on their asses while trying to scramble back.

Kitty grinned, "If you and Nymeria would stop distracting everyone, maybe they would keep an eye on the wights!"

Arya hugged Nymeria, rubbing her cheek along her direwolf's cheek, then did the same with each of the pups, pulling out a rag and quickly cleaning some blood off one pup's fur, "Good hunting, all of you! No more hunting these ones, as long as they keep working with us as they promised."

She then stood, Nymeria and three of the direwolf-wolves sitting around her, massive heads looking around alertly, while the other simply flopped down with a happy whine, clearly pleased at the hunt and the meal.

"That's my direwolf Nymeria; she and her pups are not to be harmed at all. Her pack members are not to be harmed unless they're actively eating those loyal to the Winter Kingdoms, or our allies, including those who are honestly abiding by the letter and spirit of their parole. Now, the wights! Note they're not all human, and they're stronger than they were. We had wight direwolves, wight deer, wight elk and wight moose all jumping clean over a twenty foot wide moat when they attacked Winterfell! The new order is thirty foot wide moats. We'll start with three - the one next to the castle walls, ring two out there, and ring five as the farthest. After that, when there's time and people to dig, we'll add ring one, then three and four. Inside ring one are camps for the siege and towers for scorpions and archers directly supporting the ramparts. Inside ring two are flocks and herds. The rest are for defense in depth; build nothing between the moat markers."

Pointing her spear at a newly arrived sled, carrying stone tablets in addition to a giant skull and a mammoth skull, she continued, "Giants and mammoths are real! My brother Jon, Edd, and other men of the Night's Watch and the North fought against them and with them; ask the Night's Watchmen! As wights, they're sometimes covered in trees they use as armor, the giants will use entire trees as clubs or throw them in front of sleds or at battle lines; it's particularly dangerous in the dark. And darkness is coming! You think the days are short now? They're much shorter up North, and the nights grow ever longer. Swords and knives, maces and hammers, spears and pikes, staves and axes, arrows and bolts are nearly worthless unless they're dragonglass, Valyrian steel, or on fire. Those tablets are to teach the essentials of this war to you and to future generations, in case we merely drive them off as my ancestor Bran the Builder did, and they face the same threat again. If we fail, there will be no future generations."

Arya strode up to the front of the raceways they'd built for the demonstration, the wolves growling and snarling at the wights for a moment before she pointed with her currently steel-headed spear, "Left to right! Wight moose, fresh - big, heavy, jumps more than twenty feet, thick hide that means it'll attack on fire for nearly a minute before it goes down! Fire, dragonglass, or Valyrian steel to the flesh is required to put it down - hitting the hide or bone's not good enough! Next, regular Free Folk wight; partially flesh, partially bone, carrying a bone knife. The bone burns, and burns fast! Ancient warrior wight; bronze armor, bronze shield, good spear, mostly bone, vulnerable to being smashed apart! If you don't fully crush the skull, the limbs keep attacking, so watch your feet and ankles! Modern wight; an Umber pikewoman, killed on a scouting mission; fully fleshed, with good leather armor, spear and shield. Last, a child wight; they are not children! They are abominations, just like the others, and easy to overlook in a pack of others. Hesitation will see you dead and, if you or your comrades don't immediately shove a flake of dragonglass into your dying or dead flesh, rising blue-eyed to kill the living."

Arya looked over the assembly after finishing her grim speech; other large groups far to her left and right were getting the same speech in front of other racetracks of wights; they didn't have time to wait to cycle through groups, and they had plenty of wights fished out of the moats to use for training or in warfare if that became useful. With a nod to the handlers, they loosened their grip on the chains holding the wight back, and it sprinted at her, hatchet held menacingly, much shorter chains keeping it fastened to the racetrack.

She stabbed through its furs into the heart, burying six inches of the spearhead into it and letting its momentum carry her back suddenly, opening her forward hand to get her wrist out of the way of the axe coming down. Arya yanked her spear out, ducked the wild knife swing swiping over her head, and smashed the butt end of the spear into its forearm to open it up for an upward strike cutting its entire arm off at the shoulder, taking a few steps back towards the group, just out of its reach and calling out.

"Pull it back! See how steel does nothing to stop it? All right, I want volunteers, four squads, right here, spears and shields. You've seen a wight, now some of you get a lesson on what it's like to face a tiny pack of them without dragonglass or fire, using your current training and weapons, like the Free Folk did at Hardhome and before, and merchants and other patrols will be here in the Riverlands very soon. We'll be using your current commands. After that," said Arya, walking them through the process of facing a limited charge of wights. Just as they were ready, she turned and stabbed her spear into the uncleared, wiggling snow behind her, pulling up the impaled arm and holding it high over her head while the hand grasped futilely for her.

"Don't forget - severed limbs are dangerous if the limb or parent wight's not properly returned to death with dragonglass or fire!"

Over an hour later, she'd finished the rest of the usual lecture on how to kill wights without getting killed or losing your weapon by stabbing too deep, the most basic signals, the general structure of training and fortification, and what they knew of the enemy, she paused, surveying the men and women before her. They'd recovered some from their shock while she talked and demonstrated, but while they were functional, they were still a little dazed, like she'd turned their entire world upside down.

"All right. We've got people fighting from north of the Wall, from the North, from the Vale, from the Riverlands, from Braavos and Pentos and the Great Grass Sea and Yi-Ti. Some of us have fought side by side with our enemies; have saved each other's lives. The Scorpion Bear's second is a warrior who's actually raided Bear Island in the past; we've had soldiers from the Bolton army fight next to Stark and Bole men. Some of you were in the Frey armies; some of you are in the Lannister army. Some of you are wondering what you should really do," said Arya, her tone stern as she stood atop a small platform that had been erected while she'd talked, continuing without pause.

"If you want to try and kill me, just challenge me to a bravo's duel to the death, we'll find a guardsman to oversee the duel, and I'll happily help you die with honor. If you want to assassinate me, get some sleep first, you'll want to do your pitiful best before your death. But if you want to protect your families, protect your wives, husbands, mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, aunts, uncles, nephews, nieces, your sisters and brothers, cousins and friends, your whole village, town, or city, then the very best thing you can do is put old grudges to the side, buckle down right here, in this place, and give every bit of yourself to working, building, training, fighting, and learning. Right here is your place to make a stand against the armies of the Night King, to slow him down, to tie up his forces, to return more of his blasphemous stolen corpses to peaceful rest than he can raise new forces with his magic. Here is where we can bleed him, slow him, buy time for all those south of us to prepare. Here is where we can force the Night King to reveal more of his capabilities so we can send that information out, so the living aren't caught by surprise a second time!"

"All those fighting at Winterfell and White Harbor bought months of time, but it'll be Moat Cailin's turn soon, and after them, it's your turn here at the Twins and at Seagard; once they're past the Northern Riverlands and the Vale, they'll be able to spread out into the Westerlands, the Crownlands, and the Southern Riverlands. Next will be the Reach and the Stormlands, and then Dorne, and at some point they may reach Essos. No matter where your families are, they will not be safe, but the better we fight here, the safer they will be! The enemy will not stop; they must be stopped, and to stop them, they have to bleed. Listen, and learn, and you will make them bleed! You will learn how to keep yourself, your comrades, and your families alive through the Second Long Night, for if the Night King doesn't kill you, being unprepared for the most vicious winter in eight thousand years surely will! If the Night King's army moves on from here, and we live, some of you may go South to help those who have not seen the enemy as you have, to share what you have learned about wights and White Walkers and the Second Long Night, so pay attention! If the Night King's army breaks through all our defenses and we evacuate whoever we can, any one of you might be one of those few survivors to spread the word; everyone needs to learn these lessons!"

************************

Long after the sun had set, the squad straggled into the tiny storeroom that served as their barracks, exhausted, awkwardly and carefully started standing their spears with the new dragonglass heads they'd attached by the door by habit and dropping the stacks of extra blankets the invaders had issued them on the nearest bunks. Then, nearly as one, they stopped doing as they'd done yesterday, reclaiming them to split the spears up and stood two against each side of each bunk, before sinking onto the bottom bunks, folding themselves up. Blackberry wine was pulled out from under the bunk by shaking hands, the winemaker taking a deep drink before passing it on unsteadily.

"Hey; easy, there, Joaum," said the squad leader, patting the boatman's son on the back after lighting a single candle and dousing the torch, mindful of the viciously thorough lecture they'd been given on conserving heat, conserving food, conserving everything.

"Our swords were in a pile," stammered Joaum, groping around under the bunk for another wineskin, "She would have slaughtered us like Da slaughters a net full of fish."

"But she didn't, because you offered her our rabbit, your wine, and told her guests first. Because we all shared our fire with her. Because we laughed when she said she was going to kill the Queen. Your ma was right."

"Seven hells, I wish she was still a stranger. She's the most terrifying thing I've ever seen. Gods, the blood was everywhere in the hall; Thoum and the others didn't stand a chance, and he'd fought in the Ironborn rebellion!"

"Don't be a fool," interrupted the squad leader, "You saw what they had outside. If she hadn't come in herself, her army would have, and we'd all be dead. There's no running, not in this weather, not from that army. She saw us and spared us, because we were kind to strangers, and strangers were kind to us. Joaum, find someone that knows the Northern guest right customs; you're in charge of greeting strangers from here on out."

"Seven hells."

"Take another drink; no shame in getting the shakes after."

"I'm going to kill the Queen, she said."

"And we laughed."

The squad leader shrugged, lowered his voice, "Probably saved our lives. What's Queen Cersei done for us, really? Nothing I'm going to stick my neck out for, just wars and more wars so she can feel high and mighty. I just want to go home to my wife, meet my baby for the first time, see them grow up, get him apprenticed in a real trade or see her marry a good man. You've all got families, some of you have girls back home, too. We've seen the wights - you think your villages would survive a pack of them attacking? No. Our best chance to help our families, and our girls - or our chances of having girls in the future - is right here, and if that means endless digging and woodcutting, that's better than being killed."

"She's so fast," mumbled another soldier, "She was so fast, fighting that wight! Faster than Master-at-arms Olsen was, back in training. Them wights scare me... but she scares me worse. She was just toying with it, like it wasn't dangerous!"

"You have no idea," came the squad leader's somber reply in somber tones, "You were in back when she was finishing Thoum and the boys, all splattered with blood. She dodged a knife and blocked a sword and killed Jeorg and Thom both at once while Likel was gasping for his momma like it was all one motion, and faster than I could see, and all while we were tripping over whoever it was that tried to run and got a dagger in the back of the neck. I got a good look; half the men she killed hadn't even drawn a weapon, she killed them that fast. And you know what the worst part was?"

He looked at the rest of his men, who were listening raptly, faces a little green even in the candlelight, then continued, "She was smiling, just a little. Not a big grin, not being sadistic like the guys that torture for the Mountain, but... like my da smiles, when he's just finishing a cabinet, and he knows the woodwork's perfect. Not a mark on her, not a cut or a limp or a bruise, and she'd killed, what? Almost forty men even before she got to the commander's room, from the bodies we saw outside? And she acted like it was just a day's work. The pride of a baker with a good loaf of bread, a farmer with a well sown field. Like killing dozens of men is just a morning's job to her."

"Don't forget the direwolves! They were gigantic! They ate the entire patrol, too," said another soldier glumly, "Horses and men both. At least with the girl you die quick."

"Go out of a castle, get eaten by direwolves, or fight soldiers on sleds racing over the snow you're plowing through. Stay in a castle, and Lady Winter comes in after you herself, cuts your throat, puts arrows right through your armor. When this is over, I'm never coming north to fight ever again. Not for any highborn Lord."

"Nor me or my children. Some highborn Lord wants to invade this hellscape, I'm getting my family to Joaum's boat. Lords can face her themselves, and get slaughtered for it."

"Hey, Joaum. Boats need a crew. Bigger boats need a bigger crew, right? How about after this, we buy into your da's business with the money we've saved, be your new crew for a new boat? Then shit like this happens again, we load up our families and sail the fuck away."

"Yeah, Joaum, what about it?"

"Give Joaum some time to think about it, you guys. Clumsy gits like you'd probably sink the boat or scare the fish anyways," said the squad leader, "Right now, we have to work on fighting the dead and the Long Night. You heard her – if we fail, it's not just us. The dead go for our families next, and I want my new daughter or son to grow up, not get killed by wights or freeze or starve. Get ready to bunk down, candle goes out right soon."

He circled the bay, helping his squad layer the rough, itchy, thick wool blankets atop the worn cotton blankets they'd brought north with them and made sure their dragonglass-tipped weapons were within reach. In his thoughts, he cursed the day the highborn started the whole war which had forced his men to be press-ganged as soldiers and sent north to this terrible place with that terrible woman.

"All right, no more talking. Get some sleep – except you, Joaum, you're first watch. Remember, you see or hear something, you shout first," he said, blowing out the candle and settling into his own bunk, he carefully checked his own spear and sword, then closed his eyes. As soon as he did so, in the dark, shivering under the still-cold blankets, the memory of the line of wights charging returned, and he shuddered. Perhaps, just perhaps, whatever cruel gods had allowed these wars to kill so many had done so with a purpose, because it was clear the wars had forged a fearsomely competent army, and one that instead of slaughtering he and his men like chickens, had instead killed a pittance and given the rest a chance to help save their families. He gave a short, silent prayer to whatever gods there were for his wife and child, then turned over and spoke.

"If you think I can't hear that, you can have mid watch an entire week."

The dead were coming, and they'd been spared for a reason. If he was very, very lucky, then perhaps they'd survive this to become fishermen. If he was lucky, his wife and child would survive, and right now, that meant getting some sleep.

************************

Finally alone in the Lord's chambers with Arya, freshly installed furs on the barred door and trusted guards outside, Lady Keath having supervised packing the adjoining rooms full of sound-muffling supplies, Kitty shrugged out of her heavy cloak and upended the pack Arya'd brought in. She pulled up first one embroidered leather breastplate cover, then another, shaking her head as she put three fingers through a slit on the left breast, "Sansa would be mortified; gods, Arya! This could have killed you!"

Shrugging out of her armor, Arya detached the last, blood-splattered piece of embroidery and fingered the Valyrian steel rings exposed through the cut through the boiled leather before setting it aside and checking the long bruise on her left breast, "That came from the gate guards; I had to let one of them hit the armor so I could make it through the shieldwall without slowing. Every hurt is a lesson; I need to work on that. Without the armor, it would have been my death."

"No, you don't need to work on that, you need to stop charging in through the front gate! You're an assassin, act like it, Arya! Gods, that looks horrible - it's going to take days to heal!" exclaimed Kitty, moving to open a small chest and pull out some of the ointment that Sansa had sent with her, then expertly smacking the thin layer of ice atop the clean water in the washbasin, "Come over here, let me treat that. You've made your reputation; the raven carried a rushed, frightened warning to Qyburn and Cersei, then silence, just as you wanted; the archers will take down any other ravens that were hidden, and whoever slips away from the woodcutting expeditions will take time to get to a raven. Gods, how'd you get this one?"

Arya rolled her eyes at Kitty, "Bruises are nothing to worry about - just another lesson. That one came from a kid who decided it'd be better to slam his shield into me than try anything else. He was right, and he had a good sense of timing. Brave, too; he faced his death well. So, your girl Angora..."

"Angora… kitchen maid, good ears, discrete. She's been reporting to me since before you came here; I didn't really know much of what to do with it, then, but I knew that knowing what's going on in my household was important," replied Kitty, washing over Arya's wounds gently before drying them with a clean rag.

Arya nodded, then rubbed Kitty's arm sadly, "She's reporting to Cersei; always has been."

"She is? Very discrete indeed," said Kitty, her voice trailing off as she considered carefully, going over what the double agent should have been able to hear or find in her head while turning Arya around to finish washing the obvious bruising on her back, then considered what she knew of the girl.

"She's in it for the game, isn't she?"

"That's my thought."

"Well, best to keep her where she is, then, for now; she won't have access to any real secrets, and it'll be difficult for her to get messages out... unless the Master of Whisperers disagrees, of course," said Princess Kitty dejectedly, spymaster to Sansa Stark, shaking her head a little at her own foolishness. In retrospect it was obvious; why else would a competent agent have approached her, the powerless Lady Frey, in the first place? And that familiarity hadn't helped as she'd learned to be a real spymaster; she'd clearly failed, having overlooked the double agent in her own castle for years.

Arya wrapped her arms around Kitty, murmuring, "It's all right, Kitty; nobody sees everything, and it's hard to give the familiar the scrutiny it truly needs; that's part of why changing faces has been so effective for thousands of years. Learn from this and beware double agents... and remember that you aren't alone. You don't have to be perfect... you just have to be aware enough to survive each lesson as it comes."

Kitty embraced her sister by choice tightly, then released her and set the drying rag aside to start rubbing in the ointment on a nasty abrasion on the back of Arya's hip, "Thank you, Arya. For everything, but especially for coming here with me... and for taking the Twins undamaged once again. If we'd had to attack with the army, there would have been so many killed or maimed, soldiers and smallfolk both, and the castle would have been vulnerable for days or weeks instead of hours."

Arya smiled at Kitty, taking off her trousers and taking up the washrag to clean off wherever she was uninjured and Kitty hadn't cleaned, "Our family takes care of family, and our rulers take care of our people. It is my duty and my pleasure to be here with you, and having a Stark come down to help the people of the Riverlands survive the Second Long Night, rather than simply cause even more destruction... that was necessary."

Kitty finished with the ointment, sealing the container carefully and giving Arya a look, "And writing yourself into history with a legendary feat worthy of the Age of Heroes?"

"A mere coincidence, and anyone who implies otherwise is a filthy liar," replied Arya archly.

Kitty snapped a hand out to try and swat Arya, to no avail as her sister-by-choice effortlessly was suddenly a few inches further away, "I'm a filthy liar, am I?"

"You are indeed," replied Arya, her nose pointedly in the air as she put on a thin but opaque nightgown, making sure all her bruises were covered, "I can smell you from here!"

"I can smell me from here, too," groused Kitty with a grin, "Budge over, it's my turn."

"Oh? Your turn, is it, Princess Bridges? It was my turn on the bathing schedule... what about you?"

"I am the Lady Paramount of the Northern Riverlands, and this is, in fact, the Northern Riverlands, so I get to set the bathing schedules! Thus... today is bathing day. And I missed my last one during the snowstorm to boot!"

Arya smirked, "As Princess, shouldn't you have someone to bathe you?"

"Next time I'll have some of the brothel girls do it, so they can gossip that I've spent so long in the North that I don't even flinch at ice-baths. Right now, though, surely that's what you're for? I'm quite certain Angora isn't the only bit of news you have to pass on to me."

"My, you've grown so bossy!" exclaimed Arya with a wink.

"I'm trying to be more like my liege lady, you know," giggled Kitty, taking off her own traveling outfit. Changing earlier would have been appropriate in peacetime, but now? Above all else, everyone needed to be preparing for the expected siege, not putting on unnecessary shows for appearance's sake, and the best way to lead was by example.

"Hey, now, that's a low blow!"

"Also like my liege lady," replied Kitty, sticking her tongue out at Arya.

The basin of ice-cold water being emptied over her head by Arya was exactly what Kitty had expected. Picking a sliver of ice out of her hair, she popped it in her mouth and looked over at Arya with a grin, then changed her expression to mimic Sansa's subdued but imposing frown, "That was uncalled for."

"Uncalled for, you say? Then what about this?" asked Arya with a laugh.

************************

The next morning, just as the sky had barely started to lighten, pale moonlight causing the snow to glow softly, Ser Spicer stood quietly amidst the sounds of constructions and drums and horns and gongs and shouts while Lady Mormont and one of her scorpion crews ascended the stairs at a jog with a small pack of pages following them, then spread out to inspect his siege engines, produced plumb bobs, levels, and bowls they poured water into, and sheets of parchment tied to planks of wood... presumably to keep them from flying away in the brisk chill wind from the north that froze men to the bone. He'd had regular rotations down into the castle so his men could warm themselves before a roaring fire, since several had lost fingers, noses, or ears to what the locals called frostbite. No more - they'd had better cloaks and hats issued by the Northerners this morning, but the fireplace had been doused in ash and the wood and coals moved to the small communal fires. Whether it was the coldest winter in living memory or not, the Northerners were serious about siege preparations.

Well, his men thought it was the coldest winter in living memory. She and hers were dressed like it was a brisk autumn day, and didn't seem to be cold at all. Well, that's why you don't go fight the North in the winter. The wildlings were dressed like it was a mild autumn day, even; they were from a thousand miles or more to the north of even the Northerners, and it showed. On the other hand, one of them had roughly re-wrapped his coat and cloak, and did the same for all his men, and as long as he did the same, it was... less freezing than it had been. Several were carrying bags, long and short, some obviously heavy, and they had no torches, only a few lanterns shaded to mostly illuminate the snow.

Looking up as Lady Mormont glanced up briefly, he saw that Lady Winter continued to stand up on the top of an icy crenelation atop the tallest tower, balanced on the tip of a single foot, silent and unmoving, cloak blowing in the frighteningly sharp wind. Just as she'd been when he arrived, just as she'd been since the watch had noticed she had appeared sometime during the hour of the wolf… they thought, at least, since that's when they'd noticed her. For all he knew she'd been there since the hour of the bat, like a gargoyle that had manifested directly from the seventh hell to await its time to strike.

Like all his men, he turned away with a slight shudder; if Lady Winter wanted to stand on one toe atop ice atop a castle, he was going to let her be. Turning his attention to more mundane matters, he watched as the team of conquerors very professionally inspected his siege engines, turning respectfully as the young lady he was following spoke. Whether she knew war or not, she was highborn, the head of her House, and currently his direct superior. She was, at least, very careful of the hatchets she carried - not fearful, but she never once put herself in a position she couldn't instantly draw them, which spoke to either combat experience or excellent training and discipline.

"What was your plan when we attacked?" asked the Scorpion Bear bluntly after she gave a slight nod to the back of Arya Stark's head and set down the bag of practice weapons she'd carried up for the others to unpack and set out. She walked along the Twins towards the gongs that had been set up in the center of the bridge, watching the Lannister man carefully and paying attention to his crews. He wasn't taking her seriously, not yet, but he was at least paying attention; as her mother had taught her, respect was earned, and earning the respect of him and his men was one of many things she needed to do here, for the wars, for her people, for her kingdom, and for herself. Arya Stark thought the man was worth keeping, but she'd test him herself, and make her own judgment, just as Arya would do in her place.

"It was f... fairly stupid, my Lady. I thought you'd have to stop to loose, and that my crews could aim and loose first, forcing you to take hits or keep moving, so that was the general plan; loose when your war-sleds stopped, or when you got too close. When my men first saw the smoke, I knew it wasn't just hunters, but I was unsure whether it was a deliberate distraction, like Ro... King Robb often used, and sent a runner letting them know it might be the Vale making a move. I put my crews on alert for ground forces or dragons, with the idea that seeing you sooner meant beating you more easily."

Lyanna snorted, "Your plan was fucked, all right. Sound idea, hitting us first, and you've got Qyburn's designs, so you've got more power for the same size, but they're still only scorpion size, if on the big side; they don't match even a simple full-size ballista. Our scorpion sleds have the same design, more or less, and mostly smaller except a few of the horse-drawn ones, so you'd have the range of us, shooting from up here, but not by much; certainly not enough to matter, since sleds can dodge and castles can't. Where'd you get the dumbass idea we'd have to stop to loose?"

"Lord Qyburn had sent several missives with the results of his experiments, and one of them covered loosing scorpion bolts from moving carriages. His analysis was that it could not be done with enough accuracy to matter, and having ridden in carriages, I agreed. I was wrong," replied Ser Spicer, suppressing the urge to reprimand a young lady for inappropriate language he'd developed when interacting with his own eldest daughter. Where Isabella picked up that kind of language, he didn't know, but it seemed that Lady Mormont had picked hers up on the battlefield.

"And you'd have lost the castle," said Lyanna, gesturing to one of the pages following her, "Find Skamund; ask him politely if one of the small scorpion sleds can take Lord Spicer here for a familiarization run. After that, find Maester Russal and get the structural survey results; we need to get the towers and the big ballista set up before the fucking enemy shows up, and to set them up, we need to know where to put them! Go! Lord Spicer, what was your plan if we'd attacked at night, or in snow or fog?"

Tytos grimaced, looking out at the drastically changed landscape, the skeletal platforms interspersed with tall, strong towers, the beginnings of orderly and sturdily constructed camps all around, herds and flocks of animals, and the scents of fire and cooking stronger than the smell of shit, each coming from all around, "We'd have depended on the moat; you'd be visible when you got close enough, or you wouldn't be able to see either. You can't magic away not being able to see. Unless you're dead, I suppose."

"Depend on the moat," replied Lyanna scornfully, looking down at the now V shaped moat, the outer edge being widened rapidly by working parties as they spoke, "But in this case, you mean hope the ditch works? Did you really believe that a little thing like that would matter? Sure, it's deep, but a pack of shepherds could span it without even trying."

"Lord Erick believed that the defensive instructions coming from the North were a trick designed to get us to waste resources," replied Ser Spicer carefully, "A way to drive our men into exhaustion and lower their morale by making them dig instead of fight, and a way to drain our food supplies. There were no instructions from King's Landing to expand the defenses, and his thought was that a defense that could protect the castle didn't need more. As long as the moat made you stop to try and assemble those crossing bridges, we could rain arrows and wildfire down on you, even at night we'd see you in torchlight, or hear you."

"Stuff that polite shite," commented the Scorpion Bear bluntly, "Forget your stupid courtesies and forget you're a southron Lord; talk like a soldier; I don't care what some fool who thought he could win a duel with Lady Winter thought. You've fought the North, you clearly read the reports we sent. What did you believe, yourself?"

"Northerners don't attack unless they can win. Nobody's come up with a defense against wildfire yet, and if we can use it, so can you," said Ser Spicer glumly, "I believed we'd be burned alive and the castle melted. We don't have enough wildfire to keep up a defense for very long, even if it doesn't light itself and kill us anyway, and you could build trebuchets and easily have the range of us. Sallying through snow against Northerners is a quick way to die."

He nearly slipped on a patch of ice as the short young woman in armor gave him a vicious grin and reached up to clap him hard on the shoulder.

"Cheer up! First Ranger Edd'll be happy to tell you that you can still be burned alive and the castle melted if the Night King's wight dragon flies down here."

"With respect, I must, however, speak in Lord Erick's defense. He was in the room when Lady Winter entered and killed the guards, he knew what the defenses were, what it would take to go through them. I don't believe he thought he could win; I believe he thought he would gain an honorable end, and hoped that Queen Cersei would be placated with his sacrifice and so spare those under him, including myself."

He waited for her reaction; she stared at him for a long moment, then snorted.

"Your Queen was going to kill men for failing in an impossible task? That's stupid – the Boltons tried torturing people to death, and look how it turned out for them; once they weren't able to threaten to torture, nobody had any loyalty to them anymore. None of the other Queens are like that, nor Alleras."

"Alleras?" asked Tytos Spicer, puzzled. He knew of Queen Sansa and Queen Daenerys, and Queen Yara, but he'd never heard of a Queen Alleras.

"Princess Sarella called herself Alleras when she studied at the Citadel," replied Lyanna, smirking, "Maesters can't tell the difference between a boy and a girl! Pity she'll probably take a ship back home; she could show your best bowmen a thing or two – Lady Winter and Princess Meera both say she's better than they are. Enough small talk, come here, let's show you how to fight without being able to see, and without killing our own," said Lyanna Mormont, raising her voice to what she hoped would eventually become a commanding shout in a few years, "Clear away from that weapon, soldiers! Get those setting circles up right here! My crews to man the spring engines except Yaxley's team to me, Lannister crews gather round, LIVE BOLT DRILL!"

Tytos watched as the young woman picked up the long-handled mallets and beat out three quick but complex patterns with curious double-hits of each note, loud metallic sounds ringing out, while her people came racing back. They didn't even avoid the icy patches, just sort of... danced... over them, keeping their feet on the ice as they sped – slid - across without a single stumble, unslinging their bags as they came. Curved sections of wood were removed from one, slotting into each other to make a crude, wooden circle on the stone with the sigils of Riverlands houses branded into the wood. Tall poles were constructed, one section fitting into another, set all around the circle on the stone at his feet.

Lyanna heard the confirmation signals that Bigglestone and Chambers were clear from ring 2 to 5, small specks of firelight appearing as targets in the gloom, and looking around, Yaxley's crew was ready and the local crews were watching. She called out, "Bigglestone four!"

"Ware weapon! No elevation marks!" came the reply as the boy occupying the aimer's position slewed the scorpion rapidly around to take preliminary aim, squinting in the gloom as he waggled the spring engine up and down a little, trying to guess how the strange barbed bolt might fly, and then steadied down on his best guess, the primary winching team ready and the alternate resting and watching the crowd.

"Ser Spicer, take over aiming!" interrupted Lyanna, pointing rapidly as she delivered the familiar lecture, "Each camp is flying their banners at the center, but you won't be able to tell in dark or fog. Each siege engine gets its own ring, the house sigils will be in line with the camps, so you can aim, roughly, with only the ring around the weapon. As Lady Winter explained yesterday, down there are the defensive rings. Ser Spicer, elevate the weapon for the middle of Ring 4, that fire there, and loose. The simplest method is to do that for each camp and ring, and mark the poles after each. That, however, takes a long time, so the Maesters have worked out the mathematics to take a small number of test shots and then calculate the values in between. Each type of ammunition is different and needs its own marks; after this demonstration, you crews need to turn in those dumbass barbed harpoons to be melted down and draw ammunition that has a real chance to punch through dragonscale and drive in..."

Ser Spicer took the grips, aimed as best he could in the darkness and without landmarks, then loosed at the glimmering firelight at Bigglestone two, Bigglestone four, Chambers three and five; he'd used this weapon before, he was familiar with how the bolts flew, and judging the distance from here was something he'd had a lot of practice with. The winching teams alternated, the old men starting to pant even as they worked, and to his surprise they managed to get the weapon reloaded at a better rate than his own crews. Another foreigner, a tall girl, tied markers to the tall poles after consulting charts of numbers once those strange metal drums, gongs, reported back how far off he'd been. Then Lady Mormont herself took his place and loosed a series of bolts. Even though she'd never used either this scorpion or these bolts before, she hit with remarkable accuracy, even when she was aiming at a target like Chambers ring five, which he had never loosed at, and thus she had to guess at the elevation – she was only three and twenty yards off the mark in the vertical, and two and ten yards off in the horizontal.

"Loosing based on the markers is good for saturating an area with firebolts, green, or barrels when the army of the dead charges en mass; there's finer commands once you can reliably hit the near or far edges, or the left or right sides of each division, but when you can't see anything, only Lady Winter can take precision shots. The rest of us have to work in pairs, aimer keeping steady and watching for glimmers of light or eddies in the fog and crew leader watching and pointing; massed firebolts can be used to highlight objects, too, or barrels of pitch and tar to burn the fog away in an area as well. Remember, the Night King almost always hides big attacks under cover of a dense fog – we'll have drill whenever we get snow or fog, so you all get used to loosing blind with snow blowing in your face."

Lyanna assessed the crews, nodding to her page, who hammered out a pattern on the gongs; answering horn calls and drumbeats came rolling in as she raised her voice to talk over the signals, just as the Stark perched behind and above her would have, "Crews need to learn siege engine calls! Crew leaders need to memorize all calls! Horns for cavalry! Drums for infantry and ships! Yi-Tish gongs for us! Crew leaders must pay attention to the entire battle in their area, because you are personally responsible for not loosing into our own troops! Listen now – that's rings four and five are clear for us, that's all the way around, that's the fires are burning for us to aim at, not for some other reason. Every crew leader, get your crews marking up a set of House symbols; use that scrap there and the charcoal for now, grab a waxboard to start doing the calculations you'll need! Take a spare rope, draw it taut down the aiming groove of your weapon, mark exactly where the main banner of the camps are; call for a lamplight if you can't see it! You, start with Charlton, you Terrick, you Chambers, you Hawick…"

Two hours later the crews had gotten their initial training shots in, and groups of pages and servants were bringing up breakfast; two pots of hot, thin soup and mounds of steaming hot bread were carried up quickly but smoothly, dire threats having been giving to anyone who would waste food, water, or heat. Lyanna prowled from crew to crew, giving orders and advice, now reprimanding a local Maester who had somehow thought they knew what a siege engine crew needed based on some dead Maester's writings about mathematics. Maester Russal had helped her through the differences in accuracy; this Old Citadel Maester was not just wrong, but a danger to her crews.

"No! Look behind you, you academic idiot – that is the method new crews use, the ONLY METHOD! They use this method because when you do the calculation this way, there are less different operations used, which means easier training and less mistakes. This way, they use one table, and then the next, and the next, exactly one page forward every time a new table is needed! Not going back and forth willy-nilly in order to be able to possibly hit a pointless eight and ten inches more accurately at fifty and four hundred yards range! Not even Lady Winter or Princess Meera is that accurate, and there are none here a match for either of them, much less Princess Martell or Fjornal, who actually are that accurate… if these weapons had smoothed, straightened bronze bolt-slots, which they won't until day after tomorrow, the gears and tensioning were perfectly consistent, and Gendry's masterwork bolts were used! You will do it right or you will get off this tower and report to Maester Russal that you are incapable of comprehending simple instructions!" lectured the small bear furiously, turning to the crew and drawing out the math to gauge the angle, approximate the range, and then approximate the elevation required from those two, using a copy of the set of standard tables she and her staff had designed for teaching new crews. Other techniques would be taught later to those with the aptitude; right now they needed to get as many crews ready for battle as fast as possible, and the training program she, her people, and their allies had crafted and updated time and again was the best way to do that.

Looking at the tables of food set up a couple yards from the tables of practice weapons, she strode over, casually placing herself next to some blue bands and light padded hatchets, her gaze passing over a tall black hat with a chin strap and a bright blue face embroidered clumsily on it, "All right; newcomers, take over the nearest siege engine, let their crews come and eat! You Lannister men, stay on your weapons and keep working until it is time to be relieved; no weapon is to be without a crew until all our enemies are dead; not in any conditions, not ever. When you're on watch during mealtime, when we can, relief crews will take over and you'll get to eat inside. When we're too busy, or too short-handed, you'll eat up here, like this! Your food, and the food to everyone else on watch comes straight from the kitchens! Come and eat!"

As her crews took over and the spotters kept watching, she leaned against the table, took up a hunk of bread and broke it in half, passing half to Lord Tytos, "Your crews are all right. Better than I expected, but green as sheep-shit, and you don't have months to get ready. We're going to work them into the ground..."

Emira slung the now-empty bag back over her shoulder, slipping the dangling straps into her belt so it wouldn't flap around or get in the way of her daggers – her actual wood daggers with not just a flake of dragonglass at the tip, but had a line of dragonglass shards carefully embedded along both sides! Plus her bronze dagger! She smiled up at the still figure of Lady Winter and strode back, grinning as she pushed off and slid quickly down a patch of smooth ice. She was a Nightrunner; the ice was as natural to her as… she blushed a little at her tiny stumble when the ice thinned and the stone began again. Lady Mormont was leaning on a training table, and looking around she saw the huge man, the Hound, was slouched over, sitting on a rampart himself… something was happening! The Hound didn't just slouch around with strangers and he didn't like the cold wind – he might relax with Lady Winter or Princess Kitty, but the Scorpion Bear was never casual like a Free Folk might be… and the soup bowls hadn't been ready yet when they'd picked up the first load of food, which was really weird.

"Come on, back to the kitchens quick, we need to bring up the soup bowls," called out Emira, looking around carefully after bowing to Lady Mormont as she passed next to her on the way to the stairs. She was starting to think she'd been assigned the duty of carrying food rather than messages for a reason when there was a heavy thump behind her, immediately followed by two more sounds – padded training weapons hitting armor. She spun, hands starting to draw her daggers as she'd been drilled to do over and over at surprises before she saw what was happening.

Tytos was chewing on his bread, wishing he could have some of the hot soup to warm his belly while he listened to Lady Mormont lecture; it was, without a doubt, a lecture, no different than his father's Maester had given to him time and time again. He wasn't entirely sure who would want to marry the young woman, but it was clear she'd both studied the use of siege engines in great detail and that she had actual combat experience. She wasn't taken with anything fancy; she gave instructions with the intent that they would kill their enemies. Rekill. Kill again; whatever… he blinked in astonishment as Lady Winter appeared in front of Lady Mormont, snatched up a long 'bladed' training polearm with a move that struck Lady Mormont and continued in a sweeping motion to strike the seven others gathered to listen as part of one smooth motion while she slapped the tall 'White Walker' hat on her head.

"All dead!" came the call from Lady Winter as she lunged forwards and struck another three men across the middle and a fourth in the arm.

"All dead!" came another call from the stairs, where Ser Spicer saw the Hound also had jumped down and put a 'White Walker' hat on, while he had just hit three men from behind and had turned to hit another two. Around him rose other shouts… not from soldiers but from the servants and the pages! Not the riverlands, but the ones who had come in with the caravan. He dropped his bread on a table and scrambled for a weapon.

"WALKERS ABOVE! DRILL! WALKERS INSIDE! DRILL!" shouted a burly servant as he grabbed a shield and spear from the table.

"FORM SPEARWALL ON MY LEFT! RIVERLANDERS IN THE CENTER!" came the high-pitched voice of Emira as she reached out and yanked a local boy back behind her.

"ALL DEAD RISE!" came the piercing, carrying call from Arya after she abruptly changed direction towards another pack of Lannister soldiers and 'cut' three more of them down. Sandor was holding the stairs quite well; the local servants and pages were confused; the foreign crews who had been eating and the winching crew of those on watch had already formed up into groups and were moving to link up with the servants and pages.

Arya darted around behind another group of Lannister soldiers, the polearm whirling around to smack them on the helmets even as a pair of THUNK sounds signified empty crossbows being loosed at her while she cut down the rest of the patrol, then dove for a group of servants only to be forced to retreat after she 'shattered' three spears, two other of their spear wielders covering smoothly for the losses while they wisely kept the untrained locals in the center. She angled her retreat to make sure Lyanna had a clear path; it was good for the small bear to have some fun.

"Miss! Ally hit; you lost an arm!" called a man wearing the white headband of a judge.

Emira grinned; she hadn't had a chance to show off what she'd learned on the trip yet, and she was the senior page in this group! The 'dead' rose up a little confused, and then at the judge's directions put on their blue headbands and charged in a rush; she'd set herself in the corner of their little formation farthest from the group they were going to join with Esteban, the best fighter in their group, just behind her with his spear; while he was stabbing one 'wight' in his outstretched hand, she darted a step forward to lightly tap another armored 'wight' who was rushing in to attack on the cheek with the flat of her 'dagger', then back to the safety of the formation, repeating the quick lunge again immediately after; she'd be sore tomorrow, but not as sore as she'd been when she started training with the Snowflakes! She was getting better – sudden lunge, swift recovery, as Lady Winter had told her.

"Check under the tables!" called out Emira once her squad had sorted the locals out, "MEETING UP! Shift left! Left!"

"Meet up with the pages! Shift right! Right! Wights behind!"

Lyanna snatched up the headband and put it on before grabbing her training hatchets from the table and turning; so many months of watching training exercises and the army of the dead both had taught her to see the patterns in a battle; where her siege engines should aim to stop the enemies' plans. Or, now, where she should go, as a path opened up before her. She sprinted along the wall, her weapons arcing out to both sides rapidly as her eyes flicked back and forth; this exercise she was a 'smart' wight – aggressive, always attacking, but not staying to finish the kills. Glancing to her left, she started a swing at a crewman's unprotected thigh, then looking to her right she swung her hatchet into Ser Spicer's chest before she 'slipped' and dropped down under a swing from another soldier, sliding across a patch of ice while she swung her hatchets into men's legs and feet as she passed to cripple as many as possible for the 'regular' wights to kill.

"Well, that was awful," growled Arya, glaring around at the crews around her, now eating bread and soup quietly, nearly all the soldiers nursing bruises somberly, "Two White Walkers just took out every siege engine on this roof, leaving the castle wide open to a direct attack by the Night King's dragon using its breath. You heard me yesterday, you saw the wights we brought, and yet a bunch of servants and a pack of pages mostly survived and took down the White Walkers when you did not, because they formed spearwalls immediately and used crossbows and massed spear feints against the White Walkers… and because they put 'dragonglass' into each and every one of their own dead or dying, and you soldiers did not and were overwhelmed. Sandor will handle the post-training analysis. Remember, for every bruise you have, every hurt is a lesson, and every lesson makes you better. Now is the time to get better."

With that, Arya turned and jogged down the stairs past the group of smallfolk carrying modern bolts and stands being escorted up to drop off their loads and then stay to be trained on siege engines and join new crews.

"Like unstoppable White Walkers really fall on us from the sky," came a mutter not long after from a soldier with a nasty scrape and bruise across his face from slipping and falling against the stonework after Arya had disappeared down the stairs at a quick jog to do whatever business she had elsewhere.

Lyanna stood, dropping her crust of bread to the table, glaring in the direction of the mutterer as she remembered that dark night she hadn't been able to do anything but direct a normal caravan blockade run. These men needed to take this seriously, so she spoke, her somber voice quiet but carrying in the silence that had fallen when she rose.

"I've never seen two White Walkers falling, no. But I was there in my own command tower when seventeen White Walkers fell from the sky. Ten landed on Lady Winter's command tower; I saw the aftermath. Their weapon turned an iron ballista bolt shaft and the ballista alike into splinters with a single stroke like the Hound smashing a stick of kindling with an axe; my second, Fjornal, has a dozen scars on her face and more in her hands; she barely managed to stab one in the back while it was occupied with Lady Winter. Lady Winter took a splinter through the ear. If that tower hadn't been full of skilled warriors and Valyrian steel blades, it would have been a slaughterhouse. Mariya took a wall-mounted crossbow and missed. Jaamis was struck down. Markath, a wincher two and ten years old raised a Valyrian steel ballista bolt and one impaled itself on it coming down; he was cut in half a moment later. Two smashed through the platform floor for Lady Brienne of Tarth to fight off with the help of Lord Commander Jamie Lannister. You can read about Jaamis and Markath in the Records of the Second Long Night; there are three copies here, and Markath will be honored and remembered in carvings showing that fight."

Lyanna looked around at the audience, watching her in rapt attention to her tale and lifted a Wolf's Head bolt from the new stand that the servants had set up while they ate and raised her voice, "Their weapon turned an iron shaft into splinters – your weapons and armor will shatter – you cannot fight them. But you can kill them! Any of you can kill a White Walker, as Samwell Tarly did, by hitting it in the back with dragonglass, but do not try to fight them! Seven landed in the courtyards and baileys; they smashed barrels and charged, and the guards, men and women just like you, hit them with dragonglass tipped arrows and crossbow bolts, slaughtering them! Form a spearwall, strike in sets so they don't shatter all your weapons at once, and the archers will take them down while you fend them off! Put dragonglass in the dead and the heavily wounded as soon as possible, or burn the dead."

The Hound stood, straight and tall, continuing the lecture roughly, "There's three that have fought them, sword to sword; all of them say they're stronger than me and faster than me, and you're all weaker and slower than me. They're less skilled than Joffrey was. Like the Scorpion Bear says, hit one side first, then hit the other side they'll leave open. Half you cunts picked up swords and couldn't do shite. You there; you picked up a torch, but you tried to fight and got killed; fire takes time. Wight bear'll kill your entire squad while it's on fire before it goes down; I've seen them! More of you winchers need to use crossbows; coward's weapon's good against the fuckin' Walker magic cunts. Then maybe a bunch of kids won't be a hundred times more useful than you fucks!"

Ser Spicer set down his empty soup bowl and held his tongue; the smallfolk getting large numbers of crossbows had always been a danger, but the smallfolk being turned into those wight things he'd seen yesterday, that was terrifying. Down in the camps, another caravan was coming in from the northwest, and streams of men, women, and children were walking in from every direction. The Vale sleds from yesterday were loading up groups of civilians and preparing to leave for the Bloody Gates; tall towers had been finished literally overnight, and he could see scorpions being raised with pulleys to arm them. All this, not to conquer lands that were already conquered, not to frighten a population into submission, not to quell rebellion, not to escape an impossible enemy... but to fight that impossible enemy, to protect people's families not their own, and to buy time for others farther south to prepare… including his own family.

He stood straight, took two steps, and asked his commanding officer, "Lady Mormont, what are your orders?"

"Maesters are still checking the support strength to see where the roof will support platforms and towers, so we'll test for the best archers and crew leaders among your people and the smallfolk volunteers. With them as the core, we can start splitting crews, the new leaders and aimers training the new crew, two winching teams per crew. After noon, we'll start with one scorpion or ballista loosing barrels with dragon-sized eyes painted on them, and progress to kites flown from the ground. I don't think you'll get a chance to practice against live dragons towing targets, since Queen Daenerys and Lord Snow are keeping Drogon and Rhaegal close to the Night King's dragon, but the kites..."

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"Thar ye are! The babe made it awriht?" asked the rough man quietly dressed in layer after layer of rags as he sat down gracelessly on the snowdrift, next to a young woman who had been sitting by herself, rough wool blanket turned cloak wrapped tightly around herself and a babe held to her breast to suckle.

"Roynard!" exclaimed the new mother in a whisper, turning a little to face her old mentor, "Ye made it! I'd have thought they'd have put ye in the cells or sent ye to the Night's Watch for thieving by now! And my son is fine, thank ye for asking."

The man opened his mouth, then paused and closed it, offering her a wineskin full of water; there was nothing he could say about the man her father had married her to, and he was dead and she and the babe alive, so it didn't matter anymore.

"Ye were one of my best pickpockets; I want ye to know ye can have yer old place back any time ye want. But... the Underfoot has a job for ye first. Ye remember yer role?"

"E'vry bit of it."

"A'right. Ye's been assigned te go te Gulltown; this 'eres yer marker," said the master pickpocket, passing over the carved crab's claw used as a token for that assignment.

"Genuine?" she asked, then shrugged, "O'course genuine."

"Underfoot's got 'is ways. Ours not to 'uestion 'em. We follow the rules, we gots the same chance we make it through as any'ne else. We try an trade in rationed food, we steal a bite o' bread or salt 'ork, we lose our heads. We steal gold, 'ewels, 'em fancy spices, we get lashes, 'ocked up, or a 'evy work party... if'n we get caught."

"Strange times."

"That the 'ighborn see what matters so fast? Northerners ain't natural, but I's got word from White Harbor an' Gulltown. Underfoot's 'erious business, so yer sister..."

"Is my little sister, who took a job to help me with my babe."

"Ye gots it. Ye still wanna travel? See the world?" asked Roynard.

"I do. More than anything," she said, rocking the babe quietly after he drank his fill.

"Ye's gonna go to the 'astle, ask for yer sister. Ye tell 'er ye's going to Gulltown, ye get her to come with ye. 'Ere's a letter o' introduction ta a mummers troupe; Underfoot says it'll dock there in a few days. Yer sister's got some money for ye."

She didn't look down as he shifted a little, his hand sliding a small waxed cylinder under her cloak as she stretched and drank a little of the water, wincing a bit at how cold it was, then she passed the wineskin back, looking out across the snows at the work parties bustling to and fro.

"Why's 'e called the Underfoot?" she asked in a low whisper.

Leaning in, he replied in a low whisper of his own, "Them Northerners, 'ey sometimes get a 'ighborn Lord's gots an ear ta the ground, gots sense an' power both. Thems Lords, 'ey get a new name when 'ey prove 'emselves. This one's the Underfoot. Ye not go tellin' that tale, mind ye. Anyone ye not know askin' questions, anythin' ye see looks interestin', ye pass it on. Underfoot'll have people reach out to ye as ye travel. Ye gots it?"

"I got it," she said with a smile, looking over at the man who'd taught her how to be a pickpocket, how to have quick fingers, how to act like she belonged, "I'm gonna see the world!"

"Ye are; I wish ye luck! 'Member, Diyurnan's in Pentos, Uilonan's in Braavos," whispered the man, reaching around to give her a quick hug, raising his voice lecherously, "Yer not 'at pretty a 'ench; ye should be 'appy I's gonna share my bed with ye!"

She tucked her head down, flashed a brief, bright grin, then shoved him down the snowdrift with one hand, the other wrapping around the waxed cylinder as she stood and stalked off towards the castle to find her 'sister' and convince her to once again quit her so recently reclaimed job as a maid in the castle and go to Gulltown with her and her son. The brute of a husband she'd been given to was gone, her son was healthy, and she had a long way to go to repay the debt.

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Queen Cersei Baratheon,
I write to inform you that Seagard is no longer independent, having joined the rest of the Northern Riverlands, and as you've no doubt heard, my sister has just reconquered the Twins. Your army is intact and has agreed to help defend the Twins, and all the living, from the Night King.

The army of the dead is marching south in the hundreds of thousands, leaving us under siege. If you and your armies and people do not prepare much more than the Twins had, you will not survive. Ask the traders who saw White Harbor if you think my words a trick.

We wish each other dead, and we'll have the chance to see which of us survives the other soon enough, but not yet. In token of the lessons you gave me when I was your hostage, I tell you truly that your brother Jamie is alive and well, has not, and will not fight your forces. He has been elected Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, and toils honorably to defend all the living, including his sister.

The Second Long Night is here. Stockpile food and fuel, prepare your defenses. Lady Winter is coming south; you have little time remaining until you are put to the test.

Sincerely,
Sansa Stark, Queen in the North, Queen of Mountain and Vale, Queen of Northern Rivers and Hills.
The Red Wolf

Cersei snorted, tossed the scroll into the roaring fireplace, and took a long drink of wine before looking over at Qyburn, "And? Is the little dove full of foolish tales, or is there some truth amidst the feeble clawing?"

"Your Grace, the trader I spoke with and nearly all the whispers of my little birds are consistent with both that note and with the other messages sent by raven and ship, and the whispers of our spies. The raven from the Twins spoke, very briefly, of an unstoppable warrior already inside, the castle open to the enemy, direwolves eating cavalry, and a large army of both the Vale and the North approaching with siege engines loosing while still moving atop the snow. I shall begin experiments on that immediately; we have five inches of new snow on the ground now, which should be sufficient. We won't know more for some days, I'm afraid," replied Qyburn.

"So, the dead aren't finding the frigid wilderness sufficient, and they've grown impatient... and the Northerners have taken the bait. The more of them they send to the Twins, the easier it will be to crush them. What else?"

"I'm afraid the nights continue to grow longer. Projections from my own experiments confirm the general news, Your Grace. I'm afraid the Riverlands, Stormlands, and Westerlands will be unable to grow another crop, and even the harvests of the Reach are in peril. My research shows that we should be able to use glass blocks and mirrors to bring sunlight down into tunnels, and grow many crops there. With your permission, I will have artisans and farmers begin large scale experiments immediately."

"Very well. What of the Golden Company's elephants? Will they still be able to trample my enemies in the cold?"

"They seem to be very curious beasts; a few of the younger elephants have been trying to hold snow with their trunks, to limited success. All but the two sick animals seem to be in fine spirits, and they perform eagerly in training, Your Grace."

"Good. The Red Keep?"

"The guards have been tripled, and I've added to both patrols and oversight to account for the whispers about the fall of the Twins. All visitors will be thoroughly questioned and examined; with the departure of the Iron Bank representative, no one will dare object. The area of the city immediately around the Red Keep is being demolished and the land cleared for a hundred yards past the gates, and the tunnels guarded properly, even the ones being filled in, Your Grace. Fires will be lit every night, and every entrance and exit fully sealed on pain of instant death whenever the entire stretch is not clearly visible to the archers and guards. I've taken the liberty of telling the kitchens to prepare soup tonight instead of the fish they had planned; the snow arrived before the kitchen servants were through the examination after they returned from the fish market, and so they were turned away."

"Find the kitchens faster servants."

"Yes, Your Grace. I don't believe anyone will be able to sneak in unless they fall from the sky, and there are guards on every stretch of roof and wall to watch for dragons doing just that. Should a very skilled warrior such as Lord Sandor Clegane attack, they would kill the normal guards easily, but..."

"I have the Mountain and the others you've made."

"Yes, Your Grace."

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